Category: Free verse

Barbie, Sindy, John and Mike by Thomas McColl


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With her ten-fingered lynch mob,
my sister, Tracey, tore my Action Man apart,
after finding Sindy and Barbie,
both of them naked on my bed,
discovering the joys of lesbian sex.

I didn’t realise they were sisters
or that Barbie was due to get hitched that day to Mike,
or that my Action Man’s name was Mike.

Tracey, with a severed plastic leg still in her hand,
explained that Mike,
while serving at the front line
that stretched across the living room,
had ‘on purpose stepped on a land mine’,
distraught at having heard the news
that his bride-to-be ‘was a dyke’.

My other Action Man,
which Tracey named as John,
was married off that week to Sindy,
but the marriage was a sham.
With some encouragement from me,
Sindy and Barbie continued their lesbian love affair
at every available opportunity.

That Sunday afternoon,
with John replacing Mike at the front,
and Tracey out shopping with mum,
I brought Sindy and Barbie together once again
to have their fun.

Thomas McColl has had poems published in magazines such as Envoi, Rising, Iota and Ink, Sweat and Tears, and his first full collection of poetry, Being With Me Will Help You Learn, is out now from Listen Softly London Press.

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A Higher State of Consciousness by Charles Christian


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Far up on a building site
a brickie takes a break
shirt off, bare chested
he sits cross-legged
on a window-ledge
basking in the mid-morning heat
clutching a mug of tea
smoking a roll-up
reading The Sun
like Buddha on a high rise
the Buddha of the Frogs
the Buddha of the White Van Men.

Charles Christian is a former barrister and Reuters correspondent who now writes about tech, geek stuff, folklore, pop culture, medieval history, the just plain weird, and anything else he thinks you’ll enjoy.

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Witness by Bill Allen


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I hang on the wall
exposed and flagrant,
listening to the echo
of culture vultures’
feet.

Some stroll quickly
by but have a sneaky
look:
art in an instant.

Others linger with
nervous coughs;
office girls giggle
and wiggle by
on precarious
shoes that clatter.

Monday to Friday lunchtime
lovers meet.
‘…and that’s disgusting,’
she says,
‘why can’t we ever meet
by the Pre-Raphaelites?’

Bill Allen lives in West London and writes in retirement. Worldly wise, a wicked sense of humour, he often observes the darker aspects of life as well as the curiously funny. Likes old films, modern plays, wine mixed with a pinch of conversation. Bill has published a few poems and short stories.

 

Stitch-Up by Andy Mann


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Thread for her:

Time was, I’d pander to your whim.
Though recently the bruin’s been more grisly than teddy.
This panda watched you. See?
This cuddly love-token you accepted in your boudoir,
my cutesy Chinese bear with webcam eyes.
He saw you fuck my friend.
That knowledge morphed me to the fiend that I’ve become,
more Frankenstein than lover, frankly,

Thread for him:

Friendship, love, hate,
what should you sacrifice to mate? Old Mate,
my erstwhile friend, perfidious cuckolding stallion.
She was my mate; I gave her everything, my life, my love, my hope.
I should have smelt the coffee. Dope.
Never the angel I believed, I was deceived. Oh, not by her: by me.
Yes, I created her. I made that woman fit an ideal in my brain.
In truth, she would fuck anything in trousers. And she did.

‘What you see you get,’ she said: to me, to them, no doubt to you.
Hey, sauce for goose is sauce for gander.
Take another gander. Many have.
But then, of course, you can’t, Old Friend,
Duct-taped to the body you’ve enjoyed.
So, you desired her tits? Well, you shall wear them,
her bits for yours; slot for manhood. Good?
That’s fair exchange in my book. Synergy.

Dead needle:

She wanted cock. I’ll give her yours, Old Pal.
Wear it proudly, Sweet Thing, may it bring you joy.
What’s that you’re mumbling Sweetness? ‘Stitch-up?’
If you say so, Darling — Suture self.
With this rusty scalpel I’ll excise your faithless hearts—
(where some move on – forgive, let live – I’m going to up the ante)
—and scoff them, braised with fava beans, your livers,
and a nice Chianti.

A version of this piece was first published in Infernal Ink Magazine in 2013.

Some say Andy Mann is the dark alter ego of an octogenarian Anglican vicar. Others believe he was once the white-clad nemesis of Jeremy Clarkson. The only facts known for certain: he has conned enough gatekeepers to get fiction, creative non-fiction and non-fiction published in diverse places, in print and online and was once, falsely, accused of poetry. Andy’s hobbies include baroque music, embroidery and taxidermy. He is currently underpinning his sagging creative writing pursuit on a degree course at Birkbeck, University of London, where lecturers and fellow students insist he is kept under maximum physical restraint at all times.

 

This Season’s Decorator: 10 Tips by Pat Tompkins


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I just adore the realness
of dust. Kyrgyzstan never
goes out of style. We always
use fur for holiday meals. You
can’t have too many pearls in
a kitchen. This year’s color is
hand-knotted Turkish carpets.
I simply can’t say enough about
napkin rings. Small pots of chartreuse
enliven any room. Don’t underestimate
the power of vetiver candles. Nothing
personalizes a space like lapis lazuli.
Invest in the very best-quality
curtain rods you can afford.

Pat Tompkins is an editor in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her poems have appeared in Confingo, The A3 Review, bottle rockets, and other publications.

 

Beach by Peter Yates


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The sun revives,
sea refreshes;
and the sand eventually realises
I’m on holiday.

Old energy saps away
replaced by new
with its unguarded optimism.

I take two cigarettes from an imaginary pack.
I light them both together
and offer one to you 3000 miles away.
You take it
inhale
and glance quizzically in my direction.

I didn’t know you smoked you seem to say,
sitting at your office desk.

Peter Yates is a playwright who has his own Theatre Company Random Cactus. He works with various charities and is a Theatre Critic at London Theatre 1.

 

What’s Your Poison? by Mark Mayes


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We bought a bar
for the dining room,
to entertain ourselves
and non-existent
friends of the family.

We stocked up on mixers,
European lagers.
Stuck mirrored squares
behind the bottles
to catch reflections
of pretend barpersons.
Sunk muted spotlights
into cheap, beige wood.

Angostura Bitters
and grenadine
lent their cachet
to the gift-set tumblers
and clear plastic coasters.

The months passing,
novelty grew brittle.
And barely noticed
the bar went dry.

The optics glued.
And one by one
the upside down
empty spirits
revealed
their false glamour.

The ice bucket grew musty.
Even the maraschino cherries
unceremoniously
departed.

Mark Mayes has published poems in various magazines, including: The Interpreter’s House, Ink Sweat & Tears, Staple, The Reader, The Shop, and Fire, and has had work broadcast on BBC Radio. He has been shortlisted for the Bridport Prize. 

 

Traffic Jam Sandwich by Heather Wastie


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In the heat of it
a slice of tomato
has skidded on mayonnaise
and ended up straddling the crust

Layers of lettuce leaves
are held up behind it,
limp slivers of cucumber
losing their cool

At the centre of it all
is a slow-moving wedge
of well-matured cheddar
heavily laden with pickle

In the care home’s crowded corridor
Iris is stationary, thinking of lunch.
I like jam sandwiches, she says.
This poem is for her.

Poet, singer, songwriter and actor Heather Wastie is The Worcestershire Poet Laureate 2015/16. In 2013 she was Writer in Residence at the Museum of Carpet, Kidderminster. She has published four illustrated poetry collections and has a busy schedule of commissions and performances.

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Interview With a Blemmya by Simon Williams


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The Blemmyae were a race of headless people, whose faces grew in their upper torsos. They were described first by the Greeks.

It works well for us; nobody is headstrong.
We never knock ourselves on architraves.
We recognise no godhead.
Our traders have no overheads.

Our schools have no head teachers.
Headbutts and headlocks are unknown.
Nobody is pigheaded; some of us
are knobs, but never dickheads.

There are advantages in clothing, too:
nobody has to train to make hats,
ties and belts are much the same,
bras and spectacles can double up,

but ears in armpits have always
been a bugbear. We hear well only
when climbing trees, under arrest
or dancing the flamenco.

We have worked well into your culture;
you talk of us while barely knowing it.
‘My heart was in my mouth’ was one of ours.
‘Put hair on your chest’ refers to beards

and when you panic at your deadlines,
work so fast it all becomes a tangle,
you turn to us to illustrate your plight,
or more correctly, to our flocks of chickens.

Simon Williams has six published collections. He latest pamphlet, Spotting Capybaras in the Work of Mac Chagall, launched in April and his next full collection, Inti, will be out later this year. Simon was elected The Bard of Exeter in 2013 and founded the large-format magazine, The Broadsheet. He makes a living as a journalist.