Moon

I am full tonight as the moon is full tonight
I am looking at myself with the reflection casted by the moon
A thing of splendor the moon is, with so deep a texture
The moon is so beautiful, so big, yet not perfect to the human eye
To my eye the moon is the most amazingly perfect creature ever
Unlike the sun the moon never remains the same in the sky
It has days when it is gibbous and when its crescent; changing to light
The encyclopedia calls it the natural satellite of the earth as it makes time to visit each and every one of us every single day
The sun sits and waits for us to come in phase with it; the moon moves with us so it knows us best
On my darkest paths, loneliness quickened to harass me and the Moon hastened to keep me company
Look at the Moon! Wait till it gives that wink that will set you apart from everyone else
We are part of a world that is part of a bigger world that is part of a bigger world
Let nothing escape your thinking gravity’

With These Eyes

I have seen sandwiches and their wrappings
On the roofs of moving cars,
Beacons of forgetfulness.

I have seen brightly coloured swatches of evening dresses
Caught in the doors of moving cars
Rippling like low flags.

I have seen loose dentures
Of a sleeping old lady
Moving independently of her jaw.

Once, I saw my girlfriend’s sister’s vagina when euphoric twirling
Made her skirt rise and she was not wearing underwear.
I said, “I saw your vagina”, and was asked to leave.

I have entered cubicles
And found shocking brown truth
Of other peoples’ turds.

I once saw a man,
Worse for drink,
Urinate on his own dog.

And once I noticed a conjuror’s
Absurd plastic thumb,
Which, oddly, no one else saw.

Biog: Stephen Park is a middle aged artist on the edge of Dartmoor who used to perform his poems in the South West and may do so again. ‘With These Eyes’ won first prize in the ‘Off the Wall’ comic verse competition 2003.

I Found It

Let’s be absolutely clear
about why I joined
a Sufi community
last year. The house
was small and cramped
and somewhat gloomy

But I found it very Rumi

because we were packed
in so tight no light could
get past our compressed
sweaty bodies. It was
such a squeeze that fleas
had to hug their knees

But I found it very Rumi

I whirled with a girl
named Pearl until she got
dizzy and fell down
on the ground and then
Lizzie who used to be a
clown fanned her with
her dressing gown

and she had to take it off
to do that but it was cool
she might have been a clown
but she was no fool
and instead of standing there

to stare I did the only thing
under heaven I felt able to:
I picked up the shoddy gown
and put it on and it was far
too small for my large body
but this was a Sufi community

And I found it very Rumi

**************************

That’s All for Tao, Folks!

The Taoists are out
to get me
I wish they would leave
me alone

If I was a woman they
would certainly
run back home
during my time of
the month.

Because they always
go with the flow

**************************

Rhys Hughes has written many stories and books and quite a few poems in his life so far. His one and only poetry collection is called The Gloomy Seahorse and can be found on Amazon and elsewhere.

Word! (Spoon Feed)

There are many words
I don’t understand
like infantilise.
Include them to exclude,
demonstrate intellect
and cleverosity,
seemingly invented.

There are many words
I do comprehend.
Used to spoon feed
the reader with meaning,
forcing each mouthful
into their mouths (?),
choking them
with simplicity.

There are many poems
I don’t understand… (TBC)

Flat-pack apology

My wife tried to divorce me
in IKEA, the ride home
put us firmly in arrears.

What remained
was an abundance of screws
clear step-by-step diagrams.

We rotated the page
until we were both peering
from opposite immovable positions.

There were no nails or tacks,
I kept track. I resisted
– with carpet burns and tender knees –

an impulse to argue
over the right flipping side*
*except she said fucking.

I flourished the instructions,
folded them precisely around my ears.

Stephen Daniels is the editor of Amaryllis Poetry and Strange Poetry websites. His poetry has been published in numerous magazines and websites. His debut pamphlet ‘Tell Mistakes I Love Them’ was published in 2017 by V. Press. Find out more at www.stephenkirkdaniels.com

I know you’re tired.
But I’m hot wired.
I need to say it.
I’m feeling like – Alan Bennett

These words are wrong.
The story doesn’t hang.
I need to substantially edit.
I’m feeling like Alan Bennett.

I’ve got a typewriter, table and chair.
And – strangely – a bottle of claret.
I’m flat broke
and in need of inspiration;
so I light a cigarette.
Unlike Alan Bennett.

Who doesn’t smoke –
Or at least, not yet.

I imagine casting of actors
and meeting benefactors
who droll at my wisdom and wit.
Such insight.
Hang on – they say:
you’re the next Alan Bennett!

My agent says I have some merit
and some of my dialogue is good.
Yet my last draft was shredded.
She says to keep at it.
Just like Alan Bennett
would.

I’ve taken a preppy look
and bought some glasses
for my evening classes.
You see, I’m forever indebted
to my hero – Alan Bennett.

Rupert Nevin is a writer of pith and occasional pathos, studying for an MA in Creative Writing at York St Johns University.

1.

“To horse you gallant princes, straight to horse.” (Henry V)

No-one knew why he said it

but they knew what it meant

And secretly in each one’s heart

there beat a pride in all they did.

Astride, they curbed the rumbling power

from bungalow to high-rise block

whatever weather, time or order.

“1 Hour Pizza Or Your Money Back”

2.

Warmth

Given without condition

by the sinner and sinned-against

to you. Take this moment.

Feel the warmth of another’s cheeks against your own

as an embrace, a welcome, a chance for atonement.

For you who was once distant and cold

are powerless to stop your own warmth

pouring out, unashamed, unconditionally giving

to the sinners and sinned-against

outside, waiting,

unaware of the gift they are about to receive;

this fleeting, intimate, fragile epiphany.

Yet the greatest of all is your gift before you leave

“Please Wash Your Hands”

3.

Red light aardvark (for Leanne)

O Rosse Buurt Aardvark bristling under neon,

bored in latex waiting for custom.

Pig snouty, doe-eyed, unconventional beauty;

first on the list in the Pervert’s Dictionary.

Passing your window, then, in they come.

With formic acid on your whiplash tongue,

as studded hooves massage the venom

they confess “Oh yes, I’ve been so naughty

O Rosse Buurt Aardvark”.

Claws that could rip apart a mound

are stroking hairs on quivering abdomens.

Limp with fear, yet stiff simultaneously;

visceral but tender, muscular but furry;

they leave your arms, sure to return

O Rosse Buurt Aardvark.

Damian O’Vitch regularly performs at events and festivals in the South and elsewhere. He also collaborates with various writing projects and co-hosts spoken word events.
“Damian O’Vitch is like the 92’ Danish Euro Squad..but with poetry” – Elvis McGonagall.

_____________________________

Dog Lover (aka 50 Shades of Greyhound)

I’ve got a bone to pick with you.

If you showed me ONE QUARTER of
the love you show our neighbour’s dog…

I’d be your pet, your pal, your staunch defender,
lick my own bollocks, piss on next door’s gatepost and eat Chappie.

Christ, I’d be happy!

You throw it? I’d catch it – even eat cat-shit,
then race to your face for a deep, probing kiss.

I’d pull sledges and carts… take the blame for your farts…
Just tickle me – there – ’til my back leg goes mad. I’ll be glad!

Think of the fun we could have: the long walks in the woods…
Me, naked except for a chain and a collar with studs.

Look, see? I’m begging, I’m wagging, I’m acting the clown.
I’m tired of dry-humping the cushions, being told to “get down”.

So go on: be my mistress, my owner. I’ll bring you such joy.
(You’ve seen how I lick out a yoghurt-pot, haven’t you? – Oyyy!)

You call, and I’ll come – but I swear, not a moment too soon.
I’ll be so attentive, I’ll make you howl to the moon.

I’ll snuffle your truffle, I’ll hound you, I’ll be a BAD boy…
So – for Blue Peter’s sake, love – give us a tug on me toy?

Ken Cumberlidge has been writing for 40+ years. Recent work can be seen in Algebra Of Owls, Ink Sweat & Tears, The Open Mouse and Snakeskin. Currently he lives in Norwich, where he can be seen muttering and gesticulating in the company of an embarrassed-looking dog. Don’t worry – the dog’s fine.

I put a spell on you,
but it went a bit wrong.
It was meant to make you fall in love with me,
but you ended up covered in boils
and stinking like a sewer.

It was the leg of toad that did it, I’d say.
I took one from the front,
which probably counts as an arm,
now that I think about it.

Still, it worked out OK.
Your boyfriend dumped you.
I always knew he was shallow.

You scratch more than you used to,
and I must admit the smell is a little off-putting,
but you still have your sparkling wit,
and that’s what really counts,
isn’t it?

Joe Williams is a writer and performing poet from Leeds. He has been published in anthologies by OWF Press, Stairwell Books, Picaroon Poetry and Beautiful Dragons Collaborations, and in magazines online and in print. His debut pamphlet, Killing the Piano, will be published by Half Moon Books in September 2017.
www.joewilliams.co.uk

I’m too sacred to be paid,
too sacred to be paid, too sacred I’m afraid.
I’m so sacred I don’t care,
so sacred I don’t care,
I live on Sweet Fresh Air.

I’m a housewife, you know what I mean
and I wave my little wand around the kitchen,
round the kitchen, the kitchen, yeh,
I shake my little duster round the kitchen.

I’m too sacred to be paid,
too sacred to be paid, too sacred I’m afraid.
I’m too sacred for the nation,
too sacred for the nation,
don’t need remuneration.

I’m a mother, you know what I mean
and I’m trying to raise the future on a shoestring,
on a shoestring, a shoestring, yeh,
I’m dragging up the future on a shoestring.

I’m too sacred to be paid,
too sacred to be paid, too sacred I’m afraid.
I’m too sacred for a wage,
too sacred for a wage,
free copy for the page.

I’m a poet, you know what I mean,
and I thought that there was more to art than free verse,
than free verse, free verse, yeh,
I’m learning the rewards of writing free verse.

Blocked

I’m all at sea
I’m a stingless bee
I’m a pulled-up weed
I’m an unsown seed
I’m a bow without an arrow
I’m a hawk without a sparrow
I’m a cat without a mouse
I’m a boarded-up house
I’m a glove without a hand
I’m a brassed-off band
I’m a derailed carriage
I’m a broken marriage
I’m a north without a south
I’m a toothless, tongueless mouth.

*
[First appeared on the Fire River Poets website]

Cheesed Off

O gentle mother Moo

look down from your skyful of daisies

and pity us poor cheeses.

Consider if you will

the cruel grill

the toast

our fair flesh bubbling to a crust.

Share the despair

of Camembert the ennui of Brie

the Danish Blues.

*
[First published in the Norwich Writers Circle Anthology]

The Lamentable Life and Death of a Fart

Little Houdini, suddenly outside
the shackles of bone, the bondage of flesh and clothing,

meets no applause; bulbs in the room like a genie,

granting nobody’s wish; wanders the airways like
the soul of a dead sinner, until he comes
to the Gates of Fragrance. St. Peter sends him packing.

Rebounding to earth,
he meets the Priestess of Hygiene. She advances,

holding an aerosol, like a crucifix.

*
[First published in Orbis 97]

Anthony Watts has been writing ‘seriously’ for about 40 years. He has won prizes in poetry competitions and has had poems published in magazines and anthologies. His latest collection is The Shell-Gatherer. His main interests are poetry, music, walking and binge thinking – activities which he finds can be happily combined.