Spies 4 Life

SPieS
4
lIfe
SPIES 4 LIFE
CONTENTS:
03 FREE HUGS
04 THE DUST.............................................................................AUDREY LANE COCKETT
05 WE ARE HAPPY...........................................................................................JACK ORION
06 BEING WOKEN...........................................................................................DEVI UNOON
07 IN CIRCLES..............................................................................................JENNY ELLEST
09 BELIEVE YOUR LOVER WHEN SHE TELLS YOU................................ANNA KAHN
10 DREAM PALACE: THE LIFE OF A POSTMAN..........................................EMMA A. P.
12 THE CAMERAMAN...................................................................................MARK SMITH
13 CANNIBAL HYMN...................................................................................................ANON
15 IM NOT HERE FOR YOU.....................................................................LOUISE GAROO
16 EIGHT WORDS........................................................................GEMMA WOOLGATHER
17 EXCERPT FROM FISHERMENS TALES.....................................PETER KENNEDY
18 SADISTOCRACY...................................................................................................J. SWIM
19 MONKEY BARS........................................................................CARMINA MASOLIVER
20 ON THE TRAIN.............................................................................BOUDICCA PALOMA
21 EMPTY HAIKU...................................................................................SEEG KRULLEBOI
22 MY BOYFRIEND IS A BOX..................................................OKTAWIA PETRONELLA
23 THREE BULLETS FOR................................................................VINCENT VAN GOGH
24 CLAVICEPS PURPUREA........................................................................HELEN ROWLE
25 RICHARD NIXONS DAUGHTER........................................................................C. LINE
26 JANUARY HAIKU...............................................................................CHARLIE OBEAH
27 AN ECOLOGY...........................................................................................STEVE PILLEY
28 FOR THE BANGLADESHI BLOGGERS..................................................JENA MILLER
29 LONELINESS.....................................................................................RICHARD BLANDS
30 DREAM AMERICA........................................................................................JADE OISM
31 LEPROSY ISLAND.........................................................................ENHEDDUANA LIPP
32 OUR SKY OF DIAMONDS?................................................................TOM SINCLAIR
33 WE JUST IGNORED IT BUT IT DIDNT GO AWAY.................................NEV SULLY
34 SHRUG.........................................................................................JOHNNY LIGHTNINGS
35 THE SNAKE-PIT....................................................................................JENNY CELESTE
36 UNTITLED....................................................................................CLAUDE WOLFGANG
37 VICTORY...............................................................................................FREYA DELYSID
38 GRANDFATHER WIND.......................................................AUDREY LANE COCKETT
40 ITS NICE WHEN EVERYONES NICE.......................................SINEAD COTTONON
41 LAST WORDS..........................................................................................SELAH BROWN

42 WHEN YOURE SUPERMAN.................................................................JENNY ELLEST
43 FOR JEZ.........................................................................................................ANNA KAHN
44 OH SEE DEE....................................................................................................LISA LUXX
46 PART TWO OF ALLEN GINSBERGS HOWL..................................JOE MUSHASHI
47 IN ALL MY BEST MEMORIES............................................................MEENA MREE
48 EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.......................................JON PERSOME
49 SPEND THE WORLD...............................................................................COLIN KEEPUP
50 I WAS PART OF THE PRANK GENERATION..................................VIV HULLWOOD
51 COMPUTER GENERATED IMAGES......................................CARMINA MASOLIVER
53 CASSANDRA.......................................................................................................LIN HAO
54 35p...............................................................................................................JASON PILLEY
56 A SUNSET..................................................................................................ANN LEESONS
57 I HOPE YOURE........................................................................................................ANON
58 LEGS..........................................................................................................................JEN C.
60 SLEEPING DOGS.................................................................................SHELLY McSANE
61 SO-SO TIMES WITH YOU...................................................................SANTA VIOLENS
62 POETRY................................................................................................ROB WELLINTON
63 BRIEF REFLECTION ON SNAILS......................................................FRANCIS BYRNE
64 TURN ON THE HEATING......................................................................JANINE BOOTH
65 ENOUGH..........................................................................................................JENNY E.R.
67 QUEERIOUS....................................................................................................SAM DODD
68 EXCERPT FROM FISHERMENS TALES.....................................PETER KENNEDY
70 WATCHING.....................................................................................................ELLIE WAR
71 VIRUS.......................................................................................................MAYA MORRIS
72 JOHN BARLEYCORN IS DEAD.....................................................................JAY LIGHT
73 IMAGINING THE UNIMAGINABLE...................................OKTAWIA PETRONELLA
74 IT WAS ONE OF THOSE YEARS................................................................T. SPALLOW
77 THE SORCERER ON THE SEASHORE..................................................JASON PILLEY
All works belong to their creators.

Printed May 2016 by Catford Print Centre.
Edited by Jenny Psophia Ellest for Police Constable Productions.
kamaclipse@gmail.com
FREE HUGS
I dont want Free Hugs,
I want the sort of hugs you have to work for.
THE DUST
Audrey Lane Cockett
I turn my pillow over to the cold side and remember
The dust
That stuck in the corners of my mouth
And embedded in the oily crevices of my nose
I remember the leaf hash
Uncovered from winters retreat
Swept up
Making its way from behind a cement wall
Spiraling hypnotic
Into the roaring urban passage
Like trance dancers
In the dust
WE ARE HAPPY
Jack Orion
Once a thing is seen it cant be unseen.
Weve totted up our profits and losses:
Now were happier than weve ever been.
Were well cared for in our economy:
The good young men have all got good bosses.
I watched you watch us on a TV screen:
Fifteen minutes playing noughts and crosses.
This flat is our castle, daybreaks our dream:
The good women have all got good bosses.
The neighbours swoon for our patches of green:
Weve poisoned the poison weeds and mosses.
Were in the group, the squad, were on the team:
Some good day we might get to be bosses.
BEING WOKEN
Devi Unoon
Being woken by a woman screaming: wake UP up onto your feet, look around, youre in a room
youve never been in before, someones living-room, a woman youve never seen before is shouting,
a bloke appears: What the FUCK is going on? Youre like: Where am I where am I where am I?
WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE? I dont know I dont know I dont
know, where am I oh god, the womans screaming something about the police, the mans gonna
KICK YOUR FUCKING HEAD IN, youre like: Im sorry Im sorry Im sorry Im sorry Im
sorry I hope this never happens to me.
WE FIND OURSELVES TURNING IN CIRCLES

Jenny Ellest
Three glasses of wine and two spliffs in, Jess says:
There isnt a counterculture because there isnt a culture.
The rest of us agree, we nod, V says: Theres nothing,
Its just sludge. Our years are leaking.
At this point the conversation could go either way:
Maybe spend the next few hours of this night reminiscing about the pasts past glories,
You know it all started with Voodoo and Jazz and Bluesmen selling their soul
Then Elvis John Paul Ringo George
Janis Jimi Jim Grace Gil,
John Sid Poly Ari,
And fuck me but those first Raves must have been something,
And Bowie never did die really, and
Or:
Lets do something, says Jess.
The four of us stand up
And as though weve got a plan we walk to the front-door,
Open it, through it,
Elaine greets the hazywarm blackness with outstretched arms:
Summer! Definitely in my top four favourite seasons.
The car: Vs over all sorts of limits but something this night says well be safe.
Me and Jess in the back, looking out of the windows not seeing much;
Elaine in the passenger-seat checks her phone
And looks up and says: According to Google, no-one in the history of anything
Has ever made the pun honour among fauves. Why not?!
If you have to ask, V, the accelerator, you dont deserve to know.
3.30am streets: bright-lit roads and darkness lanes,
Shops, houses, the only traffic is us,
Past parks past schools past bus-stop adverts:
Someones magic-markered RENDER UNTO above the word TESCO.
In the future, says Elaine, a famous person will die every fifteen minutes.
The top of Saxifrage Avenue: red light, orange light green light, same old story.
Downhill, uphill, along, Jesss got a theory:
Life comes in introvert and extrovert tides;
Depression is being stuck as a loner during an extrovert phase
Or having to be outgoing when its your time to be quiet.
Ahead the darkness gets darker,
Behind us a black sky is greying a shade of 4am.
Seaview Avenue: we sneer out of our windows at some prickboys ganging at a streetcorner,
Spitting sheep dressed as a sheeps idea of a wolf,
Baseball-capped tossoff machines with room-temperature IQs,
Theyll have a few years spurting their sperm anywhere they can
Then start looking for a rut to get stuck in and that wont take them long to find.
Sea-view, glimmering pre-dawn:
On the road to our right are shiny buildings full of shiny machines for kids and idiots and daytrippers
to put coins in,
Them and all the pubs are closed now anyway,
Anyway we turn left: bumpy ground, grass-tufts, downhill, moon rocks,
Decelerate,
Stop: out of the car and onto the beach,
I dont, confesses V, car-doors slamming shut, think I really know anything.

Smugglers Cove: upturned rowing-boats, crab-flitter,
We step slowly over dry fine shifting sand,
Pebbly stumbly sand,
Damp squish-footprint sand
To the frothing licking hissing sea.
Blue sky: dawnlight plays fleeting Ophelias upon the gentle waves.
Theres a whole lotta goin on goin on. That seagull sounds just like you!
Nothing needs saving and we owe fuck-all to anyone.
Lets collect shells and maybe make an altar to put them on.
No-one tells us where to stand, no-one tells us to hold out our arms,
No-one tells us to stay right where we are while moving faster and faster.
Any deaths a good death from this point. Worlds are
Born spinning. We find ourselves turning in circles.
BELIEVE YOUR LOVER WHEN SHE TELLS YOU

Anna Kahn
One day you wont find me. You shouldnt look:
Ill be gone. Lean too hard and Ill break out
from under you, stumbling away in the dark.
Ill be gone, baby, Ill be gone searching for the sun.
Im sorry if youre always being left behind.
I know your bag is kept packed in its place
by the door, next to your good boots, so
beautifully broken in. I know youd swear to me
youve long been ready to begin but Ill be gone,
baby Ill be gone already dancing through the wind.
Ill be sated and busy outstripping the birds, searching
breathless for the sun. Ill be gone, shadow-baby.
Ill be gone gone gone.
DREAM PALACE: THE LIFE OF A POSTMAN

Emma Augustus Pandaemon
Good work if you can get it: harsh on the legs,
Having to walk the same 30km walk six days a week every week
But it pays well, a safe regular wage from the government,
People will always want to send words to one another.
30km across La Drme, southern France, endless hills and
Cobbled roads and dirt roads and dogs,
The dogs are the worst, vicious packs of them but
Ferdinand soon learns their language: WOOF!
Ferdinand Cheval likes his job, the repetition and solitude would drive some men crazy
But not him, he enjoys being alone with his thoughts,
Not that theres much to think about: dreams mostly,
The postman daily reconstructs last nights dreams and wallows in them,
Wallows in the strange privilege of this otherworld most men train themselves to ignore.
1869: Ferdinand dreams of a palace. He wakes up and its gone
But hell spend days in it, days, weeks, reimagining his dream palace,
Fancy a palace for a postman to live in!
Weeks, months, years, he cant get it out of his head. Amongst
All the other dreams, the palace persists.
Months, years, a decade, 1879: Ferdinand Le Facteur Cheval trips,
Trips on a stone, an odd-shaped stone, it reminds him of a part of the palace,
He puts it in his pocket. He keeps on:
Days, weeks, months, more stones, he cements them together in a hidden spot
In the woods, he makes a little wall, makes it a bigger wall:
He doesnt know what hes doing but he does it anyway.
Makes another wall, makes a room: his country goes to war, the war ends,
His colleagues complain about their wages and the entertainment and their wives,
Ferdinand keeps building: staircases and doorways,
Smoothpillar temple-tower entrances and bobblewall interiors, hand-smear ceilings,
There is not an inch that is not touched, decorated: gargoyled swirls
And cobble-crown emblems, animal-shapes and sway-leaning statue-faces and
Granite priestesses, crude-curving dark doors below
Tree-burst canopies, heavy-petal arches,
Explosions of arms and breasts and spikes,
Gigglytwist urns and chess-chequered vases and
Rock orchards growing from grey-rainbow walls,
Monster-guards guarding DNA stairs,
Words too, Ferdinand fingerpaints inscriptions in his wetting cement:
Travail dun seul homme.
France goes to war again, the postman finishes his work,
Several storeys of pebbled-together palace.
The war ends. The postman gets his pension, 1915:
All that remains for Le Facteur Cheval to do is spend the next nine years
Building his tomb, his writhing-snake messmass frozenexplosion
Tomb Of Silence And Endless Peace and
Thats that, eighty-eight years old, the death of a postman.
THE CAMERAMAN
Mark Smith
I am the cameraman and I see you,
I see everything you do:
I see you all day, I see you all night,
And all things considered yeah youre alright.
If you look into the history of Writing you find that the earliest examples archaeologists have dug up
are shopping-lists, laundry-lists, that sort of thing, then theres this evolutionary leap and you start
getting laws being written down, moral precepts, you start getting imagery, metaphor and whatnot;
but the first instance of something containing narrative elements was The Pyramid Texts. This
was a private story, written on the inside of one of those big fuck-off tombs for one of those big fuckoff Egyptian rulers, the idea being that when this guy died and was resurrected he could read the
hieroglyphs around him and be reminded of who he was and what he was supposed to be doing.
The Pyramid Texts are really really really long, and theres a section in the middle which is itself
really really really long, the following is a drastically edited version of that segment. This is the
beginning of Literature; this is the story we started telling ourselves when we got to the point where
we were able to tell ourselves stories; this is:
THE CANNIBAL HYMN

The heavens: stagger.
The stars: dim.
The sky: falls.
The earth: opens.
The dead: tremble.
The living: tremble.
The heavens: still.
Pharaoh rises!
Pharaoh is Lord of Wisdom whose mother knows not his name!
Pharaoh shatters at will!
He is crowned King of the Horizon:
Creation is ended.
Pharaoh smashes the backbones of the gods!
Pharaoh seizes the hearts of the gods!
He lives on the being of every god,
He eats their entrails,
He eats their magic and gulps down their souls;
Fathers and mothers he burns as incense
With the thighs of their eldest for fuel.
Dead Pharaoh lives!
Dead Pharaoh lives!
He circles the world:
Whom he finds in his way he devours bit by bit,
Devours spirit, devours skin,
Devours even shadow.
One rule for Pharaoh:
If he likes he does; if he dislikes he does not.
You! Sinners! You have no power to destroy Pharaoh!
He is the power that overcomes all powers,
He is the image of all that is!
Pharaoh!
Pharaoh will do it again and again!
Pharaoh will do it forever!
Pharaoh forever!
Forever and ever!
IM NOT HERE FOR YOU

Louise Garoo
When it hurts the worst,
When youre really really breaking,
Just remember,
Im not here for you.
When theres only smashed mirrors,
And seven more years of
More years of
This,
Remember:
When all you want is all you want
And all youve got aches,
Remember:
Although it hurts the worst,
Although youre really really breaking,
Just remember.
EIGHT WORDS FROM PHIBUN MANGSAHAN

Gemma Woolgather
Bird on a buffalo
Something to sing about.
EXCERPT FROM FISHERMENS TALES

CHAPTER ONE: BEHIND THE NET CURTAIN
Peter Kennedy
Once upon a town, a darkness fell.
It rolled over the moors like a freezing fog, appeared on the hilltops like enemy hordes, crept down
into the valleys like hungry wolves and wreaked through the land like the reapers scythe.
Black death. A curse, a blight, an absence of light, spread itself through the streets, tumbreled door
to door touching shoulders, chest and head, claiming its tithe and draping a pall of loss and grief in
its wake.
Soon, amidst the stacked bonfires of bloated animal corpses the faces of men, women, children
appeared as the pestilence outstripped the survivors hurried burial rites. Funeral pyres coughed out
spumes of smoke and a bilious phlegm of soot settled on the roofs, etched into the building cracks,
the lines of faces the hearts of men. But the dreaded fires served a practical purpose, visible for miles
they became beacons in the night, sending unwitting warnings along the coast to neighbouring
towns.
They saw it first of course, being a headland. Jed Carty, gathering crab pots down by the harbour,
had chilled at the startle of red from Scarsdale, 20-25 miles south, that meant they must prepare.
Replacing his bait and bricks, he rowed to shore, moored his coble and ran up the sands to tell his
tale.
Theyd known it was coming but had lowered their heads and doubled their workload. For weeks
tinkers rumours had been moving up country of a terrible disease that had stricken the South. Intertown trade had dropped off to necessities, until only the brave, the desperate or greedy would risk
hauling their wares to the next village. When the messages stopped they waited, stultified by a mix
of hope and denial.
SADISTOCRACY
J. Swim
Congratulations! The age-old dream has been attained, weve built machines to do all the work;
Any man or woman not in work will be whipped.
MONKEY BARS
Carmina Masoliver
I swing on monkey bars
and hang off primary coloured climbing frames,
where bare legs endure
no more than grazed knees.
They try to tie me into a skirt-suit,
paint on glossy black tights,
tell me to keep court heels tucked into my bag,
and wear trainers for the commute,
but I press my foot down,
push myself up to vertical,
hook my leg around a pole
and hang.
My body turned like an hourglass,
blood rushes to my head.
To let go as I hold on
comes as easily as breathing in and out.
My legs may be bare, may be bruised,
but they are strong, with this metal are one,
so dont watch waiting for me to fall,
petal, move along.
I may be grown up now,
but Im still upside-down
and holding on.
CAFFEINE ON THE TRAIN

Boudicca Paloma
Pressure on the train
caffeine on the brain
Cost a lot
so chug along
This shit all taste the same
Trees are out of range
breath of something strange
smell of dust
taste of rust
Sound of silence manged
Tunnel made of trees
Cycles through the breeze
Green
Red
tail to head
The taste that does but tease
Trees are out of range
smell of something strange
Cats breath and all thats left
behind
when we change lanes
Caffeine on the train
pressure on the brain
Babies cry
Air runs dry
All change
But its the same
Do you like the name?
Are you glad you came?
Eyesight
In the light
Cause this is all a game
EMPTY HAIKU
Seeg Krulleboi
Cant think of a thing.
The spaces between the words
Are this evenings Art.
MY BOYFRIEND IS A BOX
Oktawia Petronella
My boyfriend is a box.
If youre in the box, its all great
Hell give you his entire self; his whole box.
The world is your box.
Once out of the box, there are no half measures.
Everything that surrounds the box is toxic.
If you come anywhere near it, it will shake and become unstable.
If you really push it, it might even fall apart.
You can only fully appreciate the box when youre inside it
It reveals itself to you in its full glory.
Otherwise on any terms it is
Closed, Cold and Rigid.
THREE BULLETS FOR VINCENT VAN GOGH

1.
You can only cry yourself to sleep so many times
Before it stops being funny.
2.
He gazes at himself:
His fur hat and buttoned-up coat;
Behind him his windows are closed.
Behind hims his easel: white canvas, fresh brushstrokes,
And a Japanese print on the wall:
Mount Fuji in a small room in France.
The redsplotched white bandage fixed tightly over his ear
Deadens its pain, whats left of his ear:
The rest he gave to Rachel, Keep this object like a treasure,
All the pain and theres stabs of pain.
It seemed to make sense at the time
But then, doesnt it always.
3.
He raises a glass, in the glass his drink is red,
Red like the dashes of red splashed on his sleeves,
Red like his eyes, the strain of seeing more accurately than any camera.
Devil red, sometimes hes a story the Devils telling.
Whats the worst that could happen? sometimes he gets a glimpse of the answer.
The neighbours blame him for every bastard;
He misses his jungle friends.
He raises a glass, in the glass his drink is orange,
Orange shade of white, white the colour of white spiders,
Black orange, a blackblue orange Art that never once says Please, Sir!
Through a cracked moment the painter sees the mouldy past.
Through a redred orange breach in certainty he attempts to paint, he paints,
Theres nothing worse than not painting.
The neighbours are trying to change his name.
He raises a glass, his drink is yellow,
Yellow corn after the rain. Yellow a new sun over his old house in London,
His gone walks along the Thames, always moving always never needing to get anywhere.
Oh to be twenty-two again and scared of everything!
Twenty-four again and inventing new crimes!
Yellow, love is a microbe. Anyone could have been anything to him.
When the neighbours ask how he is he says hell die among them and then hell be fine.
He raises a glass, his glass drink is green,
Green everythings very eyes; green smash against life:
If you catch this disease, afterwards you cannot catch anything else.
The Church has paid people not to sit with him.
The neighbours started a petition against him.
The neighbours have tried to steal colour but he thwarts them,

He hides his colours inside, he eats his paint, paint is the only nourishment.
He raises a glass, the glass and his hand are blue,
Blue sex women, he wishes for a woman he didnt have to afford.
But blue voices ask whats a painter.
He slurs for the girls: The other men youve known, they have sex, but me, I am sex.
She tells him back, Youre a dick, he hopes its meant as a compliment.
Blue Vincent will die of loneliness again tonight;
The neighbours are putting cockroaches in his food.
He raises a glass,
The glass drink indigo is two-dimensional but a trick gives it the illusion of depth.
Indigo bits of his mind he left among the flowers.
Indigo angry, the neighbours wont ever stop.
He idiot prophesies for them: I foresee absolutely nothing; I see no way out.
He needs a dictionary full of words they cant know.
I think Im well but that could be the sickness speaking.
He raises a glass, violet:
Comes a point he has a right to defend himself by dying.
Violet the moth he painted in one unswirling asylum:
To paint it, he says, I had to kill it, that was a pity. The insect was so beautiful.
Violet green blue fuck neighbours: the closer they come, the smaller they get.
They tell him: There will always be moments when you lose your head,
When you mess up. Some irresistible power has frustrated him at every turn.
The glass is empty, Vincent smacks it down on the bar
And orders for himself another absinthe.
He wonders how much this is going to cost.
RICHARD NIXONS DAUGHTER

C. Line
She got a letter today!
She got a letter today!
Shes a good girl but not too good!
Shes a good girl but not always!
Shell keep him at arms length!
Shell keep them at arms length!
We should all just be nice!
We could all just be nice!
Its been a whirl of a year!
Its been a whirl of a year!
Shes writing poetry!
Shes writing modern poetry!
Lifes an emotional rollercoaster!
Lifes an emotional rollercoaster!
JANUARY HAIKU
Charlie Obeah
The snow falls upwards,
From the pavement to the clouds:
My kind of morning.
AN ECOLOGY
Steve Pilley
Leaned on March wind till it bore me
On nursery rhyme wing and no prayer and no care
Into the air
There at the dawn of my cosmos.
Upside down swoon in blue glory,
Reflexively swam never finned never winged
Who never sinned
Thinned out in Spring in my city.
High as a kite in the morning,
As high as a king a balloon or like noon
Sun late in June
Spoon-feeds the leaves of my forest.
Freed yet enthralled in euphoria
Im lost when the three oclock light silver light
Summers day light
Lights on the green of my meadow.
Strong in descent swooping soaring
When heightens each sense of the Fall when hearth calls
When ripe fruits fall
Tall grow the fruits of my family.
Old by the fireside with stories.
Dark evenings its fine merriment time well spent
No heaven sent
Strength in the bones of my homestead.
Still on cold ground midnight hoary
These folded wings grizzled and tired
And expired
Dissolve in mire
Siring the whole of my future.
FOR THE BANGLADESHI BLOGGERS

Jena Miller
Theres a list with my name on.
Theres a list going around,
No-ones too keen to know who compiled it.
Theres a list:
I hear it in the shouts and screeches of traffic,
The awful first firework of some obscure saints feast,
Footsteps coming closer,
Anytime anything breaks,
My fork into my food, what am I eating?
Someone new wants to have a word;
Someone Ive known for years Im not sure I know anymore;
The nausea of voicemail, of knock knock KNOCK at the door;
I keep hearing my name on their list.
When I wake up tomorrow therell still be a list.
LONELINESS
Richard Blands
Yeah well there are worse things than loneliness, I said
To myself.
DREAM AMERICA
Jade OIsm
In Dream America you are first stunned by the skyscrapers,
You never knew the world could be this big.
In Dream America whatever food you like best is the food thats best for you.
Dream Chicago East Side custard-pie guns
Dream the bullies in bins covered with shit and your forgiveness
Dream action
In Dream America everythings got a soundtrack!
In Dream America were all about the pursuit of happiness!
We could go behind the scenes in Dream America!
In Dream America Coca-Cola won the war against Hitler
And old Bill Hicks advertises Coca-Cola cos fuck you
And Martin Luther King wasnt particularly special, he was just the
Fourteenth black President.
The Central Intelligence Agencys building an Octagon and
Everyones invited.
LEPROSY ISLAND
Enhedduana Lipp
On this side of the street are the pubs where youre allowed to hit women,
On the other side are the pubs where youre not.
We believe in equality.
On these streets you dump your lovers
By driving them to dump you.
Your parting words are always: In my imagination it was better.
In surgeries doctors eliminate bodies and
Leave the diseases behind.
Everyones waiting for an excuse to think the worst of you.
No-one wants to talk to me.
Ill talk to you!
Stop talking to me.
In pubs people get anxious if youre sitting writing,
They think youre writing about them but youre not.
Jukebox plays the Empty-Inbox DeadEnd Slit-Wrist Blues.
Its not as important that you like me
As it is that you click a button to say that you like me.
Rooms full of weak people are glad to keep you company.
They tell you theyre telling you a funny joke.
They make you choose: Would I rather be dead
Or be a bigot?
Were nice except when we forget to be.
They never realise when youve won the argument.
They wont necessarily lend a hand but listen to them saying sorry!
They tell you you were born a bigot.
They tell you youre dead.
WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR SKY OF DIAMONDS?

Tom Sinclair
Toppling pedestals
And pre-packaged drum beats
McDonalds music
And puppy dog
Tales
And John Lennon
Was shot
And McCartney lived on
Just as Stalin outlived
Lenin
I cant help feeling like a commodity
Like a strung up chicken, egging my own face
If you dont make it
You make it
If you make it
Youre hated
Living equalised
Lifes on five second turnarounds
I am born, I live, I die
I live again
All shiny and chrome
Would I know when to quit?
When to throw my chips in?
Or will I marry a succession of
Younger wives
And settle out of court
For more than my lifetimes earnings
What price love?
What price life?
What price immortality?
Is it better to be the fisherman
Or the fished?
Will my ill-formed gills
Struggle for air?
Struggle to struggle?
Adapt or die
Evokes Darwin from his grave
What if I rewrote the Stories
From His eyes?
Edit them,
Trim
We can all be prophet men
If there is just enough profit in it
Scratch immortality from the list
Unless I could be the God of

Ants or spiders
Or some other creature I respect
But not cats
Cats are their own gods
The Egyptians knew this
As do the dogs that chase them
Record employment figures
And suicide rates
Chocolate rations are up
Orwell taught us that
Double plus is good
[SHRUG]
Johnny Lightnings
I said, Do you want to see a magic-trick?
He said, Okay.
I said, Here, give me your hand for a minute.
He gave me his hand to hold:
I said, There, see, that was the trick.
He didnt remove his hand from mine but there was no tenderness in his fingers.
I said, I could take you to my favourite industrial-estate,
I could be your Tarot cards,
I could draw you on you,
I could name every hair on your head,
I could give you all the flowers,
I could buy the skeleton of the last great whale and build you a bedroom inside,
I could [shakeface gibber-gibber-gibber-gibber],
I could lick tears off your cheeks,
I could lick you in all the places youre not sure if you like being licked,
I could count every pore in your skin,
I could be Elastic Man and make love to you through every pore in your skin
Simultaneously,
He said,
Youre weird.
THE SNAKE-PIT
Jenny Celeste
Everyone wants to cuddle you in the snake-pit.
UNTITLED
Claude Wolfgang
Stigmatism skyline with rows of houses jutting out as if cut from a magazine and pasted onto a
construction site; steel cranes that stick up from behind like cloves on a pork roast set inches away
on the table. Pedestrian eyes are drooping in this unusual heat, foreheads are slippery and everyones
shoes feel tight at the same time. You sympathetically scratch your hand after walking past a kid
with ice cream between their fingers. Shes tangled in rows of pink plastic beads while burdened
with a melting cone, and its disgusting to watch. You can hardly believe the sunlight, as if winter
were a coffin and the lid had just been lifted. Someone has invited you to dinner, but your stomach is
full of beer and things youd rather not remember.
VICTORY
Freya Delysid
So anyway, to cut a long story short: we won.
GRANDFATHER WIND
Audrey Lane Cockett
Old and tired blowing and sucking
Plucking dandelion seeds and dust particulates
Up and away in a whirlwind romance
I am not so skilled as to twist the wisdom of a windstorm into a wordstorm for the breeze to carry
with ease to your ears
But listen
To the walls creak
To the scuff of leaves across cement scars
Listen to the rattle of the flag halfway up the mast
The flickering shadows cast by trees dancing and twirling
You hardly notice
Hoping someone will notice you.
On those blustering bustling hustling afternoons
Listen
To the sideways raindrops
The snow being pushed from treetops
The silent scared crow above a sea of swaying corn crops
Listen to the bass drops
The way the icy air refreshes your strung out soul
In front of the flung open back door
Enticing you with fresh breath in your lungs
Exhales icing over and swirls of snow drifts
As you sift through inhibition and ambition
To find
You would rather leave all that behind
And sit
Harmonizing with the rough drafts that connect us all to the up drafts
That connect us all to it all
All the wind that blows and flows through the ages
Rages through cities and will one day chuckle
About the cretaceous tragedies and audacious age of the hominids
Yet
We shut our eyes and ears and subject ourselves to living in fear
Not embracing the face of what frightens us
See
I believe grandfather wind is sending tendrils to fires
Tying hurricanes around closed eyes
Cyclones uprooting homes we thought could weather anything
We have been ignoring whispers
So he drums up flurries of fury
Hoping some will be reminded that the wind is long lived
Wind has long been singing songs through the branches of trees
Whistling salty wind over white caps and tangled crab traps
Yes
This wind has long been caressing the tall mountaintops
Sending squalls against rocky bluffs
Puffs of wind have long been in sails
Telling tales of escapades

Yes
This wind has long been blowing through everything
Through me
Yet
Most days I forget to listen
To the harmonies of a brisk breeze
To the wise orchestral Westerlies
And the subtleties of a gust
I trust you will do better than I
And remember
To listen
ITS NICE WHEN EVERYONES NICE

Sinead Cottonon
Pretend everythings worked out the way we wanted,
Pretend were brave and this is a revolution,
Its nice when were nice.
Pretend everyones tried their hardest,
And our brave heroes are brave heroes,
Pretend these beliefs are good for us,
Pretend you share my pain,
Pretend there isnt a psycho,
And the flowers arent poisoned,
Pretend it doesnt matter what you did,
Pretend sorry means something,
LAST WORDS
Selah Brown
His last words to me:
The days in which wed save each others life on a weekly basis
Are over, face it.
WHEN YOURE SUPERMAN

Jenny PS Ellest
Seven eighths of me stays in my Fortress of Solitude,
Not by choice but, who is there to talk to?
I look at you I see your cells dying,
Cells replaced by new cells like photocopies of photocopies, I see you dying
And I wonder do you secretly hate me because I dont break?
I want to tell you, sometimes I want to break,
Knowing every sob and cry from here to Alpha Centauri.
Sometimes I could collapse into Wonder Woman, tell her
Every single thing Ive ever got wrong, tell her
Its all an awful painful mess and no matter how hard I try to help
It only gets messier; shell know what its for.
Sometimes I want to get on the holophone to Green Lantern or Flash or
Any of my brilliant idiot friends
And just chat for hours about anything.
I wish I could make Batman laugh.
Sometimes I want to tell you: Even Superman has his bad days,
Days when he can hardly lift a spoon to his lips.
Times like this I see Lex Luthor everywhere,
Did Lex or Brainiac or The Supergloom replace my bones with kryptonite again,
Has The Supergloom stuck everything shut?
Thats what it feels like.
Sometimes I want to tell you: Even Superman has his bad days,
Days when he can hardly lift a spoon to his lips.
I keep thinking about the Buddha:
Should I find a mountaintop,
Take a millennium or two to think things over?
Should I, I could just go, should I
Help! Help!
Ha! Not today, Supergloom: not today.
Up, up and away!
FOR JEZ
Anna Kahn
Youve got this blue smile-eye crinkle
small woodland animal shuffle way of
moving. When Im afraid, youll slow my
hearts rapid-beat panic because your
sweat is so familiar; Ill fill lungs with you.
You give me this grip-too-hard pressure
in my fingers. I know you like it when I bite,
leave scratch marks. I wish my arms were
stronger to hold you tighter. Maybe I dont
have to. Youre right here. I can find your mouth
blindfold, two fingers on the back of your neck
both a threat and a promise. I am not an easy
person to stay with but I could do this forever.
Something settled in me when I realised that
love was a word safe and right to use here.
Love was a word safe and right to use here.
Something settled in me when I realised that
I could do this forever: both a threat and a
promise. I am not an easy person to stay with
but I can find your mouth blindfold, two fingers
on the back of your neck. Maybe I dont
have to. Youre right here. I wish my arms
were stronger to hold you tighter; I know
you like it. When I bite, leave scratch marks,
grip-too-hard pressure in my fingers, Ill fill
lungs with you. You give me this rapid-beat
panic because your sweat is so familiar
when Im afraid youll slow my hearts way
of moving. Small woodland animal shuffle.
Blue smile-eye crinkle. Youve got this.
OH SEE DEE
Lisa Luxx
Only this year did I start being able to refer to myself
As OCD
Though I was diagnosed at 15
And knew when I was 7
And had to clean the whole universe in my dreams.
There are two types of parallel lines
The ones that are straight
And the ones that need to get the fuck out of my sight.
Blighted daily by the uncouth ticks of my own type
That dont look quite right.
Imagine trying to finish a poem when
you crossed the T in the wrong place
Imagine trying to finishing a poem when:
you crossed the T in the right place!
Go back and make those other Ts look like that,
They look dead!
is constantly chattering in your head.
And it tickles down your veins and fills up your legs
Sped up with dread
Fed up of being wed
To a wicked witch that nags until your ears have bled
With sickness.
Youre not ill, people say:
just meditate.
I do but I tell you something
It doesnt just go away.
But Im better than I was
Not for the medication they shove in my gob
But rather cos I quit my job
So I can stay up all night correcting Ts
And placing dots
In the spots that feel right.
THE SECOND PART OF ALLEN GINSBERGS HOWL

as rewritten in Udon Thani railway-station
What pyramid sits on us? What sphinx of cement bashed open our skulls and ate up our brains and
imagination?
Moloch!
Children screaming silently in their cells! Isolation! Ashtrays! Clothes! Old men swept clean from
the parks! Moloch!
Moloch the unfathomable prison! Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch who frightened me!
Wake up in Moloch! Predictable in Moloch! Moloch!
Moloch the crossbone parliament of itches! Moloch your first million! Moloch whose buildings are
judgements, are cocks without veins! Moloch turn sweet voices to stone! Moloch stunned parents
stunned in graves or cremated! Moloch!
Moloch whose juices are mine; were mine! Moloch whose fingers are armies! Moloch whose fingers
only pinch! Moloch who trickles polyglyceryl-3 diisostearate and Nescaf into all suckling young!
Moloch!
Moloch whose eyes are a million same-same windows into a million same-same homes! Moloch
endless courtroom Jehovahs! Moloch factories undreaming the dark! Moloch smog crowns cities!
Moloch!
Moloch whose destiny is a fog of hydrogen! Moloch in whom I sit bored! Moloch in whom I
scribble angels! Crazy-sane in Moloch! Groping for tits in Moloch! Moloch!
Moloch apartments! Suburbs! Capitals! Industries! Nations! Surgeries! Phone-calls! Opinions!
Interruptions! Ambitions! Moloch!
No-one, no-one, no-one, no-one, no-one in Moloch!
Backs broken lifting Moloch up to Heaven! Lifting pavements and interest-rates up to Heaven! Glass
and burst tyres up to Heaven! Trees in their places up to Heaven!
Heaven! Visions! Omens! Hells! Miracles! Ecstasies! Vendettas! Seductions! The whole sensitivebullshit mirage: languid palm-trees and malaria germs, heat disfiguring the distance.
Breakthroughs! Highs! Flips, trips, orgasms so intense your eyes pop, all gone, gone, down the river.
Epiphanies! Despairs! Crucifixions! Adorations! Illuminations! Gone, gone, scorching sand.
THAT CUNT KEEPS SHOWING UP IN ALL MY BEST MEMORIES

Meena Mree
The words we wrote on the walls: Undercover Poetry!
What a disappointment you turned out to be.
The times you cycled us both home on your bike!
Collaborating on false news-reports, the Popes gone Goth!
Sitting on the roof talking murders!
Pretend arguments over absurd things on tube-trains!
Holes in the tent in the woods in a storm!
Times Id need life hugged back into me!
Cooking brand-new meals every day! Midnight feasts!
The things we did in the graveyard!
Margate sex marathon, Gideons Bibles a sex-toy!
Merry Apocalypse, motherfuckers!!
Hunting down demons to tell them what they really mean!
Breaking and entering but not in a bad way!
Unconquerable every night, its our night!
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
Jon Persome
Everyones against me:
They dont stop me in the street
And say How are you? they dont care,
They are everywhere,
Cars, phones, jobs, moans,
All social-network no play, they
Have genitals for perhaps one hour each day
And I hear them breathing,
I hear them coughing,
Jeering, sneering,
I never hear them cry or come or sing
But I hear them lau(ha-ha)ghing every day,
I used to think that they
Were laughing at me but now I know theyre not
I would wwwwake you up! I would mmmmake you up! I would ttttake you up!
But you only let me
drown,
Everyone in this town
Talks to you, but
Only if they know you,
Nobody knows me,
Still they read my diary:
JANUARY:
One step up, eighteen steps down, ah but the view was nice.
FEBRUARY:
Valentines date with friend of friend: sat through twenty minutes of TV tactics then said
something regrettable, ah but the view was nice.
MARCH:
Fff.
APRIL:
Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday to me!
MAY:
I No you may not.
JUNE:
Broke.
JULY:
Beat up brick that looked at me funny. Hurt my fingers.
AUGUST:
Fire hazard Fire hazard Fire hazard
SEPTEMBER:
Another war.
OCTOBER:
Hope that that voice screaming wasnt mine!
NOVEMBER:
Bang bang et cetera. Love is not the only thing thats blind.
DECEMBERRRRRRRRRR
ERRRRRRRRRRR
Coughing up blood in the morning,
By midday Im yawning,
Blear-headed, blear-cheeked, blear-eyed,
The afternoons a swamp in which to fossilise
And even my evenings keen to quit,
No sleep tonight its
Left to right to wrong me,
Find lies in my diary:
All the optimists slashed their wrists;
All the best futures wont exist;
All the happy children are sad today,
We made them healthy in our own sick way.
By dawn its dawning,
The promised early-warning
Came late,
Less destiny more fate,
Me I never had a mask,
I never knew what questions not to ask,
I, I only know how to say I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I only know
How to say I I I I I I I I only know how to say I I I I I I I I I I I I I I
I WAS PART OF THE PRANK GENERATION

Viv Hullwood
My dad had the idea but he just said it out loud:
He should sue her for emotional distress; he probably will.
What?
My dad passed over the paper, the local free-paper,
The headlines: an 88-year-old woman interrupted a man
Who was burgling her house, she raised her walking-stick and chased him away.
I handed back the paper, my dad carried on reading,
I decided to take things further:
Pen and paper, this was ages ago, email wasnt so much of a thing then.
For some reason I put my real name and address and phone-number on the letter
And I wrote: Sir/Madam,
Your readers may be interested to hear about further developments
Relating to this weeks front-page story in your paper.
The burglar involved in this incident has come forward and announced
Hes suing the brave homeowner for the emotional distress shes caused him.
It is thought that the legal costs likely to be incurred in fighting this case
Will force the poor woman to sell her house;
And if shes found guilty shell be looking at spending the rest of her life
Behind bars. Yours faithfully,
Envelope, stamp; I popped to the top of the road, to the post-box there,
Forgot about it.
The next day: walking back from work with my headphones on,
Spill a drink on her shes your friend for life, Johnny Thunders,
Then Morrissey, I can see through everybodys clothes,
Then home: theres a message on the answer-machine.
editor, we need more information!! Weve been trying
To get in touch with the family, weve been talking to the police but
They say they havent heard anything about this,
We need to know more! Please call me back as soon as you can! Thanks.
Maybe I should have left it there but I called him back,
Hed gasped out most of what hed already said on the phone
Before I cut him off, let him know it was a joke.
He sulked, he told me Id wasted a lot of important peoples time,
Id wasted the polices time!
I just, I said, like a Girl Guide asking for money for the blind,
Wondered if you might like to print it anyway.
Its, he snapped, not true, I cant I interrupted:
Thats, queen bitch, the thing with satire, isnt it:
You can think its true but its not! The conversation pretty much ended there,
Breezily I said goodbye, I hung up, I
Anticipated his possible revenge with a mixture of excitement and dread.
COMPUTER GENERATED IMAGES

Carmina Masoliver
we grew up on html
love was a cartoon heart
pink or red
we dissected some cold slab of meat in science labs
and with that, every Disney film turned dirty
we would publicise our most private thoughts
kidding ourselves it was poetry
when it was catharsis at best
love was chat rooms and msn
love was xxx
love was taken back to the times of courtly love
letters on screens and stomachs
would flip, not with the touch or grip of your crush
but a bedroom blush at the flash from offline to online
love was romance
love was distance
love was a flicker in the periphery
but it always ended in a request for a naked photograph
 asl? 

<a href="http://canilinkyou.com">

&hearts;

we grew up on html
we edited our lives to make them look better
with sepia and high contrast
with hearts and smilies
we proclaimed our friends as the best in the world
placed them on pedestals
but cried to ourselves when we werent number one
on their top friends list on MySpace
we grew up on html
but we never truly understood the language
we communicated
a love that was not love at all
xxx
CASSANDRA
Lin Hao
Youve cried your heart out to all the world,
All the world will eat you;
Still you laugh at their comedies, you emote for the shows.
I wipe from my cheeks the tears you havent cried yet:
Everythings going to break, is breaking, broke.
35p
Jason Pilley
In the little dogshit park outside the youth-club the kids are playing football:
My boss Kevin gives them half an hour then itll be back inside to play pool or help make fruitskewers or just talk
The football: one of these kids, Alex, a boy about fourteen or fifteen with cropped red hair and a
tough smiling face, plays pretty well, he runs, he shoots, he scores.
Hes got a phone or something attached to his belt: he scores then reaches down to the phone-thing,
checks it, and celebrates the goal.
Its a close match, Alex is good but so are a lot of them, he doesnt particularly stand out. But his
phone does:
Alex makes a run, he checks his phone.
Alex tries for a tackle, he checks his phone.
Alex gets another goal, he checks his phone.
Half an hour: then me and Emma shepherd the cool little fuckers back into our youth-club. Today is
the hottest day of a longhot summer, everyones exhausted. Alex checks his phone. Its not a phone.
?
Its something, he tells me, the hospital gave him. A little ECG screen, digital green numbers, the
hospital is monitoring his heart. I get palpitations, he tells me, I get pains in my chest;
occasionally I pass out.
I mutter Shit! or something equally profound.
Inside: a bunch of us sit at a table, small-talk: Those houses that got burned down got burned down
by Callum and the silly fucker got caught! No swearing! Yeah but he is a silly fucker.
Alex pulls a drink out of his pocket, a shimmerycan energy-drink with a -name like BEAST or
REVV or MOUNTAINTOP.
Wait, me and Emma simultaneously say, those things are banned from here. Our boss Kevin has
a Zero Tolerance policy on drugs including legal ones: no energy-drinks in the youth-club.
But Kevins in the kitchen making fruit-skewers: our other boss Barbara tells Alex, Go on then, just
this once.
Tss! He glugglugglugs but he wont escape from us lecture-free: Kevs right though, these things
are really bad for you.
Alex nods, he already knows this: Caffeines a stimulant, yeah.
Emma heads over from the pool-table where shes been keeping the peace: Its got loads of sideeffects. Go on the Internet and check out caffeines side-effects.
Barbara joins in: And not just physical ones, it affects your mind, it can make you anxious and
irritable and
Alex nods, he already knows this: It gives me heart-palpitations.
But Thats I gesture at the machine strapped to his waist.
He nods, he already knows this. I cant stop drinking the stuff.
Emma shakes her head: Its a drug, its an addictive stimulant drug.
Alex nods, he already knows this: We learned that at school, he glugs again. Our teacher told us
that quitting these is as hard as quitting cigarettes.
Have you tried?
Yeah, I was drinking a litre-bottle every morning for a while, I managed to cut down though, I
dont drink more than one of these cans a day now. I hated the taste the first time someone gave me
some, then I had some more and I still didnt like it. He pulls out a second can from his pocket, tss!
But then I tried again and it was alright, he glugs. And it was really cheap so why not?
They sell it cheap starts Emma but Alex finishes the sentence for her:
They sell it cheap to get you hooked.
I gesture mutely at the can in his hand. He nods, he knows.
A SUNSET ON GENOCIDE ISLAND

Ann Leesons
The waiters are ever so nice,
The waiters joke and flirt
And do amazing things with cocktail-glasses.
The waiters are so nice and so smart too
On Genocide Island.
I HOPE YOURE CRYING NOW

Anon.
The doors jam in their frames and the kettle wont boil.
(Think of me, think of me, think of me)
The showers the wrong heat always and the lightbulbs broke.
Fog grounds your flights, there are holes in your umbrella;
Burn every meal and think of me.
Your washing-machine is bust, it wont stop spinning.
Your phones gone, keys wont turn in their locks.
Dont have your cake and dont eat it either;
Ruin every page and think of me.
The people you meet these days are slow dull insincere.
(Dream of me, dream of me, dream of me)
Every phone-call, dial my number by mistake.
Choke on your dumplings remembering the positions I taught you;
Burn every meal and think of me.
LEGS
Jenny C.
The first time I shaved my legs
It took longer than I thought it would.
UNTITLED
Claude Wolfgang
Time has stopped existing this week. Hes crashed the car and theres broken glass in your lap. The
vicious yelling is white noise now and youve forgotten who you are; but you are not dead. Your
ears ring and you lose visual focus. If you dont get out of the fucking car, Ill knock your teeth so
far down your throat He takes you to your smallest place, determines what means most to you,
and uses it to humiliate you. Your feet keep scratching against the inside of your shoes and the
grease in your hair makes it stick to your head, because he wouldnt let you bathe or put on enough
clothes. There are two bottles of water but no food because he wouldnt let you pack anything. The
adrenaline rush accompanied with the overwhelming desire to stab him in the chest is stunted by
your conscience, a quality of humanity which he doesnt seem to possess. For now the image of his
jowly red face is troubling you, but you know that eventually youll forget it like everything else.
The apathy that he has cultivated through sleep deprivation and starvation has left you completely
numb, only akin to an opiate high in a bizarre twist of irony. You should be treating me like a hero
he shouts I want an apology for your disloyalty he demands. You should be proud of me. He
never says sorry.
SLEEPING DOGS
Shelly McSane
Shes having a party!
Oddly-gendered jugglers from countries youve always wanted to visit
Will be bringing all the drugs youve ever wanted to try!
That great mate you havent seen for seven years will be there,
And has he ever been places!
Passers-by wont quite be able to tell whether its fancy-dress or not!
Well make music make us,
Well paint things no-ones ever thought to paint! Someones
Gonna get coloured in!
We can do what we want then want some more! Poker
Isnt the only game you can affix strip- to!
Theres no such thing as not dancing!
Therell be illegal cake!
Well film it and the film will be Art!
(Shes not having a party really.)
SO-SO TIMES WITH YOU

Santa Violens
You ordered one type of coffee and I ordered another,
We sat at a table, drinking.
And it was alright.
Yeah it was alright.
I said: It wouldnt surprise me if you surprised me at any minute!
We laughed and said bad things about David Cameron.
And it was alright.
Disney mice kept interrupting us, shaking tins at us,
They wanted money to cure cancer, we gave them money. Surreal!
And it was alright.
Later we sat on the sofa: a wacky TV gangster yelled
Give me what I want and no-one gets hurt, please.
And it was alright.
We changed the channel: the weatherll be weather again again tomorrow.
We changed the channel: The Secret Lives Of Plain-Clothes Police-Dogs.
And it was alright.
POETRY
Rob Wellinton
These twats shouldve known:
Stabbing me in the back just
Propels me forwards.
BRIEF REFLECTION ON SNAILS

Francis Byrne
The small slow snail doesnt live much.
Its slime like greasy hair or some other lubricant.
How much does it live?
What does it do?
What job does it have?
Theres no need to be anything other
than snail-like no achievements,
promotions, decisions,
need to be made
says snail.
Lick the ground and you will win!
Ooze keep oooozing.
Victory is slow and constant
so slooow and constant
we dont believe it.
Snails slime and slide,
how are we so different?
They must ooze
we must pray
to the ooze god
for salivation.
This is the plight of humanity!
So, dear readers
open your mouths
oooopen them up
and lick your finger
mmmm, lick it long
show me mucous!
Open your legs
and show me
SLIME!!
TURN ON THE HEATING

Janine Booth
Turn on the heating
Were coming round
Were wearing jumpers
But its nippy this time of year
I guess some just feel the cold more than others.
Turn on the heating
Were coming round
We know you dont like to burn money
And even though you can afford it now
Old habits die hard.
Were coming with warmth
To break the ice
To melt your hearts
For heated discussions
And temperate words
Were coming to chill
With hot riffs and cool tunes
So turn up the heating
Were on our way round.
ENOUGHS NOT ENOUGH

Jenny Enny Rollright
Mescalita faces, faces in the trees!
Mescalita movements, sparkling in the leaves!
Mescalita moments, seared into my skin!
Mescalita voices tell me everything!
Mescalita faces, grinning in the grass!
Mescalita puking in the underpass!
Fingers are prayers to the great god of Textures!
Dogwalkers smile awkwardly as they walk by;
Dogs growl nervously and only I know why.
Dogs bark; I dont know whats got into him!
Oh they can always tell when youre on something,
I slur, I sway, they frown, I let them pass:
Folk look funny when youre fondling the grass.
Mescalita faces, turning in the trees.
Abruptly now: what are the odds of me?!
Mescalita movements, gurgling through the leaves.
AD on calendars spells Altered Destiny!
Mescalita hours, seared into my skin.
These are a few of my favourite things!
The insects are trying to teach us to buzz!
THE KING OF WONDERLAND POPPED ROUND TODAY

You
QUEERIOUS
Sam Dodd
Shes as woman as a breeze to untrained ears
One line of electricity
Her iconic masculinity
The room stops. She has a different vibration to the rest, it scatters off her skin like
broken headlights on the motorway.
Femininity
is examined not as our own anymore
But, as salt water that smells like the sea sliding
A man in a dress.
A shining light in the ever-moving, seething shitpit that is the human race. I feel I could
blow him out like a flame.
Skin from tip to toe, mouth shaped like an O.
We all hang from a cliff face,
Construct and parade.
EXCERPT FROM FISHERMENS TALES

THE POWDER MONKEY PART 1
Peter Kennedy
He stood on the pier at dawn, filled his lungs with salt air and his head with dreams. Since a small
boy hed heard tales of great fishermen whod travelled the world in search of adventure his uncle
Jack had sailed into Brixham where 300 boats were docked; his grandda had sheltered in the
Icelandic fjords as storms battered his beam trawler, and the seamen of Brevishead steered north in
search of Arcadia and off the edge of the world.
His Da had got him a start with Albert Kemp and Black Tony. His brother traded a goose for a
pair of waders and his ma knit him a fishermans jumper with the family cable pattern and a neck so
tight it made his ears bleed.
He shuffled on deck with his head lowered and mumbled greetings to the two men, too shy to
meet their eyes for more than a second. In his peripheries gulls circled beyond the crab pots and
too late he noticed Blackie was holding out a hand with comical patience. He felt foolish and
flushed. He leaned forward nervously and Blackie dragged him into a headlock. Theres no need to
be shy son, youre a sea dog now.
A big, bearded man with devilish eyes, Blackie held him around the neck with one powerful
arm and tousled his hair. Years of sweat and fish grime had engrained itself in Blackies leathery
skin creating the swarthy hue that earned him his nickname and a sickening smell. His hands were
hard and calloused from feeding ropes and scarred from gutting fish. Though hed sit on the beach
rubbing them with a flatstone, Billys hands remained soft and girlish.
He struggled to get free. Oh, hes a lively one said Blackie like a little monkey. Billy
understood his role in the routine, intensifying his writhing with a grin of defiance. Blackie bent
down and scratched Billys face against his two day stubble. Billy vowed to grow himself a beard,
just as soon as hed managed some pubic hair.
Stop messin about. Weve got te get these sails up if were te catch the tides. Albert, all jowls
and big doleful eyes, was from a different generation, one too practical and world weary for
roughhousing. Hed served his time under Billys grandda and it was understood in the village that
hed accommodate his descendents if they heard the sea calling. Billy had landed on his feet,
because The Wayfarer was one of the finest ketches in the harbour, but his ma didnt want him to
fish too dangerous. Shed spent the last three days suggesting alternatives why not shift grain at
the mill the need elp at the brewery go down the market and tell Geordie I sent ya It was
easy for her, to push herself forward like that, but hed never been very sociable. That was one thing
he liked about the seamen they never said much. They could play cards for hours communicating
in little more than celebratory grunts, interpretive nods and practicalities concerning the pot. They
didnt have to talk, didnt need to impress. There were unfathomable depths in their silence lifethreatening times that sat easier unsaid.
No, the sea was his place. He would learn the ropes, join a big trawler, travel the world having
adventures and when he was done hed return to the village, marry Mary Hodge and settle down.
Albert turned the mainsail into the wind and they surged free of the jetty. His life was about to
begin but deep underwater a single massive current moved counter clockwise.
WATCHING IT DIE
Ellie War
Its spasms, its screams and yelps;
The way it tells itself itll be okay, itll be okay, itll be okay,
As its red insides spew out turning grey
And seem to stain the ground but
Itll all soon fade.
Its cries, its occasional cries.
Its feeble scratchings.
The senselessness of its last gasps.
Im not pleased to say this,
Not proud to say this,
Nor do I expect this to make me any friends
But Im not going to lie to myself:
Deep down,
I like watching it die.
VIRUS
Maya Morris
The virus, the virus,
The virus is getting out of hand:
It turns my friends into my enemies,
It makes you make love to my enemies,
It makes us forget theres anything wrong.
The virus, the virus,
It makes him hate her for not being him,
Makes her hate her for not being him,
Makes us whining babies,
Makes us deserve this.
The virus,
No-ones ever there when you need them.
The virus,
Nights used to be better.
The virus
The virus the virus the virus
JOHN BARLEYCORN IS DEAD

Jay Light
John Barleycorn is dead, but
We break each bone, stab through his eyes,
Stamp on his head and torch his thighs
And cut his wrists and cut his tongue,
Squash his heart and burst both lungs,
Just to be sure.
John Barleycorn is dead, and
We tell his mum he told her lies,
Break his records, corrupt his files,
Stick pins through his butterflies wings:
His friends all failed just to spite him!
Spell John wrong; draw dicks on his stone,
Pave over the grass over his bones;
Call him the cause of all our debt;
Invent kids for him to have hurt;
His grandchildren will curse their name.
If wishes were airplanes youd be crashing again.
John Barleycorn is dead.
IMAGINING THE UNIMAGINABLE

Oktawia Petronella
There are no laws, there are no rules, there is no system, there is no logic. There is no one way, there
are all ways and there are no ways. There is simply nothing and everything at the same time.
Everything being anything.
In the deep, blue, black, mystic hole where nothing dwells you will experience everything you ever
wished for. Such a light sensation, as if you dont even exist. There is no sense of time and space.
You will be lifted up and falling deep at the same time. But you will not know this.
A sense of exhilaration will fill your senses it will be electrical, magical. Will feel like ecstasy.
Nothing so good ever felt before. Pleasure beyond belief.
Youll fly so high, you wont be able to stop; the pleasure will be so exhausting. You will be
screaming because it is too much to cope with. The pleasure will be so intense, you will start to feel
pain. You think this is bad but it is actually helping you to cope.
Screaming takes up too much energy now. Youre forced to be quiet.
The pain and pleasure increase and merge into one and you cant believe this sensation. This is the
best thing youve ever felt. So free and yet so trapped. So good and yet so bad. All in one. All you
know is that you crave more and never want it to stop.
IT WAS ONE OF THOSE YEARS

T. Spallow
It was one of those years where all you hear is the word cancer
And inevitably we end up in a pub:
Inoffensive tunes, an inoffensive room,
A few dozen of us dressed in black.
Grim grins,
Im-here-for-you hugs for those closest to
Him,
Drink the pain away:
Beery reminiscences around wooden tables,
We sit:
The perplexed toddler and the shaky grandma,
Grandma wondering how her coffin could have so many nails in it;
The tranquilised best-friend and the over-jokey cokehead,
Cheer up, go on! Its what he wouldve wanted!
Three broken aunties;
A plastic-gangster uncle flashing his wad of fifties,
Gets a round in for everyone and expects nothing back;
The brother, an ex-footballer with aching legs and a pub;
The sister in tears;
The ex he stayed friends with and the ex he sort of stayed friends with;
The traffic-warden nephew, the eco-warrior godmother, arguing already;
Derek who we met at the hospital and who got himself invited along,
Derek the master of the malignant hint, he cant just tell you what he wants;
Various old schoolfriends, workmates, they never thought it would actually happen
And this is it happening.
Turns out his second-cousins a soldier, I dont quite know what a second-cousin is:
One day youre immortal, the next day youre dead, he tells me.
Yeah, I nod.
Beery reminiscences: Were you and him close?
A bit. Sometimes, yknow. You?
The conversation drifts, clubs you went to, bands youre into? but
He shrugs at my subcultures:
Billy took his A-Levels and took them seriously,
Straight from there into some sort of Academy,
This is a guy who does not know and therefore can never know what it means to be
Seventeen with two or three friends crammed fully-clothed in the shower,
Warm water,
Fleeting graffitis on the walls,
The insides of our mouths cut up by the jagged questions we cant stop asking
Because we love the answer so much
Because one way or another the answer is always fucking YES.
I thought I could be a hero, Billy says, but no-one cares;
The only ones who care dont think Im a hero,
He tells me there are days hes terrified to leave the house in case he
Gets called babykiller again, he tells me,
Maybe he did kill a baby, Wars like that,
You dont always know what youve done.
Never spent nights with your mates convincing yourselves youre witchdoctors,
Never gathered around to google ell ee gee ay ell space aitch eye gee aitch ess enter
To see whats on the market;

Never all took a tab and went to the swimming-pool and really found the deep end.
You dont stop smelling war.
Never went out as a gang in our underwear and sprayed FUTURECOVEN on the walls,
Then back to someones room where wed be up all night mistaking our tastes for morals,
Only the bands we liked were Right.
Never dug a grave for The Unknown Poet!
Never started a fire for The Unknown Poet,
Never commemorated The Unknown Poet with bags full of petals
Emptied from towerblocks,
Never. The things I saw, its just so needless.
Marshal McLuhan predicted the Global Village but he had no idea how many
Evil fucks wed find living in it.
Yeah.
When you run out of things to say, just say things youve already said:
Were you and him close?
Pretty close, yeah. We had a laugh.
Somehow its dark outside,
Somehow someones calling last orders at the bar.
Me and soldier-boy decide on more drinks back at mine,
When we get there Ill try and convince him of the virtues of DMT too:
Fuck it, its what he would have wanted.
UNTITLED
Claude Wolfgang
Its approaching hour twenty-two and one of the many men in the room sets down a cake onto the
table. The icing is white with navy blue letters and trim; it looks like campaign confectionery.
Whats written on it is not immediately intelligible. I ask telepathically what Cake Man is doing as
he, a paunchy fifty-five year old landlord, begins adorning himself in tight white lace trousers from
Sprymart.
She gave them to me he doesnt look me in the eyes when he says this and the girl in question is
not in the room, but I know of her. Everyone understands what he means and waits for the scene to
start. The cake mocks its guests, reminding many of their diabetes. Why was it even there? I lean in
closer to establish what the icing says. It reads: We Are Not Responsible For Any Injuries Incurred
During The Next Century. People mumble amongst themselves, dressed in dull shades of brown or
grey. The walls look like they are lined with camel fur but I dont want to investigate.
I start a conversation with a barely conscious individual. They ask me if I know how I got here, and I
refuse to answer. You dont seem to have a lot of information they slur and drool. I feel sick but
also very hungry, although everything, especially the cake, seems inedible. There are biscuits and
crackers from the mid-90s, and cheese from several days previous to the gathering. I rub the
tablecloth between my fingers, temporarily fascinated by the plastic texture to distract me from the
boiled chicken. Nobody seems especially talkative, although many are huddled together.
A nervous looking man next to me whispers in my ear when do you think theyll get here? and I
assess the exits, only to feel confused. There is no door, and no windows. I turn to him and say Im
not sure what to tell you.
THE SORCERER ON THE SEASHORE

Jason Pilley
The sorcerer on the seashore sings the tide in
And will later sing it out;
The sorcerer knows he is not needed
But being needed isnt what hes all about.
CONTRIBUTORS:
AUDREY LANE COCKETT is, she just is!
JANINE BOOTH is a loudmouthed Marxist feminist trade unionist, who was a ranting poet in the
1980s, took a break for a quarter of a century and returned to rhyming in 2014. Check her out at
www.janinebooth.com
FRANCIS BYRNE runs two London poetry nights, Frogs & Jays and Y Tuesday, and is editing the
250-page annual publication of 100 writers, London Spoken Word Anthology. Francis is saying yes
to: unsettling, unnerving, silly-serious ideas; repulsive, enormous ignorable truths; deep and awful
human beauty. He is a member of DNA Poets and is soon to publish Science Foetus Foetus Science,
a collection of science poetry in collaboration with the Polish scientist Serafina Palic. He teaches
creative writing to children. Contact him at frogsandjays@gmail.com
SAM DODD falls in love with most people she meets, usually immediately, and likes to re-tell their
stories. She runs a small East London open-mic night called Mouths Wide Shut and is the
seventeenth cousin four times removed of Ken Dodd.
JENNY ELLEST was minus-eight weeks old when she traced her first poem on the inside of her
mothers womb: these days she mostly uses paper, and her poems have been published in Solar
Poetry, Brat Magic One, Rockland Lit, Dirty Palace, A Fractal Dying, the Don Quixote Is
Dead journal, turn, The London Spoken Word Anthology 2016, and others. Shes a member of
the Dressed For Winter On A Spring Day collective.
ANNA KAHN is a queer, big-hearted, cheeky grumpy fireball. Shes a member of the Barbican
Young Poets Programme 2015-16 by night and a civil servant by day. She beat Scroobius Pip in a
golden gun contest once, but that might have been because the judge had questionable taste.
Imagine the Brothers Grimm were not two 19th century German siblings, but one middle-aged man
from a North East fishing village. A man who trawled the seas, combed the beaches and crafted a
collection of dark fables, from sea coal and driftwood and bullshit. Fishermens Tales is the selfpublished debut novel from PETER KENNEDY. Deep in the shadowed past a village is beset by
plague. Amidst the invidious creep of distrust, disease and death, a mysterious stranger breaks
quarantine and the tight-knit community begins to unravel. Fishermens Tales explores the nexus
where rumour, myth and apocrypha meet in a metaphysical, metafictional whodunit.
www.fishermenstales.com
LISA LUXX www.prowlhouse.com
CARMINA MASOLIVER is a poet and organiser of feminist arts night She Grrrowls. But she
doesnt like boxes (except cardboard ones, which can provide hours of amusement). That said, she is
an INFJ, a pacifist and a Taurus. She writes and performs in hope to connect with others, and enjoys
playing with different forms. She lies all the time, except in her poetry. The poems featured here can
also be found in her intro book by Nasty Little Press (2014).
BOUDICCA PALOMA www.boudiccapaloma.com
OKTAWIA PETRONELLA is a singer and violinist and graduated in Music with Italian from
Sussex University in 2010. Since graduating Oktawia has been involved in a number of creative
collaborations with dancers, poets and musicians of various styles. Some highlights include
performing at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival and singing with the London Symphony Chorus. In her
spare time, Oktawia likes to carve sculptures from raw fruits and vegetables and display photographs
of them.
Before JASON PILLEY was banned from every single poetry-event in England for aggressively
heckling himself, his one-man show T.R.I.P. left everyone who saw it blind, bald and puking and
was eventually shut down by the International Atomic Energy Agency. In 2015 Glastonbury Festival
was cancelled and replaced with a one-time-only performance of the follow-up, Sooner Or
Soonerer; next summer The Invention Of Opera (& Other Stories) will be guerrilla-gigged in
Buckingham Palace. He hopes The Poetry Years makes a great chapter in the books theyll have to
write about him.
STEVE PILLEY www.stevepilley.com
TOM SINCLAIR is the kind of inconsiderate incompetent man who has taken to writing seemingly
honest poetry, he has self-published two anthologies and has had his debut solo poetry collection I
am a whole load of nothing published by International Work Bank/BaxterDanielInkPress.
CLAUDE WOLFGANG has been writing since he was seven. He rarely goes out in public. His style
varies between manic and illiterate.
ALSO BY JENNY PSOPHIA ELLEST

AVAILABLE FROM EXTRA SENSE POETRY
I AM AN ANAGRAM (& Other Attacks) ............................................4.49 OUT OF PRINT

OBSCURUM PER OBSCURIUS...................................................................COMING SOON
(In association with the His-Locale-Was-Celtic-And-His-Season-Spring Arts Co.)
LETS HEAR IT FOR THE POETRY PATROL!.................................2.30 OUT OF PRINT

(Cosmic Research & Development)
LOOKING DONT LOOKING AT ME................................................5.43 OUT OF PRINT
CHOOSE YOUR OWN AFTERLIFE...................................................7.77 OUT OF PRINT
NIGHT WISDOMS: A BOOK OF DREAMS...............................................COMING SOON

(With Ellie Who courtesy of Silver Snake Productions)
MY FRIVOLOUS SOUL.......................................................................0.93 OUT OF PRINT
HATE HATE HATE..............................................................................1.99 OUT OF PRINT
IM YOU FROM THE FUTURE! SHUT UP AND LISTEN!..............3.14 OUT OF PRINT

(With the Ultrapoetry collective)
POEMS AGAINST EVERYTHING..............................................................COMING SOON

(Published by the Echoes Of It Breaking Press)
SPACESHIPS & BLASPHEMY LAWS...............................................7.99 OUT OF PRINT
EDITED BY
JENNY P SOPHIA ELLEST
FEATURING CONTRIBUTIONS
FROM
JANINE BOOTH*FRANCIS
BYRNE*AUDREY LANE
COCKETT*SAM DODD*ANNA
KAHN*PETER KENNEDY*LISA
LUXX*CARMINA MASOLIVER*
BOUDICCA PALOMA*OKTAWIA
PETRONELLA*JASON PILLEY*
STEVE PILLEY*TOM SINCLAIR*
CLAUDE WOLFGANG
EXTRA SENSE POETRY (ESP023)

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SPieS

41 LAST WORDS..........................................................................................SELAH BROWN

All works belong to their creators.

WE FIND OURSELVES TURNING IN CIRCLES

I dont, confesses V, car-doors slamming shut, think I really know anything.

BELIEVE YOUR LOVER WHEN SHE TELLS YOU

DREAM PALACE: THE LIFE OF A POSTMAN

THE CANNIBAL HYMN

IM NOT HERE FOR YOU

EIGHT WORDS FROM PHIBUN MANGSAHAN

EXCERPT FROM FISHERMENS TALES

CAFFEINE ON THE TRAIN

THREE BULLETS FOR VINCENT VAN GOGH

The neighbours have tried to steal colour but he thwarts them,

RICHARD NIXONS DAUGHTER

FOR THE BANGLADESHI BLOGGERS

WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR SKY OF DIAMONDS?

Unless I could be the God of

Telling tales of escapades

ITS NICE WHEN EVERYONES NICE

WHEN YOURE SUPERMAN

THE SECOND PART OF ALLEN GINSBERGS HOWL

THAT CUNT KEEPS SHOWING UP IN ALL MY BEST MEMORIES

I WAS PART OF THE PRANK GENERATION

COMPUTER GENERATED IMAGES

A SUNSET ON GENOCIDE ISLAND

I HOPE YOURE CRYING NOW

SO-SO TIMES WITH YOU

BRIEF REFLECTION ON SNAILS

TURN ON THE HEATING

ENOUGHS NOT ENOUGH

THE KING OF WONDERLAND POPPED ROUND TODAY

EXCERPT FROM FISHERMENS TALES

JOHN BARLEYCORN IS DEAD

IMAGINING THE UNIMAGINABLE

IT WAS ONE OF THOSE YEARS

To see whats on the market;

THE SORCERER ON THE SEASHORE

ALSO BY JENNY PSOPHIA ELLEST

I AM AN ANAGRAM (& Other Attacks) ............................................4.49 OUT OF PRINT

LETS HEAR IT FOR THE POETRY PATROL!.................................2.30 OUT OF PRINT

LOOKING DONT LOOKING AT ME................................................5.43 OUT OF PRINT

CHOOSE YOUR OWN AFTERLIFE...................................................7.77 OUT OF PRINT

NIGHT WISDOMS: A BOOK OF DREAMS...............................................COMING SOON

MY FRIVOLOUS SOUL.......................................................................0.93 OUT OF PRINT

HATE HATE HATE..............................................................................1.99 OUT OF PRINT

IM YOU FROM THE FUTURE! SHUT UP AND LISTEN!..............3.14 OUT OF PRINT

POEMS AGAINST EVERYTHING..............................................................COMING SOON

SPACESHIPS & BLASPHEMY LAWS...............................................7.99 OUT OF PRINT

EXTRA SENSE POETRY (ESP023)

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