Drink, Dance, Fuck, Repeat

You see her.

The girl.  The woman.  The dream.  The one.

She’s got those eyes that sparkle

and that smile that makes bits of you glow

that you didn’t even know you had.

And those fucking tits.

You wait for her to go to the bar,

sidle up beside her,

knock her elbow so she looks at you.

Smile and apologise.  You’re in.

Compliment her hair, her necklace, her dress.

Keep her talking while you check for the signs.

Boots.  Check.  Eyebrow piercing.  Check.

Rubber rainbow on the wrist.  Check.

Sorry lads, this ones on our team.

Linger over the drinks until your friends get pissed,

go your separate ways

but keep your eyes glued to her as the night goes on.

Of course, she looks too.  You’re wearing your lucky pants.

She hits the dancefloor so you drag your mates out,

dance behind her until you’re dancing with her,

until it’s a mess of swaying hips

and air pumping fists

and feet with no rhythm

but fuck it, you look good.

She takes you to the corner to kiss

and her mouth tastes like Sambuca and smoke and you hate both

and she moves her tongue like she has no clue what she’s doing

but you don’t mind

because, well, look at her.

At least she knows what she’s doing with her fingers.

You keep swaying so it looks like you’re still dancing

but her fingers are inside you

and yours are inside her

and it’s dark and sweaty and gross

and there’s a couple opposite doing the same

and one of them winks at you

and you feel sick and drunk and hot and spaced and-

then it’s done.

Lights are coming on and phones are coming out

and she types her number into yours with wet fingers

but you both know you’ll never text her.

She’s already looking rough.

She asks if you’ll be back and you will

but you’ll pretend not to recognise her.

She may have been the one

but tomorrow night there’ll be number two,

three, four, five, six, seven.

Drink, dance, fuck, repeat.

This is the life.

This is the life.

This is my life.

 

F. R. Kesby is a poet and storyteller from Leeds.  She is a regular on the local open mic scene as well as the current chair of The Leeds Savage Club, the oldest writing club in Leeds (and definitely the best).  When not writing she can usually be found ranting about Doctor Who.

Bloody Fucking Hell

You don’t want the homeless to starve
Do you?
You don’t want the homeless to die
Do you?
How about eat out of dustbins
Or something thrown down in the street?
Do you?
Go round the backs of shops and takeaways
Looking for leftovers
Do you?
How about climbing in Tesco’s bins?
Looking in street waste bins?
Do You?
Well the bloody stupid thick
Uncaring bastards
At Hull City Council
Do
Don’t they?
Cos they have banned
A charity
From giving out home cooked food
Told them they can give out tea and coffee
So filling
Aren’t they?
Oh and canned soup
Not a meal
To fill
And stop
Them eating anything they can find
This is fucking political correctness
And fucking Health and Safety
Gone fucking mad
And fucking evil
So bad
And fuck them
I hope one day these bastards starve
And get a fucking cup of tea
They fucking deserve it

 

Richard Harries is a performance poet who had poetry come accidentally into his life seven years ago, has a ball and loads of fun performing all over, Tries to motivate, inspire and help those setting out on this fun path. He writes about life and reality, fantasy, tragedy and fun

 

No Offence

You can’t do this, you’re not worthy, not the skills,
It’s just not right, you are the wrong man for the job,
Not thinking straight, no capacity, no real thrills,
Just a letch, nothing to offer, a parasitical blob,

No creativity, good ideas or real solutions,
Not one to stereotype, but clearly wrong, you’re not the one,
Show no bite, care or compassion for revolution,
So dim of mind, slow of thought, never shone,

Just a shell, a mere husk of a person,
Need a stiff drink to clear the mind, no steady nerve,
All defence, no attack, no rhyme or reason,
No real friends, aids or allies to observe,

Many detractors, few cheerleaders or supporters,
Just appeasers, sycophants, that I can sense,
Fuelled by mental misunderstanding from most quarters,
Same sex marriage didn’t help – no offence.

The author, Paul Anthony Obey, born in 1970, is working class,
from a working class family, raising a working class family.
Married to a proud New Zealander, Nicola, they live in the
North West of England and share four children; Ryan, Hayley,
Bethany and Seth, one of each from both.

wings & talons

birdsong nesting in my ears
drives away the mad, throbbing
song of him that remains
even after all these years and tears
after all the anger and pain and rage
falls away
i wonder if then, perhaps, i could be free
of his name;
but it is to him i gave my flowers and they say

you never forget your first—
like an unscripted law it's like a marriage
conscripted by bodies
even if they fall out of touch and out of want
for one another
i gave him all the pieces of my soul
yet it was not enough to satiate his greed
deeper and hotter than the flames of the sun
something in his scorn awoke
the warrior in me once i rose again after the death
he put me through,
and i am the phoenix
unwilling to lay before him in the darkness and die
rising always from the ashes of chaos and ruin
fashioning it as a compliment
made my edges sharp
i am the archangel of dreamers and i will shatter
every nightmare including him
with all these sharp teeth and claws
because when he broke my heart he forgot i had
wings and talons.

 

Linda M. Crate is an author, poet, and writer whose works have been published in numerous journals and anthologies both online and in print. She is the author of three published chapbooks and the Magic Series. 

Mosquito mosquito

Da humble mosquito
he cannot be beato
he know what to eato
he see me as meato
my arms and my feeto
he think are a treato
with books I will beato
but he is so fleeto
he jump and he cheato
his skill is completo
he fly off so neato
and should I succeeto
in squashing a ‘squito
three more mafi-ito
arrive incognito
dey turn up da heato
my arms and my feeto
dey crucify meto !
I lie in my sheeto
and dream of reveto !
But da clever mosquito
he never be beato

 

John Ling, aka Juicy John, having spent ten years working with autistic kids,  has learnt lots of ways to annoy people in charge. He now spend my days (seriously) in conflict resolution, and sending up all sorts of people in his writing.

Who Loves Tacos?

To me, you’ll always be tacos.

You burn my tongue

and stain my fingers

and drip, drip, drip

onto my flesh.

I will remember your taste,

how you tantalised

and teased my tongue,

how I tried to pin you down

and failed.

You will forever be

tacos and margaritas,

fun and flimsy,

sweet and salty,

wherever we go from here,

you will be forever.

 

F. R. Kesby is a poet and storyteller from Leeds.  She is a regular on the local open mic scene as well as the current chair of The Leeds Savage Club, the oldest writing club in Leeds (and definitely the best).  When not writing she can usually be found ranting about Doctor Who.

At Starbucks

‘Tall cappuccino to go,’ I say.
He picks up a cup and a pen.
‘What name is it?’ he asks,
and I reply, ‘Eratosthenes.’
He looks at me blankly.
‘E, R, A, T, O, S, T, H, E, N, E, S.’
Dutifully he writes down the letters,
requiring only two repetitions.
When he’s done, I say,
‘On second thoughts,
could you make that an espresso?’

 

Joe Williams is a former starving musician who transformed into a starving poet in 2015, entirely by mistake. He appears regularly at events in Yorkshire and beyond, and has been published in numerous anthologies and in magazines online and in print. His debut pamphlet, Killing the Piano, was published by Half Moon Books in 2017. www.joewilliams.co.uk

Our straightjacket love

We never walk hand-in-hand, we are zombies in a hypnotic routine. It steals our dreams, it ruins our agenda. Performing ordinary tasks in a non-future vacuum. I always read the previous day’s papers, picked up in the trash. No problem, life has no hurry. Yesterday things still exist today. What is left is my dirty finger-paint, leaving fingerprints on the water. I need to shave. I need a new face. Our shoulders touched, so embarrassing. I looked into her eyes but I did not see me reflected there. What a saw were her first wrinkles. Embarrassing. I need to get out of here. As soon as now. It is so tight that it does not fit anymore. Our straightjacket love.

Cristina Bresser is a Brazilian writer who is fluent in English, Spanish and French. She graduated from Universidade Federal with a degree in Graphic Design and went on to study Creative Writing at University of Edinburgh in 2016. She has two published books: Torre de Papel (Paper Tower) a short stories anthology released in 2015 and  Quase tudo é risível (Almost Everything is Laughable) a 155 pages novel published in November 2016. Find more of her stuff at  www.cristinabresser.com.br 

Tête-à-Tête

 

Centred on the plush mattress,

I wanted to sink deep within it,

Feel the soft white padding smother me.

I saw nothing but the thin white shield that “Protected me from darkness”

Ironically.

The teeth of the wild bite furiously,

They gnaw into your flesh and imprint you,

They scar and scrape and scathe,

 

 

I wonder…

If his mother knew,

When he was teething,

What they would do?

 

 

I clocked out,

Lay back,

Wet my shield,

Until it lifted,

And I,

Permitted to see,

The scarlet mess of the battlefield.

 

Lou M (they like their anonymity) is starting her first year of university in the U.K. She is likely to be found lounging around in the sun like a cat…if cats liked drinking wine and getting horribly sunburnt. She is working on a poetry collection exploring female sexuality. She can be found on Twitter @LoobyLouLou9 or her blog https://43loulou34.wixsite.com/loulou 

You do, you do

 

If you must fade in to the history
of yourself,
as a relapse,
or as Love,
or as rape,
or a lesser understanding
of manhood — then do so.

 

If you must digest everything —
every pebble under Palace Pier, drunk
and love-moaning.
Every rotation of your hips
on my boney, dying pelvis —
then do so.

 

Go loudly as a lout,
with drink in one hand,
some symbol thrown in to the
mix, of finger and fist,
giving it a
good one.
Strut your damned weapons
in to some oblivion of
lithium. I will always
be here —
A drunk in waiting

 

 

Mat Caron is an American poet living in Cambridge, UK. This is his first submission to anything.