Loyalty Penalty, by John Lanyon

LOYALTY PENALTY

Dear Sir or Madam,
your Policy of Love is due for Renewal.

Wait!

It pays to shop around.
Switch now!
Whatever your offer we’ll beat it.
Comprehensive Love?
Damage to a Third Party?
We guarantee a minimum Level of Affection.
In the event of a Breakdown
we supply a Courtesy Partner
(for up to 28 days).
Choose your Level of Excess.
Suddenly kicked out by your Lover?
We’ll find you a lonely Bed-Sit.
Add European Cover? No Problem!
Add a Spiritual Dimension? Easy!

Note: we do not replace matching Items.
We do not operate a new-for-old Policy.

Indemnify your Heart!

You’re covered –
should you fall from Grace*.

*Terms and Conditions apply.

John Lanyon

John Lanyon lives in West Oxfordshire where he works as a gardener, linguist, musician and writer. He is approximately 25% of the poetry quartet www.fourwordsmen.com . He is excited by the secret lives of words, the play between the animate and inanimate worlds, the spirit of places.

 

Ageing Process, by Jane Shaer

AGEING PROCESS
Have you ever looked in the mirror
To reflect your age
And noticed cellulite and wrinkles
Have taken centre stage?
It’s then you wonder to yourself
How old must I be?
What sort of a body is this
To be given me?

Have you noticed the hair upon your head
Is starting to thin out
When the roots underneath are turning
White
And suddenly beginning to sprout?
It’s then you wonder to yourself
Am I really okay?
Why not have a wig aswell
Let alone going prematurely grey?

Have you ever been to the dentist
And while lying in the chair
He’s fitting you with a crown
As you gaze up his nose in despair?
It’s then you wonder to yourself
This guy’s a nice enough chap.
But I only wish he’d finish off
Bridging that gap.

Have you ever been to the doctor
To get a jab for the flu
And asked him time and time again
Can I make love to you?
It’s then you wonder to yourself
If my senility’s on par.
Why not have a man aswell
When I’ve a crush on my car.

Have you ever had a Garam or Tikka Massala
From an Indian takeaway
Not realising the effect it has on you
For many a day?
It’s then you wonder to yourself
If this stuff is going to keep on
Passing through.
How much longer must I spend VINDALOO?

My name is Jane Shaer & live in North London.
I was inspired by Pam Ayres to write poetry
when she won Opportunity Knocks back in
the 1970’s.
I have epilepsy & learning difficulties & putting pen to paper can be quite a challenge.

 

Jack Kerouac’s Orange (An Origin Myth) by Cáit O’Neill McCullagh

Jack Kerouac’s Orange (An Origin Myth)

Your mind makes out the orange by seeing it, hearing it, touching it, smelling it, tasting it
and thinking about it … depending on your mind to exist! By itself it’s a no-thing …
it’s seen only of your mind
– Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums

Like Jack Kerouac’s Orange
I am awake for you baby
baby taste this flesh, smell
smell the myth of limonene
this orange wants to be seen
see me, hear me, touch me
make me become.

Make me a some-thing baby
baby don’t you feel the want
want to feel how it is
how it is to be empty
empty & awake & a no-thing
nothing unless of your mind?

Spilled out like squeezed sea
sea squeezed from an orange
a sodden orange from a Spanish ship
shipwrecked & empty & a no-thing
nothing except for the mind of a poet

‘thinking about it it’s really mental
things only seen of your own mind’.

But Jack got it wrong baby
I am not your orange
you may have me
in your mind’s eye
thinking about it & me
& all that existential baby

& you may say you saw me
saw me only & only me
& only of your mind

but it was me who was looking
baby I was looking at the apple
& it was me who was awake
awake & looking at the apple
it was always me baby
baby it was always me
who took the first bite.

Cáit is a straying archaeologist. At home in the Scottish Highlands, she makes films and writing with folk hoping to assemble good ways of living in this queasy world. Poems have been peeling from her since January 2021. This is one of her first. You can find her tweeting @kittyjmac.

 

Knock Knock, by Ed Poetastic

Knock,Knock
Who’s there?
Knock, Knock
Should I care?
Knock, Knock
Do I dare?
Knock, Knock,
yes I can hear, I’m aware.
Knock, Knock,
I didn’t do it!! I swear!!
Knock, knock,
I don’t need a prayer!
Knock, Knock
My house doesn’t need repair!
Knock, Knock,
I don’t need any cookware!
Knock, Knock
I don’t need any armchairs!
Knock, knock
I’m losing my hair!!!
knock, knock
Don’t have money to spare
Knock,Knock
OMG!! I’m in a nightmare!!!
Knock, Knock
Are you a Grizzly Bear!!
Knock, Knock
I’m only in my underwear!
Knock, Knock
please just be air
Knock, Knock
I have nothing to share
Knock, Knock
This isn’t a freaking daycare!!
Knock, Knock
Sigh Yes, I’m here. Are you still there

By Ed Poetastic

My name is Ed Poetastic and I’m here to make you feel fantastic. I’m regular at open mic such as Nuyorican, Barbwire, Grassroots, Antics Open Mic, Poetry Cafe, The Mitch Salon, Phynnecabulary Open Mic, Time to Arrive, The Word is Write, Unmesh Life Open Mic, Tokyo Kotoba, and many more. I was interviewed by Rick Spisak, Pal Sujata, and Harrison Hickman. My Facebook is Eddy Foreman and My Ig is edforeman92.

 

A man on the 19.34 to Birmingham New Street, having misread the signals, uses his mobile to try to arrange another date with the woman who has hastily waved him off at Liverpool Lime Street , by Emma Purshouse

A man on the 19.34 to Birmingham New Street, having misread the signals,
uses his mobile to try to arrange another date with the woman who has
hastily waved him off at Liverpool Lime Street

Whah?
Say again.

I bet yum freezing
ya baps off ay ya,
bab? Say again.
Say again. Whah?

I could come back

like, warm you up.
Whah? Say again.

Say again. Whah?

Errrrr……Runcorn.

Say again? Whah?

Thursday. Thurs…

Say again. I know,

yeah. Say…………

Ok…………..Tarrah.

Tarrahtarrahtarrah.

 

To Professor John Henderson, by Maria Andrews

To Professor John Henderson, about my/his belly.

John,

Would be great to cut a fine figure.
I do, says your belly,
Swaying on my two pins.
Uh huh? I’m listening, I say.
Yeah, I cut a fine figure of a Henderson belly
asking John for a hug.

You’ve got persistence going for ya,
I give you that. Yeah I have,
my/your belly drawls,
taking a long drag of a cigarette,
I’ll ask him till the day I die. I placate curve
with smoothing palm.

Are you thinking about John now?
John Henderson belly closes her eyes.
Yeah. All his vocatives rolled
into one tumbling waterfall of cadences.
What about his ablatives, his hyperbatons?
All cases. All cadences. One long

Belly schmoosh. His semantic analytics?
His patterns? His parsings? His epics?
His topsy turvey word order?
My belly is opening her lips, lost
for words. His exploratory thematics?
She’s gone, lost in loin-louche.

Maria Andrews is a short film maker and photographer who occasionally gets published in poetry mags (Polka Dot Ceiling, Still Life) and was once published in a collection (Bloody Amazing). Her current alias is a puppet called Leopold, who is a London correspondent for Helmiflix.com She likes belly laughs. manifestafilm@weebly.com.

 

Do Come to my Party, by Ruth Aylett

Do come to my party..

This time, just for close friends
so no Facebook public event;
I’m celebrating the spring equinox
but haha – without fertility rites.

I am not inviting anyone’s ex
as far as I know, but nobody said
last time about Liz and Dean
or Janice and Liz, or the tragic death.

This time the veggie option
will not contain chicken stock
and I told everyone no hash brownies,
whether labelled or not.

The party games will all be voluntary;
there will be no charades
acting out cocktail names,
no removal of clothes.

No dog-sitters will bring the pooch,
another time for the twins with AHD
and we already established
next doors cat won’t fit the BB Q

This time no stand-back-fifty-metre
fireworks in the tenement’s back green;
it’s the wrong time of year
and the facing flats weren’t keen.

Though the emergency services
were actually rather pleasant
and the front door
has now been mended.

RSVP. Do come!

Ruth Aylett teaches/researches computing in Edinburgh and her poetry is published widely in magazines/anthologies. Joint author of Handfast (Mother’s Milk, 2016); her pamphlet, Pretty in Pink (4Word) was published Jan2021. More at http://www.macs.hw.ac.uk/~ruth/writing.html

 

Earthworms are Awesome, by Holly Conant

Earthworms Are Awesome

I mean, they literally feed the fucking planet. Take our fermented banana, yellow miasma and crap it out as wise-man’s gold. And I feel impressed with my morning turd! But that needs hours of processing, by loads of people in hazmat suits with fancy gizmos, before it turns into anything useful. I’d rather be a worm: take a shit, and boom, job done; it’s warm and ready to be laid into by a seed-bean or bulb. Maybe I’d be more fulfilled without a human brain to contradict my purpose. I’d find my way into a middle-class compost bin, spend all day eating potpourri detritus, and be a rent-free master architect, redacting common land law. I’d be humbled by my legless body, my simple ways of building, mindful of camber structure instead of grey velvet sofas and Mrs Hinch. I’d be at home in dirt, throw my gender away and bag the kinky night-time rendezvous’ amongst an orgy of grass with wet breath. The human hand would be no more risk to me than it is now, maybe even less, and mother Earth might forgive me for my flesh. I just hope being swallowed by a bird is a quick death.

Holly is a mature student currently studying at the University of Leeds. Her poems have been published since January 2021 by Ink, Sweat & Tears, Anti-Heroin Chic, Spilling Cocoa Over Martin Amis, Dreich and more, as well as appearing in anthologies. She is currently working on her debut collection.

Twitter: @Holly_C_Writer

 

My Mother Said, by Sharon Phillips

My Mother Said

Always take care of your man
and try not to seem too clever.
The home is a woman’s domain;
this floor could do with a hoover.

Men like to think they’re clever
so buck your ideas up, my girl:
this floor could do with a hoover
and you’re wearing a dirty skirt.

Buck your ideas up, my girl,
make him feel proud of your looks:
you’re wearing a dirty skirt
and wasting your time on books.

Make him feel proud of your looks
and give that bathroom a clean;
there’s no time to waste on books;
cook something nice for his tea.

Go on, give that bathroom a clean;
the home is a woman’s domain,
so cook something nice for his tea
and try to hang on to your man.

(Previously published in Snakeskin, May 2018)

Sharon stopped writing poetry in 1976 and started again forty years later, after retiring from her career in education. Her poems have been published online and in print and she is currently studying for an MFA at York St. John University. Originally from Bristol, Sharon now lives in Otley, West Yorkshire.

 

One to Tenant, by Peter O’Toole

One To Tenant

One house to rent
Done deal over the phone
Finally we have a place
on loan not quite our own

Two months saving up
we needed to hurry up
Got the first months rent
and the deposit
We got lucky,
There is a lot of competition out there
we nearly lost it

Three people start a new chapter
two adults one child
Days of struggling
but days that contain laughter
our first journey to happy ever after

Four in the morning
and the little one wakes up
Still half asleep as i hurry
to reach for a bottle or cup
A distant memory is 8 hours sleep
but its four hours only
Before i hear the sound
of the alarm clock beep, beep, beep

Five days a week
on a basic wage
After the rent is paid
be lucky to get a mcdonalds
eurosaver burger at this stage

Six months go by
starting to borrow money
on the sly
Even though i work
It’s hard to save
How can you save for a mortgage?
when money is tight
like chains on a slave

Seven loans to my name
cant say im the only one to blame
But living in Dublin
feels like your paying double
But down in the country
you pay less so no trouble

Eight hours overtime on
next week’s payslip
But i’ll only see a tenner
of that so i will head to
The bookies with a hot tip
Football or horses
Il do what it takes
to save for a mortgage again
And if i win
Just maybe, my saving can begin

9 attempts at a loan
from the bank to the shark
Still the chances of balance
are looking a bit stark
Chances look dark
but there is light
at the end of the tunnel
Maybe a dream of a decent life
is not so impossible

10 years of struggling
10 years of juggling
All the the times the bank
told us not a chance
during the boom and
after the economy collapsed
But after ten months
Ten days and lot of years
Something came out of
the blood, sweat and tears
We may have our keys
And can look back at the rent
and be proud to say
I served living a life on borrow
a life as a tenant.