Mea Culpa by Mark Mayes


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As his forehead met my nose,
causing it to explode
into a cascade of blood and snot,
I wondered what his childhood had been like,
and the precise nature of his family’s dysfunction.

As his size-ten DM’s crunched into my bollocks
at an equally disconcerting speed,
I bemoaned his lack of life chances,
and the undiagnosed dyslexia,
which had so sorely troubled him.

When, having whipped out his Stanley,
he proceeded to inscribe a map
of the Scilly Isles – on my neck,
I blamed the NHS for not proactively
offering him counselling
at a more formative age.

Finally, as he stamped rhythmically on my spine,
chanting ‘Bastard’ all the while,
it dawned on me
that he was the real victim here,
and I had no right to complain,
if anything, I was to blame,
for in me he saw the cause,
the cause of all his pain.

My Home Counties’ vowel sounds
had put him out of joint;
plus the unpardonable act
of spilling his pint.

(originally published in The Interpreter’s House)

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

The Bra by Mab Jones


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The bra was invented
In two places
Simultaneously.
By Herminie Cadolle in France
And Mary Jacob in America.
Both sprang up in
The two countries
Almost instantaneously.
Twin buds of an idea,
Fleshed out and
Eventually ripening.
But no-one really knows
Who is the true
Discoverer.
Though one of them,
Like the things they cup,
Is bigger
Than the otherer.

(Originally published in Poor Queen, Burning Eye Books, 2014)

Mab Jones has read her work all over the UK, in the US, Japan, France, and Ireland, and on BBC Radio 4. She runs International Dylan Thomas Day, writes for the New York Times, and recently won the Geoff Stevens Memorial Poetry Prize.

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A Gentleman’s Guide to a Comfortable Life by Simon Williams


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Wear a utility belt.
This avoids scrubbing holes
in your pockets with loose change
and inadvertently washing
phone numbers, first drafts and £10 notes
to lint.

Never take on anyone else’s fish.

Learn about cars
but also find a reliable garage
and join the RAC.

Buy cheap crap from China.

Own several pairs of trousers
and change them regularly.

Pre-heat the bathroom and
check towels before showering.

Own a Swiss Army Knife
or failing that
a smartphone with a compass app.

Grouchy is a respectable standpoint to work from.

Back up your stuff.

Perfect the appearance of being busy;
never be caught writing poems.

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

Vanity by Bill Allen


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Narcissistic
painintheartistic
Fabian Beaumont-Fforbes
formerly known
as Sid Pratt
is a swine
of a swain
to his plain Jane
Elaine.
He can’t pass
a looking-glass
without a preen,
carries a spare comb
and a spray of eau
de cologne
don’t you know.
Photos of fab
Fabian
adorn his bedroom
wall, and
Elaine admires
his abs and lats,
but wonders if this
urbane
bane of dames
has a brain.

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

The Artist Does Laundry by Pat Tompkins


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The artist mixes darks and lights
in a single load on washday,
although she knows that blacks and whites
will turn various tones of gray.

The cheap madras fabric bleeds
odd shades: a true creation.
The bargain red towel will lead
to pastel pink foundations.

Different colors each season:
a della robbia blue
gets muddied into titian.
The old wardrobe becomes new.

(Previously published in Still Point Quarterly)

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

Tackling the Issue by Helen Laycock


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‘Oh, please, God, not those jeans again!’ He’s got them on once more:
those baggy, beltless, ragged things that drag across the floor.

In minutes, they’ve obeyed the law of undisputed gravity,
and, as they creep towards the floor, they smack of rude depravity.

Not just a peek of buttock crack to all is now exposed,
but glorious, billowing, hairy cheeks, like dough buns juxtaposed.

Untroubled by malfunction, he potters as I watch,
his movements getting hindered by a slowly sinking crotch.

The other day he wandered in, his iPad a fixation;
his eyes were glued, his hands engaged . . . He stood in concentration.

Daughter, sweet, sat at my side, sharing time together –
that innocence of childhood, soon to be lost forever –

when suddenly a movement, quicker than a beat,
resulted in his trousers crumpling at his feet.

Startling was not the word – nay, we were traumatised,
for with the jeans had dropped his pants: AWOL, decentralised.

We squealed and covered up our eyes; his top half was intact,
but any shred of man attire his nethers sorely lacked.

He shuffled to the sofa with bondage round his ankles
to first put down the iPad before dealing with his dangles.

I waited ’til the sound of snores told me he was asleep
then felt through piles of clothing he’d left huddled in a heap.

I grasped them with a robber’s touch and slid them out with guile.
I felt the stringy, tattered hems. God, those jeans were vile.

I looked for a concealing place. Boy, was I in a fluster –
if hubby woke, that jeopardised ‘Operation Denim Duster’.

I rammed them in the wardrobe and pushed the door damn tight,
then schemed and plotted for their end. I tossed and turned all night.

The rumbles in the street outside reminded me ‘Bin Day’!
I forfeited my cleaning cloths and threw the jeans away.

He’s hunted for them ever since. I’ve repossessed composure.
The naked truth is hard to bear in full and stark exposure.

When life throws up the unexpected, Helen Laycock casts it in rhyme (much to the embarrassment of her Muse/husband). She writes serious poetry, too, as well as fiction. Details of her short stories and flash can be found here and information about her children’s books can be found here.

Straining Credulity by David O’Neill


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The morning after the night before,
I left my carapace on the floor
As instar five followed instar four—
No metamorphosis here.

As entomologists rightly state,
We exopterygotes thus gestate
And Kafka’s travesties truly grate
On every schoolboy’s ear.

David O’Neill is a frustrated mathematician who has journeyed through a predominantly life-science-based medical landscape for most of his mortgage-paying professional life, eventually finding salvation in the Open University, too close to the end for practical application but sufficiently early for peace of mind and poetic inspiration.

website

Bravissima by Sherri Turner


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I’ve never been blessed
with a bountiful chest
so to offer some zest
to my pitiful breast
today I got dressed
in a garment that pressed
on each fleshy crest
till they both pointed west.
It made a nice nest
on which someone could rest
but I still worried lest
the result of my quest
was an increase in jest
when I sadly confessed.

So I gave up the test
and went back to my vest.

Sherri Turner lives in Surrey. She has had numerous short stories published in women’s magazines and has won prizes for both poetry and short stories. She likes to write silly poems when she feels in danger of forgetting that this is supposed to be fun.

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Hyperbolic Wishes by Sarah Watkinson


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And you, have an amazing weekend too
be stunned as your three-storey extension cracks and falls
shedding that primrose render from its breeze-block walls;
watch the four horsemen churn your stripy lawn
and your yelling kids launch into space from their trampoline.

I hope it’s truly fabulous for you
with lots of harpies at your barbecue,
a whopping leviathan in your swimming pool,
dragons to drop in, turn your burgers black
and incinerate your Range Rover Evoque.

Sarah Watkinson is a lifelong scientist and new poet. Her work has recently been published in magazines including Antiphon, Clear Poetry, Ink Sweat and Tears, Pennine Platform, The Rialto, The Stare’s Nest and Well Versed, and has won several prizes in open competitions.

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