Satan’s LinkedIn Status (Sponsored) by Stephen McNulty

Satan's LinkedIn Status (Sponsored)

Today
I wrote a letter
confessing all my sins.

I mean I omitted a few things
barely enough bloody ink
to address it to myself.

But the main things were included
Piers Morgan
capitalism
Dublin City traffic.

Licked it shut
stuck on
Spotify's Daily Meditation Playlist
and fed it to the flames.

Proceeded to cross my hooves
inhale the misdemeanors
exhale pure relaxation

wipe the slate clean
so to speak.

Then
crashed a car on the M50
chartered a flight to Rwanda
sponsored the FIFA World Cup.

Thanks Spotify
I've never been more #productive.

Stephen scribbles things whenever he is not forcing a member of the public into a CT scanner. His poems have appeared in A New Ulster Boyne Berries, Drawn to the Light, ROPES, Spilling Cocoa Over Martin Amis, Strukturriss and Vox Galvia.

 

Meet me at the toilet rolls, by Margaret Jennings

Meet me at the toilet rolls


I’m tired of meeting you at the toilet rolls
where we unravel the traffic of years
that dragged us here

At the toilet rolls we’ll have a tryst
arguing about petty things
a tryst without a kiss

Yes, buy a new comb
to slick back your persona
but remember there’s a man
changing light bulbs in the eaves
who is watching you

I will buy the toilet rolls
and later you will ask
if I bought new or used

As if I would do that to you

I’m tired of meeting you at the toilet rolls


is all

Margaret Jennings is a poet, novelist and short story writer. Her novel, ‘ The Worry List’, was longlisted in the Bridport first novel award. She has been published in anthologies such as ‘The Lighthouse’ and enjoys being part of the thriving literary world in Portsmouth. Margaret’s poetry book, ‘We Are The Lizards,’ is available from Dempsey and Windle.

 

Some of the Ones, by Kate Ennals

Some of The Ones
after La Figlia che Piange by T.S. Eliot

One was a news correspondent who when stocious
whispered sweet nothings in Russian and Polish.
Each word was a rasp full of Zeds and Gizzards.
His tongue used to flick like that of a lizard
clicking like a gun, whipping my neck
so, I let him escape and moved on to Rex.

To be honest, Rex was not his real name
I say so because the sex was a shame
He was very attentive but had three little pinkies
and his finger work was not very kinky
I tried to use mine to work some magic
but nothing happened. It was tragic.

My first true love was away with the fairies
a fatal attraction for a naive young lady
He sang in a band, was charmingly late
had chocolate brown eyes, but refused to say
in words or ‘lots’ how much he adored me
so, finally, I left him and went to university.

There, I met a rigid boy whose body was agile
who had thick eyebrows and the sunniest smile.
He studied the Norman, Saxon, and Viking wars
And we too, were duplicitous with daggers and swords
Happily, in the end, I was victorious
but in my conquering, he grew less glorious.

As I got busy at work, I found my loves taken
in the office, snatched from other good women.
Their men loved my zest and liked to unzip
until one such man decided to flip.
Today, after 64 years of hard love and labour
I choose words of poetry over any lover.



Kate Ennals is a poet and writer and has published poems and short stories in a range of literary and on-line journals. She has published three poetry collections. You can find her blog at kateennals.com.



 

Boxes, by Rodney Wood

BOXES

I’ve found your secret Daddy.
What have you found son?
There is a room beneath the shed. It’s full of little wooden boxes of different sizes.
You won’t tell anyone will you son. I’ve only told the butcher and undertaker.
Why only them Daddy?
The butcher has promised to cut up my body and put away what should be in boxes. While the undertaker has promised to collect everything else, bones, flesh, skin and so on and have them put in a box labelled “Miscellaneous”.
I’ve lived my life being put in boxes, working in a box, living in a box, travelling in a box, dreaming of boxes. When I die I want to be buried in lots of little wooden boxes and not just the one to show that I’m an individual.
How long have you spent making little wooden boxes Daddy?
My life son, has been spent making little wooden boxes. I’ve made boxes for my toes, my false teeth, my heart, my ears, my eyes and well, you get the idea son.
When will you be finished Daddy?
Next Tuesday. After that I don’t know what I’ll do son.
Daddy, what if you're cremated?
 

Platform 7 – with Apologies to William Wordsworth, by Ben Macnair

Platform 7 - With Apologies to William Wordsworth

I wandered, lonely as a train spotter,
that floats on high over platforms and rolling stock,
when all at once I saw a crowd,
a host of train drivers,
beside the cafe, beneath the eaves,
and thought what a strange sight were these.

They spoke of the time it took to get from
London to Carlisle,
in their eyes a look of romance,
on their lips the hint of a smile.
Continuous as the track
that took them away,
and bought them back
They reminded me of Ivor The Engine,
and Jones the Steam,
as vivid in life as in any dream.

The platforms filled with a giddy dance,
of people with journeys, to jobs, families,
and maybe to some romance.
A train spotter could not join in the revelry,
for unlike everyone else, he could never be free.

The weak lemon drink, the out-of-focus photos of trains,
discussing the findings with strangers on the internet
and for some, that is enough.

 

Who Needs?, by Neil Windsor

Who Needs?

Who needs?
Not me for sure
Who needs?
Not inclined at all
Who needs?
Never in a million years
Who needs?
Christ , just give us a break!
Who needs?
Are you having a laugh?
Who needs another?
Yeah like there aren't enough already
Who needs?
Get a grip, life's too short
Who needs?
I've only just got rid of the last one
Who needs?
No one ,not now, not ever
Who needs?
If you do then let me know, 'cos I've got three under the bed.

Neil Windsor is a Writer of children’s short stories, Artist and Poet from Leeds who produces and performs all his work with an absolute passion and a slightly slanted off – kilter view of life.He also plays extremely bad left handed blues guitar.#neilwindsorart

 

Collage Machine, by Carla Scarano D’Antonio

Collage Machine

Before the sun is the sun
Inhale exhale
Shine bright

Stay play say
Name hard sharp
Cake lake

Today is your day
Make it happen
Join the human

Be wild be wild
Wonder the universe
The desolate melody of the spoons

The skylark voices
The kaleidoscope
Of the rock and roll

Carla Scarano D’Antonio obtained her MA in Creative Writing at Lancaster University and has published her creative work in magazines and reviews. She published two poetry collections, Negotiating Caponata(2020) and Workwear (2022). She was awarded a PhD on Margaret Atwood’s work at the University of Reading in April 2021.

http://www.carlascaranod.co.uk/

 

Frailty, Thy Name is Gertrude, by Jean Taylor

Frailty Thy Name is Gertrude

I always had the hots for Claudius
that man could turn a woman inside out
seduce her with a glance
blind her – just by placing
his bejewelled hand across her cheek.

But here’s the thing:
second sons do not deliver kingdoms.
I wedded Hamlet.

After our boy was born, that sour old git
chucked me like a worn-out jerkin.
‘Your place is with the ladies.’
‘Look to your son.’

Hamlet got what was coming to him –
splayed out below the apple trees
shrivelled like toad skin.
Can’t pretend I was heart-broken.

If I hadn’t gone along with Claudius,
Christ knows where I’d be now.
This way I’ve got my throne
and a king keeping me warm.

Young Hamlet’s time will come.

Right now he needs to man up,
get real, sort himself out,
stop mincing round Elsinore
like a dying corbie.

Jean Taylor from Edinburgh loves poetry and paper and folding poems into paper aeroplanes. Her poems have been published in a wide range of publications, anthologies and poetry websites.  

Her pamphlet Deliberate Sunlight was published by Black Agnes Press in 2019. 

 

Holiday Memory, by Pat Jourdan

Holiday Memory                          

From the coast road, springily square,
car-crammed, the family, bull-bumptious,
descends to the shore.
Aunt Maud mumbles a knuckle-Kyrie Eleison
of never-ending keeper-key prayers against rain.
Uncle Owen, bottle-party-bovate,
sets out drinks four-square
while Baby Ann, duck dummy
milkteeth-mine cry-baby,
spinach-spitting, sobs on the sand.
Cousin Willy two-times-tables the sandwiches
next to Father’s drum-duchy with his
spouse-special tobacco treasury
and orange-peel organisation.
Wearing her haberdashery-handy straw hat,
Mother, nightdress-nifty, certificate chatty,
sits Empress enigma on her silver strand,
despot-direct, drop-dwindle-feeding
the fidgety pastry-peckish children
as they bucket-bustle, sandcastle-building.

At Bank Holiday’s end
traipsing back to trunk-road Tuesdays,
the car’s hostage-houseful returns
to minute-book miseries and ashpan aspidistras
to wait, promising-proper, for the next
Jam-Jehovah all-allowed holiday
with a sand-scattered holdall-homecoming,
leaving the darkening beach
nightwatch-noble to the bow-legged breeze.


Pat Jourdan was writing poems even while at Liverpool College of Art. She has published five collections of poetry, the latest : Citizeness. Broadcast on BBC poetry Please, Radio Eireann, Radio Norfolk, Radio Suffolk. Latest poems in Orbis, Tears in the Fence and poetrycooperative.org.