The Night He Cheats – by Jennifer Ruth Jackson

 

She walks trenches into the floor
Polished, three inches deep
A dry river flowing her between rooms
Vinyl rasps from the bedroom as the needle
Skips, skips, skips
The death rattle after a single melody
On an old 45 RPM record
His well-oiled .22 Luger balances out
A cigarette hemorrhaging ash
Filter pressed to a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red
Wearing mauve lipstick around the rim

 

 

 

Jennifer Ruth Jackson is an award-winning poet and fiction writer whose work has appeared in Red Earth Review, Banshee, and more. She runs a blog for disabled and/or neurodivergent writers called The Handy, Uncapped Pen from an apartment she shares with her husband. Follow her on Twitter @jenruthjackson

Most Determined Daughter – by Gareth Writer-Davies

after Vicki Feaver

 

we have been stirring the paint for some time
now we have the shade

Pink Moon
whitewash darkened with a little blood

my most determined daughter chastises
the thirsty new plaster

twisting the hard brush into corners like a finger into a wound
whilst I follow with the smoothing roller

edging her thick more definite coat
“more blood” she says

circling the pot
I nod and we stir the pigment until we reach a new colour

I name Flesh
& she names Pig Headed Jasmine On A Stick

 

 

 

Gareth Writer-Davies is from Brecon, Wales. Shortlisted for the Bridport Prize (2014 and 2017), the Erbacce Prize (2014) and Prole Laureate for 2017. Bodies published in 2015 by Indigo Dreams and Cry Baby in 2017. His collection The Lover’s Pinch (Arenig Press) was published June, 2018. He is a Hawthornden Fellow for 2019.

A Solarised Portrait of Lee Miller – by George Beddow

 

Cowed by a single hare… 
’tis pity she’s some common medlar!  

A mock sun yawns 
then sinks 
its yellowing teeth 
into my neck 
of the woods.  

‘So this is solarisation?’  

Bloodied (but unbowed) 
a violin plays ~
sans fiddler.

 

 

 

The Bitter Lemons Of Nerval was published by Original Plus Chapbooks in 2016

On My Bookshelf – by Hannah Yerington

1.

The confused Jewish artists on my bookshelf:
confusing chutzpah for passion,
drinking themselves into a cloud of Manischewitz,
forgetting to call their mothers.

2.

The confused Jewish artists on my bookshelf:
accidentally painting crucifixes,
going to Zen retreats,
putting kippahs on sculptures of the Buddha.

3.

The confused Jewish artists on my bookshelf:
wrestling with angels,
having thumb wars with the Virgin Mary (and losing).

4.

The confused Jewish artists on my bookshelf:
arguing about diaspora,
yelling about Marxism,
moaning about Netanyahu.

5.

The confused Jewish artists on my bookshelf:
sticking cloves into oranges,
complaining about the weather,
slyly eating lobster in Montauk.

6.

The confused Jewish artists on my bookshelf:
talking about all the Nobel prizes they’ve won,
telling stories about getting drunk on their Birthright trip,
promising to never ever buy eggnog again.

7.

The confused Jewish artists on my bookshelf:
searching for old desks and family history,
visiting the graveyards for those afforded such luxury.

8.

The confused Jewish artists on my bookshelf:
rushing through their Passover Haggadot;
yelling at Elijah to hurry up already,
we don’t have all night;
slamming the door in his stupid prophet face.

 

 

 

Hannah writes about many things; primarily the space between Judaism and feminism, talking flowers, post-memory, and sometimes seals. Her work has been published in Werd, The Bolinas Hearsay, The Fem, and Bearings Online, among others.

Zero Hours – by Ben Banyard

 

We can get up at five
to pour your coffee.

Clean toilets at 3am
with ear buds for company.

Drive you home from the club
hoping you don’t puke.

Sit on lines making tortilla wraps
for your meal deal tomorrow.

Our kids see us sometimes
rub the sleep from their eyes.

On pay day every penny’s gone within hours
so we wait for the next.

Boss says You must report here at 7
so we can see if we’ll need you.

We have a set of rooms called home
where we might not live next month.

They say we should be happy in our work
and give us training, but we pay for the uniform.

 

 

 

Ben Banyard lives in Portishead, near Bristol. His debut pamphlet, Communing, and first full collection, We Are All Lucky, are published by Indigo Dreams. He blogs (sporadically) and posts mixtapes at https://benbanyard.wordpress.com

The Science of Love – by Stuart Sinclair

 

Moments are usually defined with respect
To a fixed reference point.
I WAS IN THE KITCHEN.
They deal with physical quantities as measured
At some distance from that reference point.
MY WIFE OF 30 YEARS WAS EMPTYING THE SHOPPING BAGS.
I WAS IN THE DOORWAY OF THE UTILITY ROOM.
HER BIRDWATCHING BINOCULARS
WERE HANGING ON A COAT HOOK.
For example, the moment of force acting on an object,
Often called torque
I COULDN’T SPEAK WITHOUT CRYING.
   ‘There are moments’
SUDDENLY REALISING HOW MUCH I LOVED HER.
   ‘Tenderness like a broken
   winged bird’
Is the product of the force and the distance
   ‘Wakes me from the dream
   Of the day,
   Gladness like a stifled sob
   Shakes me from sorrow.’
AFTER ALL THESE YEARS.
   ‘Shopping bags
   Specks of dust in sunlight.’
To the object (i.e., the reference point)
SO I JUST KISSED HER.
In principle, any physical quantity
Can be multiplied by distance
   A kiss
   Narrating itself
   Too sudden
To produce a moment.
   For words.

 

 

 

 

Stuart has read poetry for years, and now writes. He is fascinated by the way that modern science emerged from other ways of thinking. “The Science of Love” uses a definition of a moment from http://www.educationjournal.org and from Wikipedia.

My brother wants to shoot cats – by Roddy Williams

My brother wants to shoot cats

and send everyone back home
He rests both hands on his walking stick
He says That’s what I’d do

He’s built a computer in his shed
or so he said
My brother talks very loudly
so the cats can hear him coming
besides he’d have to manage
the gun and the stick
He wouldn’t want Benefits
hearing about that

I don’t say much to be honest
as it generates another
list of what he’d do

He wants to stop sex education
He says That’s what I’d do
He says that no one needs it
He had none in his school
They just taught him to hate cats
and to send everyone back home

That’s what they did

 

 

 

Born and raised in North Wales, Roddy Williams now lives in London. His poetry has appeared in ‘The Frogmore Papers’, ‘Magma’, ‘The Rialto’, ‘Envoi’, ‘Stand’ and other magazines. He’s had two plays performed in London and his first collection of poetry is due out this year, He is also a photographer, printmaker and painter.