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THE APRIL WORD PIT
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THE APRIL WORD PIT
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Compile by : chris bilton
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Jazz Mags. A short story by Bradley Dredge.

As a schoolboy I remember one seminal moment (literally) that changes my outlook on the world of art. Verity Angstrom – the love of my life and a girl who could squirt Vimto through the gap in her tooth like no one I had ever met – invited me to her home for tea and a magazine swap. I had a full set of: What Glider Quarterly, Captive Pig breeding and Caravanning Couples Monthly from the 1950s, she had breasts and a sunny disposition; her dad had some interesting reading matter, heaven awaited.  

Verity’s parent’s front room looked like the lair of Dr No – all silver 1960s tubular furniture, a magnetic wooden chessboard stuck to the wall with carpets that carried on up to the ceiling. A pair of remote controlled curtains swished open as we walked into the room. The coffee table was a sumptuous mess of magazines. I dumped my collection on top of a split bag of liquorice allsorts making a second layer of rubble. Cashew nut shells crunched under foot as I tried to tip toe around a crushed Coke can.

I was led to believe her dad’s speciality were rather risqué copies of what he euphemistically called Jazz Mags. Not a Louise Armstrong in sight but scantily clad ‘what the butler saw’ types. From the coffee table rubble Verity pulled out a well thumbed copy of Health and Efficiency circa 1956. Apparently her mother did a photo tennis set for them, Verity refused to point her out. Instead she disappeared into an old trunk behind the Zebra striped sofa. Almost up to her feet, she pulled out a bunch of dog-eared papers. These turned out to be a priceless collection of French literature and images.

I turned out to be an adventurous experience. Grandes Horizon Tales’ was the first dusty one off the pile, followed by Mangeuses d’ Hommes, (Man-Eaters) and Les Agenouillees (The Kneeling Ones). The rest fell into various copies of euphemistically named Camellias, Cocottes and Tendresses, with an English translated copy of something called Les Bitches and Courtesans for the Connoisseur. These shimmering editions scuppered my interest in ‘What Glider’ and ‘Captive Pig breeding for ever I can tell you. I became a slavering soul for more raucous reading material. Suddenly the door swings open and in swanned Mrs Angstrom.   Blinking behind two perfect eyelids and a pair of breasts so full they were in danger of exploding.

‘Ha, Verity my dear,’ she wheezed with a red wine voice followed up by a Marlboro after shock,  ‘I see you’ve finally got a chap, a bit skinny but any port in a storm.’

Her aura surrounded me completely, my head spun in its socket, I tried not to stare at the ample bosoms. Sashaying over to me, she reminded me of an elongated Marilyn Munroe held together with silicone and silk. A gash for a mouth as hot as Hades loomed over me. Her mannerisms were like a magician with hankies, x-ray skinny hands flicking here there, everywhere. At that moment it seemed I was stretched out on the ‘me’ barbeque; I was the raw meat and Verity’s mother the hungry one breathing butane fire breath onto my virgin sausages.   

I was completely over come, right there, on the spot, if you get my drift. I made my excuses and decided I needed fresh air and a change of trousers. I never did go back but the thought of Verity’s mom was a good companion on many a barren night. Better than any copy of Health and Efficiency, I can tell you.  



Look out for Dave Attrill’s new publication, ‘Battenberg and Brain Damage’. Out on April 22nd  2013 on Amazon, Kindle and LuLu.com. Also hard copies available to buy when in attendance at literature events, and signed of course!

Dave (35 and from Totley Sheffield) a regular at ROMP and many a Sheffield poetry gig has put together this anthology, from 2010 to now. This is the world according to Dave. There’s something for everyone, the surreal, amusing musings, rhyming and free verse. Including: King Dinglebbery, Beware the Fagman and Concrete Fashion.

For more information please contact Dave on: dattrill39@hotmail.com or facebook.com/daveattrill3   



WORD PIT 1 GO HERE


THE WORD PIT 1 THE LISTINGS HOME PAGE

THE INTRO : OUTRO

Okay everyone, listen up. When North Korea drops the big one will you be ready? Is your pantry stocked with enough beans and powdered mashed potato to keep you going through the ‘Zombie Stage’ of the post apocalypse? (By the way, access to my bunker is via a 350 ft tunnel which terminates in a pair of six-ton blast doors, after all those beans and mashed potato the world outside will be protected. Have you enough solid fuel - coal, wood, barbeque bricks, furniture, granny - to keep the home fires burning and to throw at the undead when they come a knocking? Well if not you have my permission to panic, go on, it’s easy: hands in a claw shape, up against the face, mouth contorted in a rictus toothy grin, followed by the old banshee wail. Okay, you can stop now; the cats just run up the curtains and exuberantly marked its territory over Uncle Albert.


In the meantime I will be donning my North Korean leader (a high scorer on my ‘Twat-o-Meter’) Kim Jong-un wig, false body fat and playing my new computer game: Spoilt Fat Kid Apocalypse. Quick pass the the latest WORD PIT, I need some light relief.    

Chris


The WORD PITs wacky world of words. A compilation by Yodel Zambomba CDM. FPS. PIS. T.ake


The Homonym


Let's face it, English is weird. There is no egg in eggplant, nor ham in hamburger; neither apple nor pine in pineapple. English muffins weren't invented in England or French fries in France. Sweetmeats are sweeties while sweetbreads, which aren't sweet, are meat. We take English for granted. But if we explore its paradoxes, we find that quicksand can work slowly, boxing rings are square and a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a pig.


The bandage was wound around the wound.


The farm was used to produce produce.


The dump was so full that it had to refuse more refuse.


We must polish the Polish  furniture.


He could lead if he would get the lead out.


The soldier decided to desert his dessert in the desert.


Since there is no time like the present, he thought it was time to present the present.

A bass was painted on the head of the bass drum.


When shot at, the dove dove into the bushes.


I did not object to the object.


The insurance was invalid for the invalid.


There was a row among the oarsmen about how to row.


They were too close to the door to close it.


The buck does funny things when the does are present.


A seamstress and a sewer fell down into a sewer line.


To help with planting, the farmer taught his sow to sow.


The wind was too strong to wind the sail.


Upon seeing the tear in the painting I shed a tear.


I had to subject the subject to a series of tests.


How can I intimate this to my most intimate friend?


LIMERICKS. Compiled by Rhapsody Oslow .


The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
Records a young girl and her wrath
Ted’s to blame
He had all to gain
And poor Sylvia went quietly mad.


Michael Henchman got drunk at the fair
sold his wife without a care
she said good god
you are a sod
and the Casterbridge mayor went spare.


Ferdinand jumps ship in a storm
Into Miranda’s arms so warm
All the nymphs dance
At such a romance
Surprise is the Tempest‘s charm.


The Sibyl and Aeneas went to hell
Meeting the Hydra not looking well
Sibyl then said
Get back in bed
And what the dickens is that smell?


Brutus told his servant Lucius
Call Claudius or I’ll get furious   
get in my tent
and pay no rent
We can camp it up quite ludicrous.


Hemmingway wrote in more than a note
about an old man in a fishing boat
It was quite startling
When he caught a marlin
It was a miracle that he kept afloat.


Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest
Treasure Island’s just the best
Jim and John
Are long gone
Sand in the Vaseline, guess the rest


THE THINGS I MISS

I miss the way your face lights up the room, the way you always make me aware of your presence, the way you look for me always, the way you draw me in with your childlike giggles and innocent nature and I feel alive and no-one can touch us, not for a second, not for a single second.

I miss your size 2 shoes next to my much bigger size nines, I miss the lines, your words are so sweet and I believe each and every one and I read and re-read, I miss the way you hold my hand like it`s really all you want, just 2 be here, behind a closed door, a quiet room to escape the noise, a place to rest your weary head and halve the pain and worry you feel and you heal all mine all the time, only you know me in my truest sense.

I suspect you always will, you`re better than any pill any doctor could prescrible and when our hands and arms entwine like a plant that grows you will know that it is I that will plant the seeds of love, the seeds of change, and the frown on your face turns into a smile you just can`t lose and your heart starts to race like that of a child staying up for the late night film, It`s like you have the world and let me tell you my sweet, you do have this world, our world!, no telephone calls, it`s just me and you, happy hearts start to dance, a welcome toast to our romance, never ending and when the time is right I`ll go down on my knee and although we will be together, we will also live free.

© Greg J muscroft


WORD PIT 2 GO HERE


THE WORD PIT 2

SAME OLD ROAD SAME NEW DAY

Travelling this never-ageing avenue
Turns a revolving door round me, every day,
evening or night I pass it through

Downhill, it is another
Routine trip
Unto the realms of another
Hectic day of Sheffield life
That awaits me at the bottom end.

Uphill, it is a slowly
Dissolving amalgam
of kebab shops,
run-down public houses,
Posh chemists and
Tesco Expresses,
Each taking turns
to litter the landscape.

Downhill, a trip from one set
Of villainously glowering traffic lights
To the next, dreading that the slightest timing
Of your travel slows you forever
Within that forbidding stretch of red.

Uphill,
A two-part journey
of town, of trees and countryside
And an upmarket suburb on the sticks
That is the hidden third instalment

And looking back you only see once more
The road you started
Down this the corridor of concrete
And colourful new stone townhouses
You swear
Were never there
Last night

Uphill one final time
See those last few green gas lamps
Surviving sluggish regeneration
Behind new space-age illumination
Inflicting gargantuan lumps
of double-garaged glory
On everyone’s eyes
Scorching immortal rings
Around the relics that live on.

©Dave Attrill

A SELECTION OF POEMS FROM THE VERY TALENTED

DAVE ATTRILL

Radios

Speak to you with a crackling voice of voyeuristic hypnotism
Manipulative music, an all-around peeping tom
Penetrating your instincts
Stealing you away from all you thought was alive in your eyes
Setting all your priorities adrift
Across seas of isolation
Like those ghost ships sailing into
Swirling stormy mists of forget
To never come back till the songs’ last notes are sung
Or the last lunchtime headlines read

Or you could just turn the bloody thing off and go shopping instead

©Dave Attrill


WHEN THE PHONE RINGS

When the phone rings
Do not answer
Don’t take chances
On the chap with the parcel
He says has been waiting three weeks
Or that financial advisor from India called Steve
OR that bird at her office
Sat in jeans and short sleeves
Selling you fictitious mortgage relief
OR fiery doors-and-windows
salespeople
Layering onto your grief
Who if not to appease them
You’ll appear as the thief

Then, if you’re one of those pricks
Who keeps calling yourself
From your mobile that’s been left
On in your pocket
Do please ignore all the above.

©Dave Attrill


BLUE BELIEF

As you lay looking up, breathless
Sky becomes your bed sheet
Suffocating you with deep blue space
Silver-lined white clouds
Its sporadic holes for air
Appear unavailable through which to breath
The threatening golden ball
Frying your eyes
Sears with its suffocating heat
Yet trapped to your bed
This ever tangible flashbulb
Entices you away into the next life.
His eyes stretch to you from heaven
As stars hang like candles
Set in indicative shapes
But your own touch turns this
Switch suddenly to dim
Massive grey patches moving right in
Darken the fabrics
Seeping slowly in
The wetting air
wakes you up
As brutal reality
Stands you up
From the blistering bench you call your bed
And you realise you have to move on.

©Dave Attrill


RUNNING JUMPING LEAPING

Running! Jumping! Leaping!
The pathway my slave
Endure do my feet,
The force she perpetually inflicts
Jumping! Leaping! Diving!
Across stubborn concrete craters
So now used to me,
I’m longer forced to fall
Leaping! Diving! Sprinting!
Through pincer-like concrete stiles
The streets I leave behind
Into that wooden wilderness ahead
Diving! Sprinting! Running!
Gorse, stingers, brambles
Bury the floor beneath me
Long-legged trousers my sole protectors
Sprinting! Running! Jumping!
Getting my feet high
Over great wooden stairways
Of straggly roots, to the top there
Running! Jumping! Leaping!
Over the final gate
Downhill dodging every deadly pothole
Start it again, why don’t we all.
©Dave Attrill


CHAIR TODAY GONE TOMORROW

Good old chair of wood
Good and made of wood
Your shape has always stood
You apart from the rest
You passed every test
When upon you I stood
You took the might of my weight
On your sturdy legs, splayed
No wider than were made
To do by dextrous hands
Of your creators
Summoning your patience
And the purpose you land
Set deep in the sand
As stood on solid floors
You were built but to adore
Your shiny chocolate dark
Varnish soaked up
Scratch or mark
Come today though,
you’re sadly no more
Able to take such burden
Split straight down your
tattered old torso
Of treated pine tipped up on
Three legs out of four so
Two last suffering struts
Support only just
Your frail brittle back
Until it goes
SNAP
Good old chair of wood.
Good for fire wood.
©Dave Attrill


From Poetry to ScriptWriting by Bob Roberts

In my previous blog ‘Poetry And Film Production’ I wrote about adapting poetry into film for my short film ‘Ghost At The Window’. purveyorshttps://vimeo.com/60661783. The film has received some wonderful feedback from numerous people, poets, of film various others. This has inspired me to look at adapting more poetry, spoken word into moving image.

Recently I have been working on a scriptwriting module for my diploma in creative media production. This proved a good excuse to adapt one of my more narrative driven poems ‘The Temple’ into a film script, being as Ghost was a visual representation of the poem without dialogue rather than a scripted narrative.

I discovered then the differences between writing poetry and screen writing. In poetry metaphors and similes are often used to alliterate and to provide a certain artistic side to the written word. In screen writing this wouldn’t work as you’re setting out a visual description, how the viewer will perceive on screen action. Therefore converting my poem which contains actions but very little dialogue between the characters in the story, requires the action description of each scene to be very descriptive. Usually writing my poetry I start writing and just let it flow. Writing a script needs me to think how the watching viewer will see it, also how would a producer look at it, does it appear it would work on the big screen.

© Bob Roberts 2012


THINKING


I’ve been sitting here in this lacklustre light

thinking

Pour me a glass of that ale

You’ve been singing about

In a dusty old pot

An I’ll drink it

Then maybe tell you what I’ve been wishing

For all gods have been waiting

Even the Christian one

An it wouldn’t be the first time they said

What the hell is he thinking

 

Its not that I don’t care

Or I’m not your best friend

Its not that I don’t love you

Just that someone said something

I was foolish enough to listen

If I could write lyrics like Dylan

I could explain myself better

Then you’d know

What the hell I was thinking

 

Pour me a cup O’ coffee

Sober my thinking

Socialists are up in arms in protest

Whilst Tories screw us like bastards

On these streets homeless sing for a penny

Some seek their next fix

Yet all I thought about this morning

Will I learn lessons life’s taught me

There’s a pint with your name on it

At the Bridge inn

Where we’ll drink to this friendship

You’ll tell me what you’re thinking.

 

© Bob Roberts April 2013


COFFEE, BISCUITS AND A CHAT AT THE MUSIC DROP IN CENTRE?  WHY NOT!   25 WELLGATE

www.rotherhamartevents.com


OPTIMISM (FOR HELEN MORT)


At that point the sky cracked

You thought the thunder would break your house

Yet all it did was give a little shake

When you thought the clouds would engulf you

The rain would drown you

Out from behind the imposing hill

Came the rising sun

In the drenched ground

Seeds had been watered

Out came the flowers

To upturn your frown

An suddenly see

Nothing

Not yesterday’s sorrows

Could clip your wings

Nor break your spirit

Or stop you from being.


© Bob Roberts 2012


THE IMPRESSIVE MR ROBERTS

GREAT THANKS FOR YOUR CONTRIBUTIONS


FLOWERS FOR HIM


Her heart was big and her mind on point

She walked with strength in her stride

All eyes were on her,

Muffled whispers could be heard

The bouquet of flowers she carried did not carry her beauty

As she approached, her husband smiled

“Next time could you please wear clothes?”

© Dorraine Cooper-Rooney


RAINY DAY


I'm blue without you, it's pants without you.
A kinda rainy day in a dark satanic former Northern mill town.
Where everyday is Monday, but unlike the happy Mondays never happy.
I'm shut down like Sunday's were when said days were holy,
Thursday's were half day closing, now every days a closed day now.
Cos it's a kind a rainy day everyday now you're gone.
Mondays I want to shoot them down, just like the song.
But I need to shoot everyday down,
cos it's a kinda a rainy day everyday now you're gone.


© Tony Gooders Goodwin

THE PACIFIST


Love is like a flower

Its seed can grow on dirt

From corpses’ dusty garden

Its own green shoot can spurt.

Lay down your arms and weapons

Lie down for this:

There is a seed of Love created

In every pacifist.


© 2013 Cyndy Art



SHOULD I ?


Should I go on holiday

Or should I go to war?

Should I pack a nuclear bomb

Or a bikini for the lovely

Bikini Atoll sea-shore?

Across the sea

There are people like me

I want to meet and care for.

I want an end to all war.

Queen and Country I will not buy your weapons.

I will not kill or die for you.

God is my authority

And God says, ‘Thou shalt not kill!’


© 2013 Cyndy Art


ARRIVE DACHAU (DEATH)


In the final hour I shall come


And set the sun


Scattering at your heels


In those days


With no warning I shall come


Expect no long farewell


It shall be swift


Written September 1986

© By Dwaine Reads




BITE YOUR BOTTOM LIP


Bite your bottom lip
But not all the way through
That’s physical pain
It will heal overtime
What chance has he got ?

Thirty eight to one there all on him
Some he doesn’t even know
But they are joining in
Going along with it
He just wants them all
Just F**k off won’t yeh
I say just let him escape from it all
Do something else let him escape.


© By Dwaine Reads



WHEELBARROW MAN (inspired by chicken roundabout in Bungay)


Wheelbarrow Man trundles towards the Island
Ritual like
With Chuck Chuck to feed the abandoned
Only a handful remain due to a cowardly senseless cull
someone knows who did it….no answers yet

His double distance round trip clocks ten
In miles not minutes
He’s fit for his seventy plus years
His Hands and arms strain whilst he masters balance
with a firm grip on those handles

The tops of his Wellington boots quivers as he walks
Occasionally scrapping his heels
 its all routine now …Every step

There resettled in the middle of a roundabout
On an island on a roundabout
The smell of freedom to rome at will
Release the birds its feeding time

© Dwaine Reads


OUR CHOICE


With anger comes pain and decisions

frustration creates a twisted inner turmoil

decisions to make that cannot be a whim

choosing the right path, that is truly yours.


If you’re carried away on a tide of collective emotions

make sure you can swim in this sea of agitation

don’t just dip in to be with the others

for surely, if you are weakly led, you will drown.


Yet! You must stand against the oppressor

our leaders hand in hand with capitalism

trying their hardest to have us tethered

capitalist wage slaves, starvation, out on the streets.


Setbacks, cutbacks, the rod to break your back

highway robbery is back in fashion

the haves in masks feeding their greed

while our essentials spiral out of our reach.


Life is for living, not just existing

cannot afford to live, cannot afford to die

they are sucking us dry, bleeding our very souls

time to stand and not be broken.


Now actions to be decided and be committed

deeds and words spoken that cannot be undone

right choices – wrong choices that will be achieved

Yet! At the end of the day, these are our choices


© Carol Robson 2012


Lionel by © Carol Robson 2012

Hi there, yes I’m a lion and I’m called Lionel not a very original name is it?  Don’t know what my parents were thinking about – yet I was their pride and joy – well not exactly pride there was just me and my brother Seth.

Childhood was tough, god I’m called Lionel can you imagine the ribbing I got but our Seth was always there for me – it did help that he is a bit bigger and tougher than me, well not exactly a bit, a blooming lot actually, I reckon it was his liking for Wildebeest and Warthogs he was always the bit of a macho guy at cubs, testosterone all over the place, the ness’s loved it – me I’m so laid back I’m nearly in a coma.                                

One thing I did love at cubs was doing touch and chase with the other lion cubs – loved being caught at chase and all the other cubs rolling all over me.  At meal times mum and dad were always getting on to me ‘come on our Lionel eat up your wildebeest or warthog whatever, or you won’t be big strong like your brother’ actually I preferred impala.  I just wanted to go and have fun with the other cubs, took a while for the penny to drop why I wasn’t like our Seth sniffing around the ness’s all the time and showing of his prowess’s.

Like all lions I have a beautiful mane, actually mine is more of a Mohican, my friend Andre loves messing about with our manes – most other lions stay clear of him – I love him – always been my best friend – now he is my lover – yes! has penny dropped with you now?

I’m a gay lion out and proud, pride has an all new different meaning in my world – I live with name calling – sometimes shunned – laughed at, well more of a roared at and of course other animals laughingly say there goes that ‘Queen’ then run (cowardly hyenas) -  but love ascends all this and Andre does brings me impala.  Oh! by the way Mum and Dad and of course our Seth still love me no matter what.


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