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Acoustic rotherham The Word Pit Edited by Chris Bilton THE home of Rotherham verse 2 8

INTRO OUTRO.


99p Feeding Frenzy Horror


I could actually feel the wind-rush as the knuckles passed my face, the body they were attached to really meant business and was giving no quarter. I had washed up in the mêlée of so called Black Friday and leading up to a rather chequered weekend. The 99p shop had joined the feeding /selling frenzy and was selling off everything for 50p.


Like some flotsam I was jettisoned into the wild sea of heaving bodies. I’d only popped out to the 99p shop for a juice box (Vimto, or at a push dandelion and burdock) and a chunky Kit Kat. The owner of the knuckles was a lady of advanced years – 80 plus, easy – and did not take prisoners. I had inadvertently got between here and a giant bargain bag of soft Fruity Fruits. The old dear’s dentures moved around her mouth and shot out like some Alien film monster. I could understand the need for mushy sweets but not my face as the main course.   


Rolling along the fringes of the crowds I ‘swam’ towards the exit. Unfortunately more shrieking humans/vultures surged through the entrance in a blind rush for bargains. The shelves were being stripped bare, it was mob rule, everyone for themselves and damn the consequences. I could hardly believe my eyes. Shoppers were scrambling around with bags stuffed with cleaning products and toilet rolls; it was like some frenzied Supermarket Sweep, but without Dale Winton, (thank god for small mercies).  


Fights broke out in the DIY isle over some Polyfiller and tubes of super glue, the stuff was everywhere, it was like Everest the hard way, except for the wind, snow, massive psychological pressures, BBC documentary team, an Attenborough voice-over and the Yettis. Chris Bonnington could have made a push from base camp to the summit without oxygen in one go.  A youth tried to climb over the shelves to safety but got stuck by the black bin bags and those Little Trees air fresheners for cars, it was a horrendous sight, the kid hadn’t a chance.  At least the bin bags were handy to wrap the body in and the air fresheners kept the flies off him till closing time.    


I managed to scramble to the doors and collapsed on the pavement outside. From now on I’ll stick to buying my juice and Chunky Kit Kats at corner shops and garage forecourts, a lot safer.  


So Remember peeps, just say no to Black Friday, Cyber Monday, Puce Tuesday, Wazzy Wednesday, Purple Willie and yellow snow, but like the Man from Delmonte, always say yes to a frenzied attack of the WORD PIT!!!    


Chris Bilton



Yorkshire Writers' Newsletter
December 2014

 

Writing Yorkshire News
Writing Yorkshire are really pleased to welcome and introduce you all to poet Joe Kriss who has taken on the role as new Director for Writing Yorkshire. Many will know Joe from Wordlife, Opus and Now Then. He comes armed with a pen and a mic and has this to say: "I'm really excited to take this post having worked freelance for the organisation for six years. It's a great team and I'm looking forward to us working together to develop projects that have a real impact for writers of all ages across Yorkshire. We're in a difficult funding climate right now but I'm confident we can innovate as well as maintain what has been our core activity in recent years."
Keep a close eye on our newsletter, facebook and twitter feeds for details of the new paths that Joe will be helping us to open up for Yorkshire Writers. 



Song Writing Masterclass
This coming Saturday our very own Ray Hearne will be running a song-writing master-class. For beginners and experienced writers alike, this will be a master-class set to music. Please spread the word to any would-be songwriters and musicians out there:
Date: Saturday 6 December 2014 (10.30am-1.30pm)
Tutor: Ray Hearne
Venue: Bank Street Arts
Price: £18 for non-members, £13.50 for members
More info:


EVENTS, WORKSHOPS & COURSES

SHEFFIELD
New WEA Poetry Writing Course
Beginning to Write Poetry - A practical and supportive course to encourage and support you in writing poetry. Using a range of subjects you will have the opportunity to join in some fun writing exercises, reading activities and group discussion.
Fee: £71.50 for the 11 sessions but the fee is waived if people are on benefits
or are  an ' unwaged dependant'. It begins on Tuesday 13 January.
More info: Click here 










WRITING GROUP NEWS

Sheffield
New Writing Group
The Rewrite Group are looking for writers to join their new group. They are Interested in young adult fiction, tales on the Peter Pan years, the mid-life, quarter life crisis, growing up in special or interesting scenes.
The group will meet twice a month at 7:30pm, submitting anything they want to share at least a week ahead.  the group is hosted by a local writer in Meersbrook.
The meetings will also cover other aspects of the writing world such as how to get an agent, how to get published, run a successful blog, etc.
More info: ejalla@outlook.com  /  Tel: 07581099920

Writers in The Bath
Writers in The Bath, a large sumptuous feast of live literature held in the city centre every month. 
Meetings are held in the Bath Hotel, 66 Victoria Street, Sheffield S3 7QL on the second Tuesday of the month, at 7.30pm. There will be a charge of £4.
December 9th visiting poets will be Kim Moore, Noel Williams, and Linda Goulden.
More info: Henry Cornford -  henrycornford@outlook.com 




MAGAZINE NEWS

Popshot Magazine
Popshot Magazine is inviting submissions for their next issue, closing date 23rd January, 2015
Submit poems/short stories within the body of the email to submit@popshotpopshot.com and for more details on the sort of thing they are looking for visit their website: Click here 


YOUNG WRITERS
Sheffield, Rotherham and Doncaster Young Writers Groups are looking for new members (13s to 19s) to start in January! 

New writing workshops for young people aged 13-18 in Doncaster.
Interested in creativity, imagination, words, images and objects? Want to explore new starting points, develop ideas, tell stories, create characters and meet other young writers? Then come to The Point Community Arts Centre (16 South Parade, Doncaster),  on Thursdays:

We Meet up in the café area at 4.45. and share our writing between 5.00 - 7.00 pm. Workshops are free and refreshments are provided.
For more info contact SueShaw: s.shaw123shaw@btinternet.com 

And if you're in Sheffield or Rotherham ............
Are you aged 14 to 19? Then we have groups also starting in January for you as well! You don't have to think you're an amazing writer to join, you just need an interest in creative writing and having a go. The groups are very supportive, relaxed and informal and everyone is welcome. Workshops are generally once a fortnight, 5 to 7 or 5.30 to 7.30 with a munchies break in between  As well as writing workshops, we let groups know about other writing happenings like competitions, events and festivals. If you're interested or you know someone who is, say hello to Vicky: vicky@writingyorkshire.org
If you're too old for a group but want to know what's happening in Yorkshire for under 25s, drop Vicky a line too.
 


Competitions
Whacky Competition Entries Required
Carillon Magazine is looking for whacky or weird stories for their latest competition, some of which could be included in the latest anthology due out in the new year.
The deadline is Christmas 2014 and all profits go to charity.
More info here.
 


Writing Yorkshire  Website
If you'd like to find out more about the full range of services that Writing Yorkshire offer, including mentoring, writers advice sessions, and membership then click
here.





If you want to send us an item for inclusion please email it to: info@writingyorkshire.org with "Newsletter" in the subject line.
Writing Yorkshire provides information about writing events in the region, and run a variety of writing activities throughout the Yorkshire area. If you would like more information please email or ring Geoff on 0114 3830456 (answerphone, but we will ring you back).

Thanks to all who provided information posted here. We will always endeavour to make sure that the information included is accurate but apologies in advance for any errors or omissions which may occur, any corrections or suggestions will be welcomed.
We hope that you enjoy the newsletter.

Writing Yorkshire is a limited company incorporated in England and Wales under company no: 7475298.

For more information about all of our work, visit our website: www.writingyorkshire.org
Tweet us @Writingyorks or find us on Facebook

To be kept abreast of writing events and activities in the region or to let us know about events that you're running, please subscribe to our mailing list via the website, by emailing info@writingyorkshire.org or phone us on 0114 3830456 and leave a message.

 


Contact Details and information to:
Geoff Briggs - Office & Information Manager
Writing Yorkshire
Bank Street Arts, 32 - 40 Bank Street, Sheffield, S1 2DS.  
 
Phone: 0114 3830456. (Answer Machine)
Email:             info@writingyorkshire.org
Web:               
www.writingyorkshire.org
Twitter:      
@Writingyorks
or find us on Facebook:                                                                                              




 


Parish notices

WRITING GROUP NEWS

Sheffield
New Writing Group


The Rewrite Group are looking for writers to join their new group. They are Interested in young adult fiction, tales on the Peter Pan years, the mid-life, quarter life crisis, growing up in special or interesting scenes.
The group will meet twice a month at 7:30pm, submitting anything they want to share at least a week ahead.  the group is hosted by a local writer in Meersbrook.
The meetings will also cover other aspects of the writing world such as how to get an agent, how to get published, run a successful blog, etc.
More info: ejalla@outlook.com  /  Tel: 07581099920

Writers in The Bath
Writers in The Bath, a large sumptuous feast of live literature held in the city centre every month. 
Meetings are held in the Bath Hotel, 66 Victoria Street, Sheffield S3 7QL on the second Tuesday of the month, at 7.30pm. There will be a charge of £4.
December 9th visiting poets will be Kim Moore, Noel Williams, and Linda Goulden.
More info: Henry Cornford -  henrycornford@outlook.com 



MAGAZINE NEWS

Popshot Magazine


Popshot Magazine is inviting submissions for their next issue, closing date 23rd January, 2015
Submit poems/short stories within the body of the email to submit@popshotpopshot.com and for more details on the sort of thing they are looking for visit their website: Click here 


YOUNG WRITERS
Sheffield, Rotherham and Doncaster Young Writers Groups are looking for new members (13s to 19s) to start in January! 

New writing workshops for young people aged 13-18 in Doncaster.
Interested in creativity, imagination, words, images and objects? Want to explore new starting points, develop ideas, tell stories, create characters and meet other young writers? Then come to The Point Community Arts Centre (16 South Parade, Doncaster),  on Thursdays:

We Meet up in the café area at 4.45. and share our writing between 5.00 - 7.00 pm. Workshops are free and refreshments are provided.
For more info contact SueShaw: 
s.shaw123shaw@btinternet.com 

And if you're in Sheffield or Rotherham ............
Are you aged 14 to 19? Then we have groups also starting in January for you as well! You don't have to think you're an amazing writer to join, you just need an interest in creative writing and having a go. The groups are very supportive, relaxed and informal and everyone is welcome. Workshops are generally once a fortnight, 5 to 7 or 5.30 to 7.30 with a munchies break in between  As well as writing workshops, we let groups know about other writing happenings like competitions, events and festivals. If you're interested or you know someone
who is, say hello to Vicky: vicky@writingyorkshire.org
If you're too old for a group but want to know what's happening in Yorkshire for under 25s, drop Vicky a line too.


Competitions
Whacky Competition Entries Required
Carillon Magazine is looking for whacky or weird stories for their latest competition, some of which could be included in the latest anthology due out in the new year.
The deadline is Christmas 2014 and all profits go to charity.
More info here.
 


Writing Yorkshire  Website
If you'd like to find out more about the full range of services that Writing Yorkshire offer, including mentoring, writers advice sessions, and membership then click
here.


If you want to send us an item for inclusion please email it to: info@writingyorkshire.org with "Newsletter" in the subject line.


Writing Yorkshire provides information about writing events in the region, and run a variety of writing activities throughout the Yorkshire area. If you would like more information please email or ring Geoff on 0114 3830456 (answer phone, but we will ring you back).

Thanks to all who provided information posted here. We will always endeavour to make sure that the information included is accurate but apologies in advance for any errors or omissions which may occur, any corrections or suggestions will be welcomed.


We hope that you enjoy the newsletter.

Writing Yorkshire is a limited company incorporated in England and Wales under company no: 7475298.

For more information about all of our work, visit our website: www.writingyorkshire.org
Tweet us @Writingyorks or find us on Facebook

To be kept abreast of writing events and activities in the region or to let us know about events that you're running, please subscribe to our mailing list via the website, by emailing info@writingyorkshire.org or phone us on 0114 3830456 and leave a message.

 


Contact Details and information to:
Geoff Briggs - Office & Information Manager
Writing Yorkshire
Bank Street Arts, 32 - 40 Bank Street, Sheffield, S1 2DS.  

 
Phone:
0114 3830456. (Answer Machine)
Email:             info@writingyorkshire.org
Web:               www.writingyorkshire.org
Twitter:      
@Writingyorks


or find us on Facebook:                                                                                              

Life is words


I am the seed that grows inside
and gave that smile
you cannot hide
I am the life that you create
and stamped the memory
on that date
I am the pain you won’t forget
that gave the choice
you can’t regret
I am the one that must be fed
the only thought
that filled your head
I am the child that held your hand
and gaining strength
I learned to stand
I am the boy that walked along
who made the tune
to blend your song
I am the thought of troubled kind
once out of sight
was out of mind
I am the mirror of former man
with incites gained
for better plan
I am the father of my child
where life was new
and how I smiled
I am the broken messed up lad
was far too young
and all turned bad
I am the low and thoughtless one
with stretched out hand
when all was gone
I am the resurrected soul
with new objectives
and avoided toll
I am the reconstructed man
I’ve lived and loved
but strayed from plan
I am the father I am the dad
the life I chose
and for that I’m glad


© Darren Cleary  


Glass


Each new day we look out,
and our image stares right back,
yet the reflection never remains the same.
On a good day we smile back,
but there are times when the return is somewhat barbarous,
and thus we seek solace to the depths,
and await once more for the upsurge.
Where do we conjure up the contorted visions,
the projections to a false sense of purity
and provide ourselves such self hate.
Look carefully, look closely,
It’s only glass...
and the real image is internal


 © Darren Cleary  


Christmas lights


So when does bloody Christmas start?
what day does it kick in?
cos I’m looking round the houses
and my head, it’s in a spin


The lights have started showing
blocking up the grids
double what they were last year
but of course “they’re for the kids”


There’s flashing bloody everything
for all on high display
even dyslexic Dave the devil worshipper
has Satan on his sleigh


It’s become a competition
to fill their house with lights
to see who’s street is visible
from the moon at fucking night

 

I do not normally piss and moan
as Christmas makes me smile
but why they have to make their street
look like “Blackpool golden mile”


So please consider everyone
don’t run around and fret
it’s only just December
It’s not fucking Christmas yet


© Darren Cleary  


Dwindling minions


10 Project Managers
Working all in line
Manesh left the sinking ship
and then there were nine


9 Project Managers
hitting target dates
Fenton argued himself to death
and then there were eight


8 Project Managers
one had to cover Devon
Wardy said that’s way too far
and then there were seven


7 Project Managers
travelling taking pics
Dave went back to KFC
and then there were six


6 Project Managers
struggling to survive
Kev passed out on bathroom floor
and then there were five


5 Project Managers
covering Britain’s shore
James took a backward step
and then there were four


4 Project Mangers
working more or less for free
Liam went off to find Kashid
and then there were three


3 Project Managers
feeling rather blue
Shell fucked off to pastures green
and then there were two


© Darren Cleary

Who chooses the colour
to blend on our canvas
and knows that the shades are distinct.
How do we select the instrument,
that will blend with our unique melody,
and create the ultimate tune.
How can we pick out a single light
from a sky full of stars
and form a new constellation.
And when does the infatuation become an addiction


© Darren Cleary  

The Tardis

Kids all grown
There is something missing

Could it be yearning for those days?
Storeys from my girl of pupa, caterpillar, and butterfly.

But my little plum cheeks
Has now become that beautiful butterfly.

Could be the story’s of daring adventure from the little fella
6 foot tall and growing, but always will be my little fella.

Could it be those snuggles times
All safe under the quilt wide eyed and amazed

At the sight of Dumbledore and another Harry adventure.
Strange this house now small on the outside

Huge now on the inside, the endless empty space.
Perhaps this Tardis of mine can whisk us all away

To those secret places, those happy places.
Those places were we once went

Those places in our dreams and memory's
Once again to live

In our very own isle of content

Martin Hickman © October 2014

Apple in thi eye

Quart to 4 and a fight at the old school gates
All eyes on you and your nemesis strange,
How he was always twice your size, ring of screaming kids
Shouting easy, easy, easy.

All fetch ar kid
Al fetch mi fatha, tha know’s he’s cock of the estate
Al fetch ma fatha he,s cock of the world.

Walking home after 10 minutes of fame
Black eye and bleeding nose.
Your attention turned to the cold in your feet
The hole in your shoe lets the snow seep in.

Your mam screams at you when she sees thi coyte torn.
You can’t understand why she starts to cry.

Until your older, street wiser and realise the months it took
Thi old mam to save for thi ripped coyte.

Those days when she skipped meals to put a shirt on you
The clock comes full circle as you play skip a meal.

So your babes don’t go without
In an Austerity dreamland.

That can never overcome
The love of a parent.

For that apple in thi eye

© Martin Hickman©October 2014


The Pawn

He screams and shouts immigrant’s out
As he guzzles another large stout.

He’s a true Brit, a master of self deception
He rolls his last cig and boasts he is proud.

Piss soaked, Stretch jeans in his middle years
Poor health and a broken life
A nice little gift from a grateful nation.

But still he worships the ones at the top
They grin as he blames the ones at the bottom.

There grin gets wider, they are off the hook again
He is like a living relic from old Gin Lane.

They sucked the goodness out of him.
They snuffed out any hope in him.
They dimmed the light in his eyes.

The perfect citizen Pawn

©Martin Hickman October 2014




Begin

This is it, I must begin to see things for what they really are
Not for what I hoped they could be
A tree will shed it's leaves through autumn
A bird will resolve to fly south at the changing of a season
Every single one of God's creatures will seek shelter
Bedding down for the winter
I am no different

I must begin again, from where I left off
Lift every weakened limb
Pick up the scattered and broken pieces
Raise my hand to meet the page and write
This is how I begin again
It's all I know
I love and I hope and I strive
But maybe I'm wired up wrong
Maybe there is no real connection beyond what my heart desires
And my eyes are filled with a vacant stare
When I need my eyelids to close

I must begin again, like always
To attone for each mistake
Dissecting them individually
To make new attractions, loyalties and ties
And your decision to implode at the drop of a hat may rankle with my heart
As I place my scalpel nearer the bone
My mind is a corridor of chaos
A hallway of hurt
But I must begin

©
Greg J Muscroft Poet 2014



But I am passive aggressive
They are readily available
Even when I don't know what to say
I must learn what not to say
Like birds learn flying
I must learn when to speak and when to remain silent
In silence lies strength
But nonetheless my words are still the most powerful thing I possess
They have been known to inspire, on occasions
When I write them down
But do I write for you, or myself?

Often in speaking they have little effect
And I truly believe the phrase "foot in mouth" was invented solely for me
My words are more innocent than guilty
And like myself they have a tendency to be misunderstood
But I have to say they have a tenderness
An intelligence if you read between the lines
They speak to you in ways I cannot
They are fluent and precise

Happily they welcome the parchment
Fitting neatly in the spaces provided
There is more than enough ink
My pen is responsible for the writing of such words
But they were born deep within my heart
And I am nervous for your reply

....work In progress.....

© Greg J Muscroft Poet 2014

Lay Me Down

Lay me down to rest
For today I have toiled
Let me not become embroiled in conspiracy and hatred
I seek a clearer, more righteous path
Allow my feet to withstand the uneveness of the ground upon
which I stride
May my legs remain strong
May my eyes see the beauty
that you claim to possess
Let my hands raise a glass in celebration of the completion of our Lord's work
This could be a most beautiful world
If we learn to appreciate it
Love thy neighbour
As the good Lord loves and protects all living things

Be kind unto others
Recognise their suffering
Offer your services free of charge
No money can buy you a lifetime of happiness
Maybe not even a day
Pray, for those less fortunate
The starving, the despairing, the one's who are bravely fighting on
When they already know their fate
Welcome an outpouring of emotion
It doesn't make us any less strong
Long to hold, something, someone

Be a beacon of hope
Be her light that never goes out
Be the troth of water that quenches her thirst
Be a fountain of youth
Be all you can be and take nothing for granted
Those were the ideals over which we laboured
Take the spade from my hand
I'm a little tired from the digging
Remember the seeds we planted
They grew into more than pretty flowers
They were seeds of love
Where would we be without love

Come join me at my table
Break bread with me
Let's talk and laugh
And above all be true to each other
Maybe then, just maybe we can embark on a just and honest life

© Greg J Muscroft Poet 2014

Moving Day

It's moving day
All my possessions in boxes
Memories due for collection
When that big lorry finally comes
I've left you the carpet and the wallpaper and stuff like that
And I'll be sure to leave next door's cat
She used to love to wander in at breakfast at the smell of bacon
I've taken down the posters of 1 Direction
1 bloody Dimension if you ask me
But little Jessica swears by 'em
And as long as she's happy
Oh and I've left a little something in the fridge
A sandwich, I hope it's to your satisfaction

It's moving day
Everyone's so excited
But I can't help feeling a tad sombre
Spent a lot of good years here
Had a lot of laughs
So many memories

Work In Progress


© Greg J Muscroft Poet 2014

What Have You Done For Me Lately?

Just look at you standing there, staring back,
Expensive chain around your neck,
You must have done well for yourself
Now look at me
Struggling to rub two dimes together
Living out of a suitcase
Guess it's just a sign of the times

I begged and I pleaded for half your opportunities
To walk into a room and have everyone stop and stare
When I arrive no one seems to notice
They carry on with the conversation
And it's alien to me
And I'm asking the questions but getting the same reply
And I can't see beyond tomorrow
I have shed a bucket load of tears, I have had my moments of weakness and I have prayed
But these prayers have gone unanswered
So I ask you, what have you done for me lately?

What have you done to justify your inclusion and your position?
I put you on a pedestal
Gave you a status
You were of great importance, but you have singlehandedly destroyed any possible future
And it's not as if these hopes and dreams of mine were unattainable
Maybe I was a square peg in a round hole
A candle destined only to blow out
You were the sales person at the door
And I bought everything you were selling
But your product is tainted

Damaged goods
I wasn't asking you for riches
You were my only treasure
But what have you done for me lately?


© Greg J Muscroft Poet 2014


All The Things I Can't Explain

How can I explain the nature of child birth
Or the drowning of a forest
Or the colour of leaves in spring
How can I explain the Pyramids and the other wonders of this world
How can I breathe with the air so polluted

How can I stand by and watch him hurt you
While you fake a smile
How can I watch your zest for life slowly ebb away
How can I wish back the seconds and the minutes and the hours
How can I take back the hurtful words that I spoke in the heat of the moment

How can I justify my infidelity
When you were my one and only reason to breath
How can I father a child when I cannot control my own fate
How can I beg you to return now that you know the truth
Having seen it in my eyes
Salty tears upon my cheek

How can I explain the destructive force of man against nature
All cocky and brash
Or the head before heart approach
That never really worked for me
How can I explain away the wars and atrocities
And the blood red sky

How can I refuse to hear the music
Or the gentleness of the river
How can I close my ears to the sound of the hummingbird
How can I fall in love with your heart
When It's as black as the berries in the field
How can I reach for your hand knowing that you'll pull away
And you pull away

© Greg J Muscroft Poet 2014

CAROL ROBSON

After successful Edinburgh Fringe Carol Robson will be performing a one woman show at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern in London on February 3rd as part of LGBT History Month.

Link to publications: here


 Incubi


Life of constant bad thoughts
crawling around my mind
waiting to accommodate
my loss of control
why I fear my sleep time
that is never inhabited
with good dreams
only a constant
nightmare reality.

Struggling to stay awake
always losing the battle
despite the pills.
I try to grip reality.
Failure,
drifting away
into deep slumber
of mystical shrouds
swirling in the creeping
envelopment of darkness.

The demon surfaces
revisiting my body.
Dark red eyes piercing,
cauterising mind control
as he takes my soul
on his nightly inhabitation,
of pleasure, that I only know
in this orgiastic world
controlled by the Incubi.


© Carol Robson 2014



Born This Way.


The homophobes rally
governments and religions
cultures and societies
the elite
the ignoramus
and of course
the misanthropes.

Attacked by the homophobes
condemned by the abusers
priming the vulnerable
or do not accept
their own sexuality
yet continue
to live and pray
in their religious
patriarchal society
while wearing frocks
and a leader
with a penchant
for red shoes
who orders
don’t do as I do
but as I say
and they tell me
because I’m gay
that I’m destined
for eternal damnation.

Government’s corrupted
living with corruption
self-serving beliefs
lining their pockets
screwing the vulnerable.
I’m gay
and they reckon
I’m the one
who is “Bent”

Understanding
Acceptance
we are real
we won’t go away
we don’t corrupt
we are not a lifestyle
we were born this way.


© Carol Robson 2014


PERFORMANCE


How can this be, me
37 days, 16 performances
just finding me
poetic verbiage
of a life journey
serious and curious
sense of humour
a little bit of rumour.

From Manchester
to Edinburgh
via Buxton too
certainly hoping
I entertain you.

Take me as I am
as off on the road I’ll go,
certainly this is no sham
it’s a damn interesting show.

Just saying how it is
come see me take the floor,

stirred up words, with such a fizz
performed by the Media Whore.


©Carol Robson 2014

PIP Implant scandal: A Mess


PIP implant scandal,
did affect me.
Both were ruptured,
silicon ran free.
My health, fractured,
suffering and pain
which alas,
no one could explain.

Questions asked,
went higher and higher,
then they made you feel,
like a pariah.
It became newsworthy
helping the cause.
PIP campaign women
earned my applause.

Interviews given,
hearing many a story,
hoping they would help
not looking for glory.

Many women, still need advice and aid,
only a little, is coming their way.
Toxic implants as they degrade,
really must, be taken away.

This must never happen again
causing so much pain,
causing so much heartache,
from a company, that was a fake.

PIP implant scandal,
caused so much stress,
so never again,
should we suffer,
such a mess.


©Carol Robson 2014


Always Remembered


I could have never imagined
or even dreamed,
that this life
would turn out so!
Happiness and joy
can be measured
in wealth and riches,
of love and friendship
of family and friends.

Those who started
my amazing journey
with me,
many who joined it
along the way, sharing,
making my life richer
that led to fulfillment,
of a deeper happiness
in a time and place
that is my Nirvana.

Those who,
journeyed with me,
stayed with me,
supported me,
loved me
for being me.
Always remembered


©Carol Robson 2014


This love of mines un breakable,
My love for you is immense,
You'll find this love unshakable,
Maybe at times even make no sense, perhaps I myself may query,
Thinking it over, and over again,
Until my brain grows weary,
And I say stop, put down my pen,
Some things need no analysing, just leave them to know what's best,
If all then seems rather surprising, don't see it as some sort of test, accept this gift that I offer,

my gift of love, and know we are blessed


©C.M.TURNER

Season of mists and nibbled nuts!
 
Autumn litters with leaves, that to me resemble used paint palettes,
Flame trees now that once looked like Sycamore, Birch, Mountain Ash,
Misty Woods look like they're burning, but flameless as the sun sets,
Dull grey paths stained crimson with a trampled Rowan berry mash,
Such reds, mingled with gold, bronze, yet some greens linger still,
Buffed and shiny, brown conkers wink from a splitting spiky eye,
Sweet chestnuts partially nibbled by sated squirrels,they've had their fill,
Lacy fairy curtains, dripping from spiders webs, in air so still,
Winter will follow, maybe spread her mantle of snow,
But when a north wind blows with air enough to chill,
Even as we sleep, new life lays biding it's time below!
Frosty ferns on childhood windows in the fifties,
No central heating then to warm frigid underfoot Lino,
Get dressed in the glow of a coal fire, in your 'thriftys'
Wear  big brothers used coat to keep out the chill,
It did  me no harm, I can see the herringbone pattern still,
Slaring along silvery skiddy pavements, no fear then of going arse over tit!
Walking home to find her next doors scattered cinders,  from cold coal fire,
She ruined our slide silly cow, shit!
Now being older, and wiser,
To say you didn't fear slipping, would make you a liar!
 
 
©C.M.TURNER.   


I'm not mad


She throws her body against the floor

She doesn't care 

It's useless 

She doesn't need it any more 

This broken vessel 

This useless ship

Has traveled it's sea and now that's it


Her bones are shattered with fragmented mind

Piecing together parts and chunks of what used to be 

As she throws her body against the floor she has no use for it anymore 


It's parts don't work and she's hurting bad 

If this is what it takes - then I'm not mad 


It's okay to leave now because they just don't care 

Just eyes to judge you 

You 

Beyond repair


So she lets her blood flow out and her vitals stop 

She aims her finger towards the clock 

To leave one fatal , final message 

To use the time - for it's a blessing


©  Alex Bilton


Bus conversations 


I love to look at the people on busses 

Struggling with grades , jobs and divorces.

I love to imagine their secret life

As they buy their ticket and avoid my eyes


I am the girl that sits on the bus with the music too loud 

and who's wise not to trust 

As the old ladies move away and the men shuffle past

As try to tell myself that it will not last


But there's kids my age too here 

Struggling with love 

Rushing out homework 

Keeping their head held up


The guy at the back with his hair combed right over 

Who's struggling with fast cars and his significant other 

I imagine his Friday and how he cheated

And then how his wife had already beat him 


But the moms are the best with the young kids

Who tap on their iPhones 

Sending "kiss kiss"


I think it's the worst - this generation 

I'm part of it too , though that's not celebration 

There's now sitting and talking with strangers 

It's all too creepy and filled with the dangers 


Take us back to the time when busses 

Were chances of friends and accidental meet ups.


©  Alex Bilton 

The Anorexic


With an appetite for calcium

She bit her fingernails until they bled,

a cannibal in her dreams.


She loved to talk in graphic images,

Feeding off others creativity

With a veracious appetite as she sang her song:

Hop on board the Blubber Express.

Stopping at Heart Attack Avenue

Via Cholesterol Corner.

We empty at Bulimia Boulevard

so just keep walking towards

the light and the Angel cakes.


She dared not trust her motives

but moulded her white bread into

fashionable bones of self doubt to devour  later.


Forming food fads for the future?

They asked without a trace of irony

trying to explain the unexplained.

She ate herself into a matronly figure

through the mirror of a life style,

opaque with doubts and fear.


The idea never occurred

to her she was frenzy feeding on death

but managed, it none the less.

Hop on board the Blubber Express

Stopping at Heart Attack Avenue

via Cholesterol Corner.

Empty at Bulimia Boulevard

And just keep walking towards

the light and the Angel cakes.


©  Sally Slapcabage

Beaches and Cream


A bunker hid behind the generous figure of history,
and concrete coves unexpectedly appeared
on the cream skyline of my endgame, a voice
issues from its flesh, asking advice.


Additions made over centuries by world events
chase grains of sand along the beach,
make the wasteland expand by one granule
in this climate of expected emptiness.


Sovereignty reflects back from every angle,
but not free of its overwhelming structure.
Convention based on duty, made better
with skilful will power settles to apathy.


Faith trembles, failing to find the key
to unleash the flutter in slender veins of peace
now in a caring shade, has it happened again?
Will it happen again? It has happened again.


© Bunker J. Mentality

You can’t buy poverty

He looked at the cheese grater and wondered,
the tomato would never survive a dam good rubbing
on those sharp bits at the side, so.


He got the knife and cut it open and to his surprise
noted an image not unlike a politician, staring him eye to eye,
getting an agent was his first thought.


His chair hissed to its lowest level, as the agent slapped his brow.
If the pointy-heads in Whitehall get to know about this,
kiss good by to any thoughts of money and influential gad-a-bouts.


Wearing his nerve at a jaunty angle he set of to sit at the feet of fame and fortune with a tomato, just because he could. With an overriding sense of relief


He left it on top of the bus, how shallow is that?


© Aphelia Clenchman


THE WHITE BUS


by T. Rafiq


Call me ‘Ishmael’… but if that’s too much of a ‘mouthful’ then I also answer to ‘Charlie’ or ‘Mr. Darren’ if you’re my student loan officer.  And if you are, then I can assure you that I put that cheque in the post last week.  Please tell your bounty hunters to stop shooting at me!

 Being unemployed is no picnic at the best of times.  But my problems were compounded by the fact that I was unemployed in a strange alien land, a desolate wilderness where hope and mirth are stifled at birth buried and unmarked grave.  It was a desert of wretchedness referred to by the natives as ‘T’North!’


 Around here the long-term unemployed like me are not looked on charitably.  We are seen as only one step removed from degenerate gastropods, regarded with an equal measure of loathing and despair… just like a telesales agent.


 We are presumed to possess only rudimentary cognitive skills.  So on the rare occasions when we do find work we are entrusted with nothing but the most basic tasks, jobs that are grubby and humiliating with a high mortality rate… just like a telesales agent.


 Finding work that pays anything even close to a living wage, therefore, is a challenge to say the least.  The good news was that after months of scouring the situations vacant, I finally had myself an interview.  The bad news was that in order to get to it I had to catch the bus.

 I was at the city terminal early in the morning, sitting on a bench and breathing through my mouth to prevent the prevailing odour from inducing a fit of dry heaves.  You’d think by now that I’d be used to public transport and its associated aromas.  Indeed under normal circumstances I can hang around all day at a municipal interchange quite happily without the aid of a respirator.  However, there was something abnormal about the pong that lingered here on this particular morning, and my olfactory tolerances were pushed to their limits.

 I kept my sinuses firmly shut in a vain attempt to block it out, but this was a smell that did not need a nose to make its presence felt.  It seeped into my body through my very pores.  It was a foulness that would not take ‘no’ for an answer.  It polluted my brain, withered my heart and made me yearn for the sweet release of death… just like a telesales agent.


 I knew exactly where the smell was coming from, but I was too polite to say anything.  Instead I busied myself with my Sudoku puzzle and tried my best not to stare at the only other person in the terminal; an old man slouched on the row of benches across from me.  He on the other hand was staring at me quite intently, unnervingly so.  In fact I was quite sure he had not blinked his eyes from the moment I had entered the terminal.


 “You’m be waitin’ fer the Number 52.”


 I looked up, startled.  I wasn’t expecting to engage in conversation – or rather I was hoping not to.


 “Yes,” I said with a nervous smile.  “It should be here quite soon.”


 “And what makes ya think that?” the old man asked.


 “Because it says so in the timetable,” I replied, sheepishly holding up the leaflet I had picked up from the ticket counter.


 “And ya believe everything ya read in yer precious timetable, do ya boy?” the old man sneered.


 “Um, I suppose,” I answered.


 “Then yer a fool!” he barked, making me flinch.


 He stood up suddenly and I got my first proper look at him head to foot:


 What I saw was ruin in flesh and bone haunted by the echo of a soul long departed.  The body that remained was little more than a patchwork of rags and scars barely held in one piece under a varnish of grime, as if glued back together by some clumsy hand.  One look into his black glass marble eyes and I knew this was someone who had plunged to degradations much grottier than telesales… possibly even worse than – dare I say it – customer service!


 He still moved, he breathed, he spoke, he perceived.  Yet in his movements I detected nothing of the wholesome spark that energises life in the heart of a normal man.  His stiff and fitful motions hinted at a diabolical will outside of his own, just like a Pound Shop checkout operative.


 In his right hand he clutched a long metal implement with a sharp fluked point.  It wasn’t unusual to see people going tooled up around the bus station.  It could get quite dicey around here.  I myself had concealed about my person a sharpened crayon.  No hoodlum was going to get away with my bus pass without a painful doodling.


 But then I reconsidered that perhaps this implement served as an aid to mobility rather than, or perhaps in addition to a means of self defence.  I observed that where his left leg should have been there was affixed instead an old parking meter. I could hear the coins inside jangling as he made his way ponderously towards to me.


 It took him a while to hobble across the space, but I got the impression that this was more because he was taking time to size me up rather than being hampered by his disability.  At last he loomed over me, his stench closing in all around like a fog, and then he spoke.


 “So tell me, how d’ya reckon yer gonna pass that job interview?”


 “Well I was just…” I started to say.  “Hold on,” I peered at him with a mystified squint.  “How do you know I’m going to a job interview?”


 “That look in yer eye,” the old man muttered.  “I seen it before, long ago, every mornin’ when I looked in the mirror.  It’s the look of a last gasp of hope drownin’ in an ocean of shattered dreams.  It’s the look of a job seeker!”


 “You’re a job seeker too?” I said, my heart lifting with comradely warmth.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.  How long have you been looking for work?”


 “Fifty-two thousand years!” the old man bellowed.  “Give or take a fortnight.”


 “Yeah, I know what you mean,” I said with a wry chuckle.  “It seems like an age since I’ve known the feel of a healthy pay packet in my hand.”


 The old man glared at me in dour silence.


 I cleared my throat with a nervous cough.  “So, what line of work are you looking for?”


 The word that followed rose up from the depths of the old man’s belly from a place of darkness, hunger and hate:  “Revenge!” he snarled.


 “Oh,” I nodded politely.  “I’m after a bit of retail/clerical myself.  I just had my CV updated; brand new font and everything.  Do you like Helvetica?”


 The old man snatched away the piece of paper I had so carefully extracted from my cardboard folder.  He crushed it into a ball and threw it back in my face.


 “When was the last time ya looked an interview panel in the eye, boy?”


 “Actually this is my first proper interview,” I confessed.  “I’ve never managed to get past the candidate pre-screening until now.”


 “Well I’ve had more interviews than you’ve had tepid cup noodles, and I can tell ya now that none o’ yer fancy bits o’ paper are gunna save ya; not yer CV, not yer bus schedule, not yer level one audio typing certificate!  An interview panel is a beast without mercy.  Yous gots to

 have yer wit about ya.  Otherwise they’ll chew ya up and boil down yer bones to make jelly babies!”


 “I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said with an awkward smile.  “But what part of ‘T’North’ are you from exactly?  It’s just that I’m having a really hard time placing your accent.  You’re not from Lancashire, are you?” I gulped.


 “This is yer lucky day boy.”  The old man almost foamed at the mouth as he poked his pock dimpled nose into my face.


 “It is?” I whimpered, cringing away from his fusty breath.


 “Yer gonna pass that interview with so many flying colours they’ll be using ya for a flag in a Pride March parade, ‘cos I’m gonna help ya.”


 “You are?” I said with a sudden welling of emotion.  “That’s so uncommonly kind of you.  I don’t know what to say, except of course thank you.  Are you by any chance helping me because I remind you of yourself when I was your age?”


 “Bloody hell no!” the old man snorted.  “What d’ya think I wuz, some kind o’ dork?  No, I’m helping you because in order to qualify for mi allowance, I have to do at least five things a week to improve mi chances o’ gettin’ a job.  So far on mi list I’ve ticked off brooding, obsessing, delusions of godhood and harpoon practice.  If I help you, that’ll count as networking and I’ll have mi five.”


 “Oh well still, thank you anyway,” I said.  “I appreciate all the help I can get.”


 “Well then pull up yer breeches, ya moonfaced boneless fishcake,” the old man growled.  “’Cos I’m gonna make ya fit fer work even if it kills ya!”


 What followed was the most intense and nerve-racking interview preparation workshop I had ever known before or since.  The old man began by scavenging together some benches, rubbish bins and billboards from around the interchange so he could construct an assault course.  Then he made me traverse it while he barked questions at me and bombarded me with cans of pop from the vending machines to simulate actual interview conditions:


 “How fast can ya type?”


 “Sixty words per minute!”


 “Why did ya leave yer previous job?”


 “Temporary contract!”


 “What do ya consider yer best qualities?”


 “Punctuality and teamwork!”


 “What do you consider yer greatest weakness?”


 “Well, I’ve always felt that I could work on developing my…  Ow!  That can had pee in it!”


 Then there came the gruelling refreshment conundrum to test if I knew precisely to what extent it was appropriate to avail myself of an interviewer’s hospitality.  The old man placed three plastic cups before me and asked me to choose:


 “Coffee, tea or lemon squash?”


 I pondered intensely for many minutes before I answered.  “Um…. I think I’d like a nice cup of tea please.”


 I stretched my hand towards the middle cup, only to have my fingers rapped with the blunt end of the harpoon.


 “No,” the old man snapped.  “Ya never go fer the hot beverage!  Ya take one sip and blister yer tongue, how’re gonna answer their questions?”


 “Oh yes, of course,” I said clutching my sore knuckles.  “I wasn’t thinking.”


 “Ya better start thinking,” the old man rebuked.  “Otherwise yer gonna go home with no job and die a failure and get buried in a shoe box at the local landfill!  Now then, care for a biscuit?”


 I had skipped breakfast, so my hand shot out instinctively to the half empty packet the old man took out from his coat – but then I pulled back.


 “Um…. I feel like I should say no, because I don’t want to run the risk of spitting crumbs all over the interview panel’s faces…”


 “Ar yes, now yer usin’ yer peanut boy,” the old man nodded with approval.  “But before you turn down the nibbles think on this; these are no ordinary petrol station Garibaldis that the PA picked up on her way back from the nail bar.  These biscuits were made by the main interviewer’s very own grandmum.  She’s half blind with rickets and more cats in her house than a veterinary hospital during the great moggy plague Heckmondwike.  So what do ya do?  D’ya turn yer nose up at yer potential new boss’s beloved nan’s biccies?  Or do ya choke down those crumbs and cat hairs and start bringing home the pancetta like a real man?”


 I took a deep breath and plunged my hand into the packet.  But before I could take a bite, the old man grabbed my wrist.


 “No!”  His grip was painfully firm and he shook my whole arm until I dropped the biscuit.


 I looked at him bewildered.  “But you said…”


 “Not that biscuit,” he told me.


 He took another Garibaldi out of the packet and he proceeded to comb it through his beard before he presented it to me.

 “This one!”


 I balked at the sight of the flaky fruit speckled square entangled in brambly tufts of grey follicles and dusted with snowdrifts dandruff.

 “Come on lad,” the old man cajoled me.  “Yer gonna have to swallow much worse than this once ya actually become a minimum wage monkey; stuff that’ll make yer Sunday night cornflake and mayonnaise casserole look like a banquet.  Are ya a man?  Or are ya a tub o’ wussy flavoured Greek style yogurt?  Bite the biscuit damn you!”


 With my heartbeat racing, I took the Garibaldi from the old man’s hand.  I closed my eyes and sank my teeth into the biscuit.  I felt the split ends snap and tickle the tip of my tongue.  Fleas and other parasites I dared not envisage leapt onto my face and started feasting on the blood that was flushing into my cheeks as I desperately choked back the nausea rising in my gullet.  I chewed, my parched mouth providing no lubrication to make the morsel I had between my teeth any easier to slip down.


 “Now swallow,” the old man urged.


 I did as commanded, battling my gag reflex and in so doing I almost lost what tenuous grip I had on my senses.  My knees buckled beneath me, but as I swooned I felt a gnarled and bony hand catch me and set me back onto my feet.  I opened my eyes just in time to see a glimmer of pride flicker across my mentor’s face before it settled back into a stony scowl.


 “Ya did good lad,” he nodded with approval.  “Ya did very good.  Yer as ready as I can make ya.  Now get some rest, ‘cos soon yer gonna face the most brutal test of all; catchin’ the bus!”


 I had started the day feeling quite fresh and perky, not in the least bit drowsy.  The previous night I had cried myself to sleep from my crippling hunger pangs so I presumed I was quite well rested for my big day.  However, the old man’s workshop and stretched my mind and sinew up to their breaking points and it wasn’t long before I found myself drifting off into a deep if troubled doze.


 I dreamed I was a biscuit, a custard cream his time.  I was being dunked into a scalding hot cup of tea, not once or twice as recommended by the Royal College of Dunkologicial studies, but over and over and over again.  My creamy filling dissolved away and I broke in two.  I looked down and saw half my body plop and disintegrate in the milky maelstrom below.  There was a teaspoon right there next to the saucer; it was not too late to fish me out.  Yet no one lifted a finger to save me.  I was just a helpless little biscuit drowning in a cruel sea of Darjeeling.  Sweet mercy, why would no one help me?


 “Wake up boy; it’s here!”


 I blinked at the old man and gasped for air, my mind and my shirt still soggy from the teacup tempest of my nightmare.  “What’s here?”

 “What d’ya think?” he answered, his voice rasping with barely contained savagery.  “It’s the jitney o’ damnation, steered by none other than the base born son o’ Beelzebub himself, the beast that shut its doors on mi leg so many years ago and condemned me to a lifelong hop-along hell, just because I didn’t have exact change and I tried to pay for mi day saver ticket with a tenner.  It be the white bus… thar she parks!!!”

 I wondered if the old man and I were looking at the same thing.  All I saw was a dinky little single-decker with pale scuffed paintwork pulling up to the stopping bay.


 “Now arriving at stand A9, the Number 52 to the Withering Tights Industrial Estate,” the announcement resounded over the interchange loudspeaker.


 I could see the driver through the grime streaked windscreen.  He was a squat and chubby man with purple cheeks that ballooned out as if he was some kind giant toad.  To me he appeared quite innocuous; but evidently my venerable guru saw something much more malign in the watery yellow eyes that bulged beneath the soft peaked cap.


 “From Hell’s heart, I stab at thee!” the old man screamed as he flung his harpoon at the bus.


 The amphibious driver looked up from unscrewing the top from his thermos and regarded the metal pole sticking out of the radiator grill with a blink of astonishment.


 “Oi,” he declared with an aggravated croak.  “What are you playing at, you mentalist?”


 Boiling up into a frenzy of rage, the old man leapt onto the front of the vehicle.  “For hates sake, I spit my last breath mint at thee!” he hissed, emptying a little plastic tub of peppermints into this mouth and then spraying them all over the windscreen.


 “There’s no eating allowed on the bus,” the driver fumed.  “Don’t make me squirt you with the window washer!”


 “Ya want exact change?” the old man continued to shriek.  “I got yer exact change right here!”  And then he started kicking the fender with his parking meter leg, spilling twenty pence piece all over the interchange floor.


 Oh dear.  I should have known something like this was going to happen.  It never fails: each time I’m in a hurry to get somewhere, the person ahead of me in the queue for the bus always turns out to be a nutter.


 The stewards at the interchange eventually arrived on the scene and they prised the old man away from gnawing on the tyres.  They hauled him off still screaming to the manager’s office.  They sat him down in a beanbag in a darkened room for an hour.  Then they gave him half a can of value lager and a ham roll and sent him on his way.


 Although I was irked at the inconvenient timing of this senior citizen hissy fit, I wasn’t really that surprised – in fact part of me even sympathised.  Job hunting can take a brutal toll on a person’s self esteem and sanity.  The unrelenting grind of rejection can wear down even the most robust spirit, and not everyone has the fortitude to survive it and still remain in possession of all their original marbles.

 Fortunately, this is not something I myself will need to be worrying about for at least another six months, possibly more with potential for contract extensions.  I got the job!


 Of course all this fuss delayed the departure of the bus and I arrived late for my interview.  However, I explained the situation to the interview panel and they were very nice about it.  I was allowed to go ahead with my interview and despite my experiences at the interchange (or perhaps because of them) I completely forgot to be nervous.


 I am now working in an out of town call centre, and it is……….   Well, what else can I say?  It’s a living.


 While I still have your attention, I was wondering if I might ask you something.  Have you ever heard of the Alien Abductee’s Compensation Fund?  Trillions have been set aside for the victims of probe mishandling and you could be owed a huge cash payout on a no win, no fee basis.  If you could spare a moment to answer a few simple questions, I can fill out a form and set the ball rolling on your claim right now.


 No, wait, please don’t hang up…………


There are shadows now,
In all the places that once held light.
The day has grown,
Moved on,
And with the day, has gone,
All the solids that used to make sense.
This recent tide of change,
Was merciless upon its mission to,
Cut right down to the marrow,
Words like, direction,
And hope,
Ring hollow, like tapping a coin against the smooth rock of a cave,
Just bumbling and fumbling,
I'd like to know what happened to the day,
Where I was happy,
Before the ground was swept away,
I don't know what I'm searching for.
Going back is an option no more,
I got lost in in all the commotion,
Now i don't know which way is forward,
All guidance now a thing of the past.
I am
Reluctantly independent,
But at least im moving,
At last.


© Jazzimine Ruth Walton


Memories.
Embedded and embossed
Stitched into the pockets of my mind.
They creep up on me
Like demons waiting in the dark,
Perched,
Ready to pounce.
My eyes catch glimpses of,
Portals to the past , and yet again I am warped right back to you.
To that time that kind of made sense.
These sharp, stabbing pains,
And illusions of heartbreak,
Are my only temporary escape from limbo.
But I love them deep down ,
They are now my only way of ...
Keeping you
Though I know you are all ready gone.


© Jazzimine Ruth Walton


5 lines
 6 notes
 Millions of combinations
 Each sounding different
 Different length and different time, this one is mine
 
 It starts at A but never makes it to B
 It travels through C yet doesn't pass onto D
 E is for elephant, or for evolution?
 It's not the same, it's filled with pollution
 
 No instruments
 Just noise
 No real singers
 Just automated tuning
 No emotions
 Just sex and drugs but no rock and roll
 I wish they could see them, see them all
 
 The greats of the past who are no longer on the earth
 That created the foundations of music
 Only for it to be destroyed by this generation
 
 Beethoven, Mozart, god even Poulenc
 With his humour filled neoclassical pieces
 Now the only pieces we know are the remnants of what music used to be


©Lisha Hirst


I Never Realised


G,Am,D,G

One fine day, you came my way, then I knew...

One fine day, never grey, with only you...

Hold me tight through darkest night, don't leave me...

To morning light, all is right, just let us be...


Em,Am,D,G/G,Am,D,G

I never realized, to my surprise, that I love you...

I never realized, through torrents and lies, that I love you...


Easy to say, in every way, love is so true...

Easy to say, when you enter my day, no day is blue...

All of my fears, have disappeared, they're behind me...

when I was scared, unprepared, you helped me see...


I never realized, to my surprise, that I love you...

I never realized, through torrents and lies, that I love you...


Come what may, in my arms you'll lay, the things we do...

Come what may, let's just stay, amid the dew...

Feel the rain, no more pain, hear my plea...

You and I, beneath the sky, forever free


I never realized, to my surprise, that I love you...

I never realized, through torrents and lies, that I love you...


©Chris Matthews 1/12/14


Song for Christine...

C Am/ Em C


Travelling along a long and winding road, nobody knowed, that way we strode....

Searchin for piece of mind not the holy ghost, what I want most,  but I won't boast....


Seasons changin every day...              (Am Em)

Not change me No come what may...

Touch my hand let's go for a walk...

To have and to hold just let's talk


Paint me a picture, let's drink some wine, you make me feel fine...when you are mine...

Hold me close don't let go, let everyone know, get on with the show...


Seasons changin every day...              

Not change me No come what may...

Touch my hand let's go for a walk...

To have and to hold just let's talk


I won't leave you can't you see, we're meant to be, finally...

Out of sight not always inclined, then I did find, You'd not left my mind...


Seasons changin’ every day...

Not change me No come what may...

Touch my hand let's go for a walk...

To have and to hold just let's talk

Touch my hand let's go for a walk...

To have and to hold just let's talk


©Chris Matthews

Travelling long a long and winding road nobody knowed that way we strode....

Searchin for piece of mind not the holy ghost, what I want most,  but I won't boast....


Paint me a picture, let's drink some wine, you make me feel fine...when you are mine...

Hold me close don't let go, let everyone know, get on with the show...


Seasons changin every day...

Not change me come what may...

Touch my hand go for a walk...

To have and to hold let's just talk


Travelling long a long and winding road nobody knowed that way we strode....

Searchin for piece of mind not the holy ghost, what I want most,  but I won't boast....


Paint me a picture, let's drink some wine, you make me feel fine...when you are mine...

Hold me close don't let go, let everyone know, get on with the show…


©Chris Matthews

Man At The Door -

The man is at the door
He watches as I crawl on the floor
With a grin
I reach for yet another large gin
And drink until I feel no more

The man at the door
He approaches as I continue to crawl
But I can't give in
And turn to him with a grin
A grin of my endless sin

Not for me the place beyond the door
I'm not finished with this land
This land of gin and whores
Of pleasures yet to be tasted
As I crawl on the floor naked

And fucking wasted


©Jack Millard


The Woman Makes Me Feel -

The woman's gaze
As she looks upon my face
Holds me obediently in place
My breath caught deep
I long to hold her near

The woman's touch
As she draws me close
Fills me with lustful fear
To be so held
By a love I hold so dear

The woman's love
Takes all I am
It hits me deep
And makes me drive
To be a better man.

©Jack Millard

My Good Intention -

It has not escaped my attention
That I
When faced with noble intention
Would rather reach for
My Prick
And work myself with timely invention

I have heard it said
That I
Regularly confuse your attentions
With lustful degradations
That my prick
Should be kept in confined detention

Yet it has not escaped my attention
That you
With your regular flirtations
And un-marital suggestions
Need my prick
To relieve your vivid sexual frustrations

©Jack Millard

SHORT STORY BY  T. Rafiq GO HERE Never realized Recording 31.mp3