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THE JUNE WORD PIT issue 4
Compiled by : chris bilton
THE JUNE WORD PIT ISSUE 4
COMPILED BY : CHRIS BILTON
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THIS IS THE WORD PIT NUMBER 4
Compiled  by : chris bilton
THIS IS THE WORD PIT NUMBER 4
COMPILED  BY : CHRIS BILTON

WHAT’S ON MUSIC AND SPOKEN WORD

FIND PAGES TO THE  MONTHS AHEAD

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WORD PIT 1 GO HERE


THE WORD PIT 1

WORD PIT 2 GO HERE


THE WORD PIT 2

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


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BOOK LAUNCH  22ND JUNE 2:00PM AT THE DROP IN CENTRE

INTRO-OUTRO

Shush a minute ... can you here that? ... No not the neighbour’s vigorous and very vocal lovemaking to the sound of the William Tell Overture (again), no not that, it’s more of a whirring sound... hear it?   I would hazard a guess we’re being bugged. Not that I’m bothered, GCHQ don’t have anything on me. Unless they picked up my tweet about Cameron’s face looking like well smacked arse drawn in felt tip pens on a balloon.


Hopefully no one read that thing about me and some mates stoning William Hague’s dad’s pop van On Effingham Street in ’62 and while he chased ‘em off I nicked all the dandelion and burdock pop and covered the steering wheel in handkerchief - very ready - fresh snot.   


Or did the KGB cop for my email about about Putin looking like a Top Shop mannequin, when he’s not being a gay icon stripped to the waist on horseback, or in waders with a massive rod in both hands. If so, it looks like the Gulag Archipelago for me, toot sweet. I can always tell ‘em I’ve got a fortnight booked in Skeggy this bank holiday, caravan, self catering, and seagulls pecking the roof. I might be let off on compassionate grounds.


There was that discussion the other day on Facebook about the EDL. The one where I happened to mention that I’m not one for eugenics or anything, but I’d love to be let loose with a machine gun mounted on Sikorsky Black hawk helicopter and mow a few of em down before they get a chance to breed again. Come to think about it, my computer screen did start to flicker a bit at that moment, but surely... not bugged.


I certainly was not the source of the rumours about President Obama’s concertina-like trousers and his exotic array of scalp disorders, no sireee, not me. And as for that thing about Hillary Clinton looking like she’s taking skincare tips from a sardine, well holy Monica Lewinsky, Batman, nothing to do with me guv! And I did not mock on MySpace that stubborn biological stains can be removed from frocks with fast acting Bill-Be-Gone.


I think the CIA is a wonderful institution with opportunities for the upwardly mobile ... strapped to a nuclear warhead and aimed at Syria. Guantanamo Bay? I’d have a fortnight there, bed, breakfast, snorkelling and water boarding, Sounds fun in the sun, and, anyway, I look hot in orange overalls.  


Surveillance can keep us on our toes, unless of course you’ve been kneecapped or had your hamstrings snipped by the Real IRA (as opposed to the slightly unreal one that does sandwiches and trifles for weddings, Bar Mitzvahs or small family gatherings). But then I wouldn’t dream of calling them anything other than Freedom Fighters. And good old Gerry Adams, a broth of a boy to be sure, to be sure, with his blarney Irish crac, begorrah, to be sure. Although I must admit his mate, Martin McGuinness, looks remarkably like a clown without the makeup on. Get stuffed INTERPOL if you’re listening.  


and on that encouraging note – before the dark shadow appears at my door wielding a one way ticket to oblivion - all I can say is look out for clicks on your phone and flickers in your knickers, you never know, the bony fingers of big brother might be havin’ a quick rummage in your drawers, the ones labelled: ‘clean pants mean a clean social conscience’. So here’s to next month’s economy looking like sunlit uplands, and please be careful out there, this edition of the WORD PIT may contain nuts.


© Chris Bilton


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Next Please

By City Circle Cyril.


Stop reading this and look up into the corner of your room, go on, any corner….now what’s so interesting up there…anything? Nothing to keep your attention I’ll bet.


Yesterday I went to a bus station and inquired about travel times and bus passes. I explained to the lady behind the counter what I wanted. After exactly two minutes I could see her eyes glaze over and wander towards the ceiling, amongst the cobwebs and peeling paint.


She showed me the front cover of a leaflet.


“You need one of these” she said.  


The leaflet was waved regally towards a rack with reams of similar shaped leaflets and then it disappeared back under the counter. Her eyes went to the ceiling again and the shutters on her mind came down. It was like a notice had suddenly been pinned to her forehead saying “Times Up, Next please.” The disquieting power emitted from her position - the floor seemed higher on her side - suggesting at my guilt, quite what of I had yet to uncover.


I looked over my shoulder expecting a queue of impatient travellers, but no, there was just me, a desk, an information lady and something fascinating up on the ceiling. I had asked for information on a specific bus journey not theoretical physics or where she keeps her pet spider. Maybe I had asked too many questions, or perhaps not enough in my two minutes at the table of the all-knowing information desk oracle.


‘I’m here for information, what’s your excuse.’ I was dying to say, my habit of thinking barbed replies kicked into first gear. It was unreal, perhaps I’d inadvertently stepped into a cosmic wormhole, soon to view the experience from above in an iridescent glowing solarised negative light, like a very early Doctor Who episode indicating what it’s like when the ‘A bomb’ goes off. Anyway, back at ground zero, maybe she was having some sort of mental ‘episode,’ in that case it would have been nice to have played a minor role in the ‘obtaining travel information’ episode. But no, I’m being too generous, she was just downright rude, intent on humiliating some scummy toe-rag who couldn’t afford a car, travelled by bus and probably beat his wife, wore string vests and spent his  dole money on booze, drugs, Molotov cocktails, prostitutes and pizzas. (How insulting can you get? I do not eat pizzas...)


I dislike stereotyping people, so let’s just call her a Nazi and be done with it. She was the reincarnated Gestapo agent to my resistance fighter. She knew where to punch so no marks were made; the psychological bruising was intense. I resisted putting on a German accent when asking, mischievously:

‘Thanks, and when’s the next bus strike?’  


Not very barbed I know but, heck, I wasn’t risking being flayed alive by her gimlet empty eyed stare, maybe next week I’ll ask her for a deep fried Pizza with extra mars bar.


© City Circle Cyril

WORD PIT 3 GO HERE


WORD PIT 3

THE SAVIOR


For I am a silent wanderer and I may be yours

but I also belong to the whispering wind

the echo down lonely mountains

the tune of the lark at his morning call.


However small I may have been here,

I`m so much bigger now I surround

and cover you all with a blanket of love.

take my hand, take it and we`ll fold

away the stars like freshly washed sheets.

For this night is icy cold and blackest dark

the moon has but one eye open

one tiny glimmer of light

goodnight sleep tight dear souls

little shoals swim safe.


Big bears in caves hold each other close

and tiger cubs wrap themselves around

their ma and pa with pride,

I lied when I said I wasn`t

proud of this place

this gentle reservoir of hope.


this plot I call my home

this beautiful garden where I grow

my fruit and plant my seeds

and plan for the next day and the next

If I`m lucky it will stand after I`ve gone

when I meet my maker.


Keep her safe

love is peace, love is here

any tear we should let fall let be a tear of joy

laugh out loud, be kind unto each

other and kindness will slide

itself inside your hopeful hand

and you will understand

just how and why I came.


© Greg J Muscroft


Tango Fires


I gaze into your hungry soul

Deathly pale, but fire red with lust

to the ferryman I will pay the toll

for to have you....I MUST!!!!

My white body is stark against the rock

while you reach out greedily

Waves of passion around us crash

Whilst the winds of ecstasy binds us together

The storm of excitement builds into a frenzy

Akin to a burning inferno;

Tango fires evoke desires,

Meteoric rise to flames of passion.

His soft warm kiss does send me into a paradise bliss

Warm and tender, to his touch I surrender

To feel his chemistry at the centre of my polarity

I move to his beckoning call and...

I fall to be his one and all


BJ Wilson


Cross Stressing.

A short story by Bradley Dredge.


Jon’s a transvestite and a painter and decorator. Not two phrases you often hear together. I’ve known him since art school, didn’t have a clue about his other life until he called around one day to give my bedroom ceiling a splattering of eggshell. I caught a glimpse of something frilly underneath his baggy white overalls.


That year, I and the two kids, Jill my wife and mother-in-law Madge, went to Blackpool for the weekend to see the lights. We met Jon on the sea front with some of his friends. They were absolutely blue with the cold but defiantly wore flimsy skirts and clung desperately to floppy hats. ‘Dad, why has that lady got a moustache?’ said Kevin, my seven year old. Kids, you’ve got to love em, nothing slips under their honesty radar.


Later in the day I and Jill left the kids with mother. They disappeared inside neon flashing building with a bag full of loose change like cash-cows to the slaughter. It’s easy to get snobby about popular culture, but let’s face it, who hasn’t sat their kids down in front of some trashy TV show, or taken them to those wacky warehouses just to get an hour’s peace and quiet. Anyway, Pavarotti wasn’t on at the Winter Gardens that week so the slots would have to do.


Jill and I headed off to Lucy’s bar. Jon had insisted we meet him there for a pint and a natter. It’s not a place I would go on my own but Jill went with me for moral support. Being a well known tranny and gay bar, I knew Jon would defend my honour if things got too close and personal and Jill would give them a playful slap.  The cuboid bouncer smiled - he truly was Genghis Khan in a fur coat - gave us both the once over and we walked through the tinsel curtains and into the reassuring smell of Brute.


A chap called Ivor was at the electric organ in one corner playing Spanish pop music and telling risqué jokes. We snaked through the crowds to the bar. Surrounded by flicking pink boas, smacking red lips and drunken laughter, I ordered a pint of bitter and a half of larger. Jon waved us over; he was sat at the back with two friends.


‘It’s not always this flowery’, said Jon, ‘it’s someone’s birthday, so, well any excuse to get the frocks on’.


Waving his hands around like a magician with hankies, Jon introduced his friends. To his left was Paul, pneumatic and blinking behind two perfectly mascarad eyelids, he was the owner of breasts so full; they were in danger of exploding. On the right was Andrew, slim, v-neck black tee-shirt tucked into blue jeans with heavy buckled belt, and a tight pinstripe jacket. He had a thousand mile stare that burned into me like the nose of that neon clown hanging from the Golden Mile. It made me feel quite uncomfortable, until my second pint and whisky chaser, after that I couldn’t t have cared less.


Ivor trilled from the corner from his organ:


“‘Have you seen the prices of thongs today? £35 for something that fits into your bottom, barefaced cheek if you ask me…I know it’s a niche market but thongs aren’t what they’re cracked up to be... I’ve just read the bottom has dropped out of the thong market for women but are very much the pants of choice for the man-about-town...,’ he obviously had a bee in his bonnet about thongs.


A few pints later and I was deep in a hazy alcoholic conversation with Andrew:


‘…and those Pilipino lady-boy thingies, hic! Some are a bit borderline, but bloody hell mate, some are amazing, but they are blokes when all said and done and if it fills a gap in their life, then good for them, hic!


‘I’ve never felt the need to dress in other women’s clothes,’ said a deadpan Andrew, ‘just my own.’


‘Me neither,’ said I, ‘except perhaps something figure-hugging in silk or satin, just on the knee to show off the calves, ‘hahah!’ I laughed, thinking it was the funniest thing anyone had ever said.


With a gimlet stare Andrew continued:


‘backless maybe, with a plunging backline, you’d need a black diamante choker to draw attention away from your beard, some pink espadrilles with a matching clutch bag would be a nice.’


‘Yea, spot on mate, spot on!’ I slurred.


Having a sense of irony is all well and good, but if the recipient has no idea of the concept, then the joke falls on deaf ears. And so the conversation went on, me awash with beer and presumed irony and Andrew staring for Britain.


The next morning I awoke with a tongue unravelling like flypaper into the back of my head and through my ears. Jill informed me I had got on so well with Andrew he had booked me to appear in his next extravaganza, ‘Beards, Boas and the Naked Brit. She told me he was a talent scout for the ‘Ladyboys of Bangkok British Tour’ and needed a novelty act for the interval. My head swirled with visions of shaved legs and breast implants. Worst of all was the thought of having to read back copies of Marie Claire and listen to Shirley Bassey records. ‘I’m only joking!’ cackled Jill, ‘serves you right for taking to strange men,


’ Thanks!’ I mumbled and put my head in the pillow. I tried to think of rugby games and running the Pennine Way with a sack of nutty slack under each arm. Anything to kick start my masculinity.   


Wait a minute, black diamante choker with pink espadrilles? I think not. Leather sling backs with a croc inlay more like.


© Bradley Dredge

there is

one

memory 

i have

of fall

and a mustard

colored sweater.

 

i stepped 

out

the right

side of the car

and took in the 

dead field of of corn,

and the smell...

god that smell.

leaves were dwindling

and falling

and I fell with them.

 

I

 

changed my colour

and took my breath

within which

 

I

 

found the greatest

stretch

of life.

 

I turned to the left

found the lake,

and gently

sank in.

 

love fall

like winter

spring is, well spring

 

and summer just is.

 

my life

as a calendar

is predictable

and, 

full of half moons.

 

© Rob LaPray


"this way,

come this way"

she said.

 

I kicked the dirt

with my broken shoe

and said

"no

not yet."

 

"The meadow is waiting,

the birch trees are yellow,

the maples are rose,

and the cottonwoods

are shedding an early winter."

 

"You must come."

she said holding out her weathered hand.

 

I looked up and saw a sky

of anxious blue,

and placid white clouds

with a tenacious sun.

 

Looking down

I saw feet afraid

to stay ,

but knowing their ability,

and the courage

of the earth

to let them linger.

 

Looking around,

the grass,

tall,

the weeds,

staunch in position.

,

 

the trees,

larger,

the sky,

resplendently

wide,

omnipotent,

and the clouds,

an ever changing audience.

 

I looked back to the woman,

she still stood there

smiling

running her fingers

through her silver hair,

lit from behind by the sun,

a butterfly landed in

her crown

of tousled grey.

 

 

gentle,

restful,

she reached out

and said

"It's time, come"

 

I felt my feet begin to fall

forward,

one step after another,

she took my hand, and we walked

by a stream, with rocks, and twigs

 

"This is where I found you,

and this is where I bathed you."

 

She Paused;

 

Looked off to the right,

Then straight ahead

 

"Do you see that field there?"

 

"Yes"

 

"Each night I laid you to rest

on a blanket I made myself,

just for you,

it looked like a stained glass

window"

 

"and you, my child, were always the angel"

"In Spring Monarch Butterflies would come

and wake you,

you would chase them all day throughout

the field…you were such a silly child."

 

"Now you are growing, as am I, it is time to leave the meadow….Do you see that Oak over there?"

 

"Yes" I said "The one standing tall and old"

 

She laughed, "Tall yes…" her voice trailed off.

 

"My bed lies there and I need to sleep…perhaps for some time…the meadow is yours. tend it well, and tuck me into sleep each night….don't forget about the brook, the birch trees, the Maples and the Oaks….they always loved your visits.

 

as will i."

 

with peaceful

regret

i went to her,

lifted her into

my arms,

her frame

soft and light

as a sleeping bird,

 

I took her

to the oak,

pulled back

the mossy sheet

covered with

golden

leaves,

and tucked her in,

placed

forget me nots

upon her closed

eyes

and ran,

back to the field

to chase the

dancing monarchs

through

the swollen grass.

 

© Rob LaPray


AVAILABLE FROM THE DROP IN CENTRE


"Sing the Blues?"

I want to sing to someone just like Willie,
sing, "You were always on my mind!"
I may sound to you a little bit silly but please try not to be too unkind,
I want to sing about being satisfied by little things you've said and done,
... and how some nights I've been alone and cried,
remembering how we used to have fun,
Maybe you didn't love me quite as often as you should have,
but we could have been good together, we could have,
You warmed your ever cold feet on mine as warm as toast,
You were always on my mind even when we were apart,
I tried so hard to keep you satisfied, I gave you my all along with
My heart, but I can’t sing like Willie Nelson, sad I know but true,
I can sing like him who sang the blues, Jim Reeves who was
Always crooning about being blue, he had teardrops falling like rain,
as his old love letters burned one by one, he sang about losing
and trying in vain, his distant drums sounded far away then he was gone,
Our past life reminds me of a certain song, "My love is blind", I must leave
those years behind, was the future planned for us all along?
But still you are always on my mind,
fond memories of you in my mind,
Keeping me strong?


© Christine May Turner


This Green and Pleasant Land


Close his eyes, Paddy

Rip the medals from his chest,

Let death take the Englishman

And the devil take the rest.


My mind is numb I cannot speak

There’s a stale smell of fear,

Voices burst through my head

But I don’t want to hear.


His woman’s gentle sobs,

Their children’s anguished cry

But the English have to die.


© Terry Boyle


For I am a silent wanderer and I may be yours
but I also belong to the whispering wind
the echo down lonely mountains
the tune of the lark at his morning call.


However small I may have been here,

I`m so much bigger now I surround

and cover you all with a blanket of love.
take my hand, take it and we`ll fold

away the stars like freshly washed sheets.

 
For this night is icy cold and blackest dark
the moon has but one eye open
one tiny glimmer of light
goodnight sleep tight dear souls
little shoals swim safe.


Big bears in caves hold each other close
and tiger cubs wrap themselves around

their ma and pa with pride,
I lied when I said I wasn`t

proud of this place
this gentle reservoir of hope.


this plot I call my home
this beautiful garden where I grow

my fruit and plant my seeds
and plan for the next day and the next
If I`m lucky it will stand after I`ve gone
when I meet my maker.


Keep her safe
love is peace, love is here
any tear we should let fall let be a tear of joy
laugh out loud, be kind unto each

other and kindness will slide

itself inside your hopeful hand
and you will understand

just how and why I came.

© Greg J Muscroft


Cha cha cha


we don't sleep together we're just friends
That kinda Cha cha cha
To the beat of words
That sound like a slow lyric from a song
A cha cha cha
Between friends
And we dance to the rhythm of time
A kinda Cha cha cha.


© Tony Wolfie Gooders Goodwin


It’s good to Parp!


Sometimes when I eat baked beans

My tummy makes a din,

And then I feel the need to parp

Well it's better out than in!


My gran is quite a natural

She really has a flair,

She parp’s a sort of melody,

A note for every stair.


The stairs are like a mountain

To gran with her bad leg

So those who stand behind her

Have to wear a peg!


They can vary in their volume

From silent to quite loud,

My dad’s are off the Richter scale

Of this he is quite proud.


My mum thinks it's disgusting

To give our parp’s a voice,

But when you’ve had a fizzy drink

There really is no choice!


© Kathryn Whitehead



Ex-Industrial (a trailer)


Zoom in: near sunset in a town where everything’s ex-this,
ex-that, an artificial pond poured in to fill the gaps.
Just out of shot, your neighbour the ex-smoker smokes
behind the flats and feels ex-touches shivering down his back.


Interior: your ex-face in that photo on the shelf
is less than half the shadow of your former self.
Crowned with a plastic rose, the TV’s talking to itself.
A coat pools on the floor. Real shadows take the walls by stealth.


Zoom out: that man-made lake again. The fishermen
and geese have left, the sun slinks off towards the west.
The camera pans across the water, comes to rest -
and there: the sun beneath the surface holds its breath.


© Helen Mort


Mardy-bum Maud


Mardy-bum Maud

Is in the backyard

Stamping her feet

As red as a beet.

If you ask her ‘What’s up?’

She just says, ‘Shut up!’

She sticks out her tongue

She won’t tell you what’s wrong.


At the end of her tether

And wondering whether

Mum sends her to bed

Without being fed.

Maud shouts and screams

To let off steam

And in a heap

Falls fast asleep.

 

In her dreams, Maud meets a witch.

Who casts a spell that makes her itch.

She begs the witch to leave her be

The witch replies, ‘Fiddle-de-dee!                                                  

You will itch for evermore–

All over you’ll be red and sore

Your friends won’t care diddly-squat

They’ll use your spots for dot-to-dots.’                                                           


Maud quickly promised to behave

Never again would she rant and rave,

‘I’ll be a caring, smiling daughter,

And love my mum just like I ought to.’

From that day Maud was nice as pie,

Her mum never did know why

Her daughter went to bed all stressed

And turned into a nice Princess!


Later that year, Maud’s sister was born.

Not all good news, I feel I should warn

She grew up horrid, nasty and skinny.

Her name of course was Moaning Minnie!


© Kathryn Whitehead


Once Upon a Time II

I write this Letter,
At an age where I'm supposed to know better.
Where I'm supposed to be clever.
Where I'm supposed to be smart.
Intelligence dictates that for me to enjoy the gift of the future
My past is where I should start.
And I should ignore the present...
For now I am flowered with a Love
That’s been rooted in thorns.
Smiles no longer warm my soul,
But scorch my feet through a stride of hypocrisy,
And a laughter that pierces my ears like horns...
I rose to be a Liar.
Forgetting to stand up for what I believe in.
Meaning Morals and Values were no longer intriguing.
Faith, Was just not worth believing.
Yet I swore I was always doing right.
Success never left, she just succeeded in deceiving...
Miss Direction became Miss Leading.
Engaging me in a polygamy that centred on me cheating...
That told me Love should be shared,
So why from the ladies of the world,
My secret I was keeping.... ?
I never knew I needed to be shielding....
 
 
I write this letter,
at an age where I didn't know better.
I didn't comprehend weather.
Didn't realize that I was subject to the reign…
Predicating my sentence,
But not changing my story.
For the novelty of hypocrisy meant there was never sincerity in me saying "I’m Sorry"
Never good wishes in a wave,
Never comradery in an embrace,
For compassion had long drifted,
Chivalry had long been martyred,
And the blood of Love had been tie-dyed into religion.
Where for Respect, Sacrilege had been bartered...
Feelings became Colours.
Colours distinguished races.
Races raised racists.
Men of Love became sadists.
Spontaneity raised Rapists.
Premature deaths became the latest...
The basis:
Where envy breathed life into a generation,
And heart-felt comments were poisoned with a hatred painted by the greatest...
 
 
I write this letter,
To the Age where I hope things are better.
Where things are clearer.
Where Society remembers not how to smile
with a heart as Cold as a Sheffield December...
Because I remember…
All a little too well.
And I pray you don't drown in the search
To quench your thirst
For remedies to cleanse your heart and remove the hurt...
Ash to Ash
Dust to Dirt.
Understand Love,
Understand Worth,
For As I Write this letter,
I aim to show you to be earnest;
Targeting the good in people.
To take Shots to raise the bar!
Not just crowd it,
Crown it.
And the irony is I’m writing to myself…
For the ink of My Past leaks...
Onto the pages of my Future...
But not affecting My Present...
For the Gift that you are, My Son,
Is one treasure that I will never regret.
For who you are now,
Is who I was…
Once Upon a Time.

© Addie P. Abbott


At least I'll Have You


Laying next to you with your cheek against mine makes it all seem fine
and when the black cloud overhead resurfaces
and threatens to swallow me whole
at least I'll have you.
And if I get washed away on a tidal wave of emotion
or blown into the sky by a powerful hurricane
or I get sucked into the quicksand
I'll always have you.


If I lose my shoe before the end of the race
or I throw snake eyes or my pirate ship sinks
If my castle wall breaks and all my treasures are seized
rendering me penniless
If I'm out in the street with holes in the shoes on my feet
at least I'll have you.


And when my sugar don't smell too sweet
when I've burnt the toast and my coffee's gone cold
will I still have you to hold
when I'm writhing around in pain on a hospital bed
when I can't think for the thoughts in my head
when my body starts to drop like a lead balloon
will you come soon?


will you pick me up and dust me down?
put that smile back on my face
because in this tired and lonely place
where I lost my grace
I hope I have you


When I'm one blink away from shutting my eyes
When I've lost the element of surprise
When my hands go numb in the February frost
and it costs me my dignity to make amends
and when my see-saw bends and breaks
It takes a friend to lift my tired frame
and the game of life starts over


When they rub further salt into your already seeping wounds
and your deepest cuts take a lifetime to heal
and all their cruel words and jibes get through
At least I'll have you


When I burn my hands on the coffee cup of life
and the ink in my suicide note runs dry
and I can't even cry
when I'm hanging by a single thread
when I've sniffed all the glue
At least I'll have you.


© Greg Muscroft


Why do I care about my airs and graces?
Why do I laugh in all the wrong places?
Why do I push when I'm supposed to pull?
Why do words fail me?
Why can't I say what I mean or mean what I say?
Why can I only speak to you in music?
Because when the music plays I'm alright
but it won't last
and when she stops she becomes a part of the past.
She's just a part of my past.


Greg Muscroft



All acute algorithmic answers are assorted
borrowed by brain believes better be boasted
can't compute cold care consorted
don't delve deep due depth deported
every element ecstatically escorted
frequencies fall false forms feeling force fed
gravity gives gods grains good guidance
holla hearts home here he has highness
if irate I invest I invite it
jury's just judge jealous junkies jam jaundice
killing keen karma kings keeping knowledges kind kiss
live life's love lend lessons like lamps lit

make matter muse more magical music
never need normal natures new null notion
odds over options opportunists ocean
please pay penance provide poors pleaded portion
quietly question quality quickly quaff quests
rationalized reality rapes regards refreshed
Schrödinger’s system so shapes shall set
time to transform time to take that test
understanding unity undermines unrest
vanquish vile victories vanities vast vest
work weaving words where wisdoms wife waits
xenophobic Xmas Xeroxing X-rays
yawn you Yorkshireman youths yesterday's
zap zeal zealots zest zone zombies.


© Bouncing Numbers


Journey Of Life


I was lost in the sun
Perturbed by the fact
You weren’t there
Like you said


I wondered tho what fortune
This ever could bring
To chew on thoughts
Less important
Than is already
What is


Impertinence of impatience
Questions to have led many
Tumbling without answers
Over ragged cliffs

Thus to answer those questions
Life is what it is
So why implore the journey
Which takes us
Where we’re meant.


© Bob Roberts


The Narc


How do you find

Peace of mind

When you realise that

Your boyfriend is

A Narc?

It starts with the

Put downs;

The subtle and not so subtle put downs.

Was that put down a joke?

Maybe.

And the suggestions that

Two should be

Three.

No commitment.

Abuse of your

Mind

Body

Soul

The destruction of all three

His pleasure.

As the emotional abuse

Grows and flows

Into physical abuse

You wonder

How to find

Peace of mind

When you realise that

Your boyfriend is

A Narcissist.

Meditation?

Aromatherapy?

Counselling?

No

Just leave.


© Cyndy Art 2013


Turquoise Coast

Lycian hills sloping
into the valley
down to the sea.
Pine trees sloping
below their craggy tops
inhibiting the walks
through cone laden hillsides
carved and structured
through Anatolian history.

The sea gleams in light and dark shades
as the sun emerges over craggy hills
turning to burning on high noon
as I watch ants crave the shade
yet humans crave the burn!

Idyllic days in nature’s splendour
watching slingshot bodies
parasailing from upon high
joining lone paragliders
performing their aerobatics
descending in a ritual movement
across a blue backdrop
blemished by the odd
cotton-wool cloud.
Ever changing chute colours
criss-crossing the sun scorched bay
like a ballet devoid of music.

In good sense I sip a beer
in the shade of a waterfront bar
watching the Gulets leaving
on their Island cruises
young and old sailing
around Turquoise Coast
unsullied down the centuries
now littered by the tourists
searching for beautiful bays.
lagoons for swimming and diving
feeding the fish by hand
excited to see a Loggerhead Turtle.

Another evening of Idyllic pleasures
relaxing in this scenic extravaganza
as a gentle breeze blows
as I crunch a lime leaf
releasing its sensual citrus scent
as I take another sip of Raki
never to be rushed
as I sit here after dinner
on another beautiful Turkish evening.

© Carol Robson 2013


HURLED

I’d put you to sleep
And I’d wake you
The mistake I would make to
Stay up and wait through
Your roundabout way to
Tell me you’re coming
On that day you were stunning
I’d excitedly await you
But no bloody way you
Make all your plays to
Fool me no longer
I’m now far much stronger
Was I so wrong about what I once saw
In that John Lewis store?
All fit and no flaws
You had me stunned to the core
Without a single word more
I took you straight home
Where you sat at my bed waiting
Disintegrating
Me, a grown man
Pulsating
Into this wreck
Who’d blown my best cheque
For two thousand quid yet.
Left with nothing to bet
On my worst bollock-drop yet
Washed up in regret
And eighteen hundred in debt
Can’t be quite over yet
‘Oh yeah, you bet
It is,’ you were set
Hard in your ways
Ceasing our days
Together
You walked out forever
To fresher endeavours
As I wondered thus whether
I should have ever
Let you into my life
You’d have been the worst wife
Four years, already of strife
In breakdowns and crashes
And strange lines with hashes
Ending with smashes
Of discs in two halves
You sat there and laughed
Though watched your face changed thereafter
You’d shown me on e-bay
A leftover from heaven
I’d always had MY way

© Dave Attrill

CONCRETE FASHION

My life seems unique
Laid below feet
All day and night pounding
I’m mercilessly stabbed by stilettos and sticks
While stub-ends smoulder gently on top
Amidst gathered islands of spearmint gum
Pounding workboots set in moulds
Making their many crests
As for all those sharp treads
From each mobility scooter
Tyre over my chest
Every time it happens
I seem not to care less
Because you may break me beat me
Hurt, mistreat me, break me in half
I’ll never get up.
I can’t help but get used to it -
Sat lying in this street, twenty-odd years now
Smarting less each time from you people
A thousand per day
Treading on my body of equilateral creation
So, ok
It would have been nice to stay
That sandy light brown
So understand if I’m feeling a bit down
At having got old and grey
Though I have arrived at the day
Where I can’t tell the dirt from the weeds
So you may break me beat me
Hurt, mistreat me, break me in half
I’ll never get up.
So yes, you can all feel free to laugh
For I’m just another piece in your path
Either your pavement or your garden
Till I crumble, I continue to harden
I’ll take it like those that trample me
Or as you say ‘a man’
If you beg my pardon
Nice light red, dirty yellow, blue even green
Plain or fancy cracked
Just treat me like mean
Work me down flat with the wheels of your barrow
Your brutality will harrow
Me no more from after this day
A sun’s got his hat on, kids out to play
Those ice-creams and sodas spilt, either way
Like all my other pains will just fade away
Leave my character unblemished to this very day
You see I’m still the same stone
Here underneath
If not the same colour
You’re welcome to find out for yourself
For you may break me beat me
Hurt, mistreat me, Break me in half
I’ll never get up.
So that is my story, all around
Of this sad, static object
Simple piece of ground
You walk me or wreck me
I won’t make no sound
That’s the job of the Council’s
Savage Instruments of Destruction
Known as pneumatic drills for short
To sport any mercy
They might just bring a pick axe
See one day, I’ll have to face up
to the facts
That I’m not as good looking
With this many cracks
Cement can’t support me as strong come
the rain
But you know what? I can take all the pain
That my inevitable end in a crusher will spell
I’m not sure whether I end in Concrete
Heaven or Hell
And I sure as hell myself
Do not give a damn
At the end of the day, at least I respect
Who I am
And I say this to every
Pedestrian,
Cyclist,
Child with ice cream,,
Mobility scooter user,
Council worker
And drill operator
For as long as I can
That you can break me beat me.
Hurt, mistreat me Break me in half
I’ll never get up.

© Dave Attrill

She Too

She lies there in darkness

Listening to how

Her mind whispers

They tell her she's beautiful

Yet she feels though

She's nothing special

When she fell

Grazing her pride

She took the hand that lifted

Thought it her saviour

When it dropped her

It must’ve been her fault


She dances through hoops to please

Still questions everything

Yet fishes are always drawn

To bait on a fisherman’s hook

She's lured once more

A tempting adventure

A safe hand to catch her

An every time she tumbles

She questions her luck


She loiters under stars

Nature’s beauty

Tumbling rock from mountain

Still she watches rain

Strolling down

Her window pane

A ghost of her signature lingers

From when she sat

Scribbling her name


Still her friends

Keep telling her

She's not alone

Her beauty like her wisdom

Is far from skin deep

Still every night those whispers

Question her

Till one day

She'll stop wondering.


Dave Bob Roberts May 2013


Journey Of Life


I was lost in the sun
Perturbed by the fact
You weren’t there
Like you said


I wondered tho what fortune
This ever could bring
To chew on thoughts
Less important
Than is already
What is


Impertinence of impatience
Questions to have led many
Tumbling without answers
Over ragged cliffs

Thus to answer those questions
Life is what it is
So why implore the journey
Which takes us
Where we’re meant.


© Bob Roberts


there is

one

memory 

I

have

of fall

and a mustard

colored sweater.

 

i stepped 

out

the right

side of the car

and took in the 

dead field of of corn,

and the smell...

god that smell.

leaves were dwindling

and falling

and I fell with them.

 

I

 

changed my colour

and took my breath

within which

 

I

 

found the greatest

stretch

of life.

 

I turned to the left

found the lake,

and gently

sank in.

 

love fall

like winter

spring is, well spring

 

and summer just is.

 

my life

as a calendar

is predictable

and, 

full of half moons.

 

©  Rob Lapray


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NEWS AND EVENTS

Many thanks go to Signposts for letting the Rompetteers WORD PIT link with their web site, loads of information here, check it out.

info@signpostssouthyorks.org.uk

Signposts provide information about writing events in the region, and run a variety of writing activities, including young writers groups, in Sheffield, Barnsley, Doncaster and Rotherham. If you would like more information please email (see above) or ring Geoff on 0114 2536722 (answerphone, but Geoff will ring you back).If you want to send us an item for inclusion please email it to: info@signpostssouthyorks.org.uk with "For Newsletter" in the subject line.


ROMP. Every first Friday of the month 7.30 pm at the Bridge Inn Rotherham


SNAFU

The Spoken word and music

Third Wednesday of every month

Starts approx 7.30 pm

22 - 30 High Street, S60 1PP Rotherham


27 June. 7.30pm 10.00pm  -  Quiet ROMP

The Temperance Hall

a little bit of something different. Same system, just a little quieter. Same hat but more atmospheric than frenetic. Same equality, and please feel free to bring a bottle of something with you

Les Effets De La Mass

Temperance Hall. Saturdays 8.00pm

Come along and enjoy the atmosphere, lights. Electronic sounds and celebrate the the human voice, or even have a go at creating your very own vibe.

Quote from Les Effets De La Mass: “Someone asked me what Les Effets De La Mass is all about. The most honest answer was avant garde electronic karaoke.”


Spire Writes will be at the White Swan, in the shadow of the crooked spire with great words and fine ale on the 3rd of July.


CARTOON CORNER