Lascivious Lucubration by Kevin Reid

Salient tropes gather luminous analogies, while inchoate ink blots the mesh of a year’s coda.Raised from warranted dudgeon, abjured arrogance sprawls in a haemal hole. As moist miasmic nubility weeps, an aching bowl,  rusted with  trepid nectar, is venerated. The venereal ease of seductive lies pelts pricks with silver jism, pastes the flesh with clotted pain.A dripping fissure scented daily with a fist of bruised cadaverous knuckles. The thrill as throbbing solace discharges a simper on  raw lips. A blazing fire burns in the bush of the irrational canal extinguished barely by reason’s soul beater, the poet’s pounding quill, or a fuck fiddle plucking pungent pulses. Permeating the ruptured rotunda with polluted pleasure, eating chunks of copulation dipped in ambrosial crapulence, the nourishing nubile frolics with a flesh poke and howls oral nudity at the diminutive devils  sucking joyously on the nipples of her mind. Celluloid muscles bleed with fresh debauchery, assaulting the psyche with a veil of juiced visions, shooting salty pearls into the gushing estuary of lucid  fantasy.


Fast Times Powdered Rhymes by Kevin Reid

Diluted memories permeate the first dependant loss. Eclipsed by habit casual fun becomes abuse. Through hallucinogenic portals the artist is taunted with a stabbing pleasure, the pen becomes a needle. Constrained by inverted etiquette. Tripping into a razor wind with the desire for an idle conscience. With self disgust shooting up powdered hope with a free base faith. Self charity inebriated in a bottle of accompanied desolation. Hung over on clean ups with a headache from hell, safe speed stimulation maintains a conformed mask. Powdered flakes prescribed with weak pleasure, nasal absorption, another treasure. Positive pill-popping is a timeless upbeat in dizzy delirium. Life is easy with popularity and the uncountable milled pills trance-fixed in altered apparatus. Rising with dismissed amusement, ridiculous recriminations of misuse fool the locum with a masked excuse. Clean happiness, a voluntary conviction, a bloodstream highway with no restrictions. Pull up to the bureau, engage the brain, park the pen and write again.

from new work “exploded / view” by Fran Lock

today / my thoughts are furies / today has moved / in tight circles like a hungering dog / you’ve hovered / a toxic ghost / from the high battlements / of your hairdo / embattled hairdo / keratin crisp / letting down / the rope ladder of your logic / i am afraid but forget / how to speak / you like my smile / you said / my yellow crumbled tooth a crown / and now / and now / let us confront the deforested page / a story is stripped of its princess / and i am / a beautiful despot / a sugar mammy with snakes for hair / six cylinder bitch / you said / how i love nothing now / my thin fingers overthink their critical snap / click! / am i getting through? / d’ yous ken at all? / and i had you / at hello / i believe in nothing / but my own bare feet / stood / in the kitchen / braced for impact / my skin confesses its blemishes / summer’s sweltering depthless real / or rhine wine in a mermaid light / and poems / the bible empties itself of israelites / they schlep / across the page like ants / the red sea parts / the eye decides who will be spared / no one is spared / an eye is an angel of death / dressed / in a waste / of pink silk / wings / from the satiny lap / of clubland / am i getting through? / there were so many versions of me / so many versions of you / you / were making a masque of my inbox / and i should be / flattered / how a sacred hare might / honour a headlight / you frighten me / utmost monarch of radiant terrors / did you stand outside / at the reading? / did you follow me home? / did the torch move over / the darkness / a child’s finger / tracing a name on dirty glass / there’s a holiness that fame confers / you said / a cartoon sanctity / collective grief / these clothes climbed onto my back today / i did not / cannot / dress myself / elect of all expendable things / exceptional things / invisible things / your praise / or your contempt / these are my principal magnets / stars like scattered wits regrouping / heaven remade / in our own / animal / image / oh / to be precious and championed / oh / moth to the smooth hurt of a hot bulb / oh / i see you / stretching your smile / obscene bunting / at a fascist birthday / the world is wearing / obelisks and reliquaries / the world / is wearing thin / we are / peacocking our squalor at passing traffic / poetry / flicking an intimate switch / you said / some pains absolve no one / at the turn / of a stair / in the dark / a soiled glyph / i wrote my name / a girl / you said / sucked you like a snake bite / the pockets of your ugly coat / have bitten your hands / off at the wrist / and this / my most / unprofitable skin / i was charles darwin / dragging a knuckle / i was / carnal and simian / you said /terraformed the surface / of my twin moons / mute and nude / moot and nude / proley girl white / as creamed bleach and canned laugher / wade in a waltz / in sequins and chiffon / pandemic lust / you dynamite me with / again / and again //

#2 father / figure by Fran Lock

safe house / say / fuh / house / an argument climbs / into the plushy cockpit / of my mouth / the received wisdom / of a stiff drink / where the wall is fraught / with slogans / in the out of town / crematoria / an ecstasy of ashes / say / fuh / pair of hands / to tuck you in / to fuck you up / to tighten the bolt / in your neck / little monster / electrically / alive / and we’re falling down / nursing a nursery fate / like london bridge / the way / monotonous bodies in space conform / to the limp math / holding / the universe together / strong force / weak force / the symbols snuggle up / spoon in their shallow / brackets / you are not you / are not / you / drip your canonical honey / i parse my sickle traits / my phobic blood / i love you unto empty / there’s a shame that fits / tight to my body / like the skin / of an apple / you float / in the centre of my headache / in another woman’s belly / a baby / beings / a presumptuous rise / precarious bread / of heaven yet / i discover myself in a doorway / bridges alert with lights / and a light / rain prickles the skin of an apple / the skin of a dark pond / a partial mania / i hold this poem / like a note to the light / watermark / we mark the water / enter here / inter / her //

Eve sees the End by Fianna (Fiona Russell Dodwell)

Eve sees

Eve grew Steve. They grew, Eve n Steve, tended bees; strewed seeds. Every street grew trees; seeded new streets. They expected resentment: Serpent’s sneery eyes between ferns; Keeper’s legs-knees-feet; grey-green jeers.  Elsewhere edgy Emmy hedged her bets, kept fleet feet, met every beetle-creep, sentry-sleep.  Ely’s elders tweeted, begged less greed. Sheets pressed deep red cheeks. Ely’s levees seeped.

The next events were never well remembered: Steve n Eve expelled themselves. They slept between tents; trekked, veered west. The clerks rebelled. Empress Ellen, never there when needed, left the next week. Her greedy cheeks, her greedy feet, her helpmeet Emmy, swept between the elders. The elders were entrenched.  Yet we knew when the defences went; when Ely’s temple fell: fletch-embedded, the Fen Decree flew news.

Few were left end Twenty-Seventeen. Ellen, Emmy, less well-dressed, never meet, knee western streets. Steve and Eve? They settled where they fell; grew fewer trees: these were replete.

Even Stevens

the End    

& if shame by David McLean

a pointless except to remember, because pain is a deft teacher – & evil & wrong just a bad, an obnoxious. & a pillow is razors & offensive – here are the slow gods, their tedious prayer a huge forgiveness. night is a truculent vampire inside me, & day a fighting dog happy. here we assemble a huge absence, a dead flower. time is a cigarette in my pregnant fingers, i stub it into nothing; it is not important. you are whatever eternity is &, i can save existence for your every instant.

here is a great silence arrogant as absence – words are scissors & innocence, & i can tell you, Emma, where every god is always missing there is no such thing as distance – the world folds a caterpillar, a cocoon – which is whatever it is that love is.

between my ribs by David McLean

lives inexorable empty & only you there, & that only fragments & dust. every temporary being we shed like skins no longer needed because they have forgotten their meanings. the sun is in the heaven her psychotic dance – she moves so slow i barely notice & light is there for hurting. thus here is the abject, the leaf in me arrogant as every other answer ever.

still you protect me from morning & its swords, its murders, the psychopath sun. i might say i contain multiplicities once, but i am Celt so none of them get on very well together & we only want to burn down the world & zombie dentistry, illusions &, to sing love ugly & very much out of tune. 

between my ribs every word forgotten. there is a terribly patient suffering, it waits for the sun to come back, it is the same maybe in everyone i do not know. (if a tit happens to fly into a room it will panic, it will fly around beating itself against the walls until its little heart stops, so one must move fast like an animal & catch it in one’s hand feeling its tiny heart thunder & let it free under the innocent sky to hope it lives forever.) 

between my ribs i have forgotten me & there is only you, Emma, my shame & the nightmarish affirmation Nietzsche said is the only thing that really matters. i say “yes” “yes” & “yes” to every suffering there ever was in me its optimistic eternity. “yes”, Emma, forever & again. it hurts to love you, but there is nothing better.