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 Feb 2018 Heather
Zachary William
He liked to use
clip-on promises
because it was so much
easier
than learning to tie knots
and facing down the
fear
that you could strangle yourself
if you weren't careful
In death he haunts us
He is not a soft silver spirit
Nor a milky ghost
Not innocent white purity
But thick, intolerable guilt
Regret weighing heavy on our slagging shoulders
Vengeance heating our worn down souls
He is fiery red anger
He is icey blue grief
He is the absolute darkness
Of all consuming loss
Maybe it was the very first time
But it haunts me as though
It has happened a million before
From when we are young it sews
Itself into the very fabric of who we are told to be

I took a hit.
Laughter trickled round my ears
Jeers and shouts stalking me
As I walked away, fear building
As I held myself back from retreat.

Behind my eyes flashed up
A drunken stranger making me feel small
I was only 10 years old
But after me they yelled out catcalls
I rushed away, trying anything to forget

Now I am older,
Nothing has changed
Except now I know not to walk alone
And keep off evening trains
If I want to remain innocent and unbothered

I am not alone in this
We exchange these familiar tales
Softly speaking out what we hide
We fast learn it comes with being female
We stay silent to keep our pride.
For the females. It shouldn't have to be this way.
 Dec 2017 Heather
James Court
Mary had a little lamb,
two lobsters and a Christmas ham,
a three-pound tub of chicken wings,
seven bratwurst tied with strings,
thirteen loaves of garlic bread,
a schnitzel bigger than her head,
four rare steaks, a dozen eggs,
caviar and turkey's legs,
strips of bacon, mushroom stew,
chunks of bread and cheese fondue,
and two whole jars of sauerkraut,
(to clean all of her insides out).

Finishing the pasta salad,
Mary soon looked drawn and pallid.
"I don't feel well," poor Mary said.
"I think I need to rest my head."
Then from her stomach came a moan,
a straining, churning, twisted groan.
Mary gasped; her eyes grew wide.
She'd only seconds to decide.
What could she do? Where could she go?
Her stomach was about to blow!
So, reaching for the nearest bucket,
she retched, and then began to chuck it.

All the courses that she'd swallowed,
and the apertifs they'd followed,
all the steaks and all the fish,
each and every single dish
came flying back from in her belly,
filling up the bucket smelly
with a foul and toxic brew,
and no one knew quite what to do,
so this went on for ten whole minutes
till Mary had expelled her innards.
When she was done, her eyes were red,
and sweat was pouring from her head.

"Are you alright, sweet Mary dear?"
her mother asked. She didn't hear.
For Mary was already off -
the waiters saw her try to scoff
the whole entire pudding bar.
Now, this had pushed her mum too far.
"Alright!" her mother cried, "I'm through!
I've done the best that I can do.
I'm sick and tired of all you eat.
I will not pay for all this meat.
I'm going home. Go get some help —"
Then Mary's mum let out a yelp!

She glanced down at her legs and saw
sweet Mary there begin to gnaw!
She struck the lass, but with great haste,
alas, the girl had reached her waist.
As Mary's ma was there devoured
by her offspring, overpowered,
she cried one thing ere final slaughter:
"It smells like lamb in here, my daughter."
Mary licked her lips and grinned.
She belched out loud and then broke wind.
She felt her tummy start to rumble -
and calmly ordered apple crumble.
Don't judge me, I was really high when I wrote this.
 Dec 2017 Heather
Zachary William
I'm tired of
drink-coaster
poetry
words that are
forever inspiring
that can hang on
your fridge
and make you feel
good and deep
and so very
inspired
to carry on with the
day as planned
bolstered with the
strength of
a thought
or a prayer
and it's so
easily digestible
through and through
and I want teeth
I want gristle
I want poetry that
rips me out of my sleep
words that haunt me
like they're in on something
I've never known
but we settle for that which
brings us comfort
we settle for the airy quotes
that we co-opt into our
daily mantras that everything
will eventually be okay

When in all reality
every poem
every string of thoughts
will have to end

unremembered and
pure
 Dec 2017 Heather
Madhav Mehra
And slowly I Die
Everyday,
But a little less with You.
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