Starlight shines from limousines
On the streets of Monte Carlo
But I'd prefer a cup of tea
In a caff with Gary Barlow.
He'd draw inspiration from
The drabness of the venue
And weave sweet melodies around
The items on the menu.
Spreading sounds of happiness
Around the greasy spoon.
He may be a chub-a-lub
But he sure can write a tune.
I could take him back to mine
To feast on milk and cookies.
Watching pirate DVDs
In my flat above the bookies.

I would part the curtains
So the jealous neighbourhood
Saw me ****** rewarding
The blond scribe of 'Back for Good'.
He could climb atop me
Like he mounted Kilimanjaro
Everything changes forever
Once you've tasted Gary Barlow.

Down to earth despite his millions
Cuddlier than Robbie Williams.
Looking pensive in a vest,
Gary Barlow is the best.

it's not even noon, but
my thoughts are drenched with
***, bound and gagged.
you're dancing around the kitchen, clad
only in a pair of
lace ******* you paid
too much for at Victoria's
Secret liaisons by the
seaside, sand sieving through your hair:
all forms of metal-backed currency taste
like ***** on your fingertips stuffed
roughly in my mouth,
call me a ****
pretty please?
promethazine slathered over
watermelon sherbert and
soaked in Sprite; put a lid on it and
shake vigorously until well mixed.
Xanax exacerbated migraines mean
naptime for me, and I forgot to tell you
the Gatorade is spiked with *****
(or maybe tequila; I've well and truly
forgotten) and all of this
is just another means of
replacing you.
you're wrapped in an
ecru trench coat,
cinched at the waist over
concealed weaponry:
unlicensed pistol and wet coral *****
constrained by a black leather holster and
cobalt cotton.
you kissed me with
******* in your nostrils and
nosebleed on your lips;
you killed me with
contempt in your mouth and
venom on your nails.

They say he could smell death coming
as it skulked the woods
They say he’d follow the scent through the mountains
to where a grieving family stood.

They say he’d keep his distance
until invited in
And with their grim permission
He’d eat the dead one’s sins

They’d give a crusty loaf
and a bowl of homebrewed ale
And Barlow commenced to pawn his soul
To save this one’s from Hell

Three times Barlow passed the loaf
o’er the dead one’s ashen face
And with each somber passing
He vowed to take their place

He uttered words of binding
He whispered vile oaths
He invoked angels and demons
He made offerings to both

He passed the bread and ale
‘round the body seven times
He consumed the tainted host
And muttered, “This one’s sins are now mine.”


“He shall not walk again.
He will sleep within his grave.
His soul is not tormented.
His spirit has been saved.”

Barlow then departed
Moving slowly into the gloom
Like a fading apparition
Returning to its tomb

Mountain custom says
that sin eaters must be paid
Or they will return the sins
To the souls that they have saved

So families leave a token
made of silver, copper, or gold
At a crossroads in the mountains
Near the place where sins are sold

elijah stood over the railroad tracks
waiting for something to strike

it would come as a loud crack
the echo of bone smashing
into the infinite sound

his limbs spread freely
just a fraction of a moment
spanning all time and existence

he would scorn the trees
for cradling his last goodbye

Some people say they don't like social networking
on mobile phones,
"it distances us from human connection"
they bleat and moan,
"takes us away from natural converging,
curtails face to face ties from emerging,
subdues us in a swamp of technology,
this engagement with messaging is surely a folly."
And as they depart they say,
“give me a person over a mobile msg anyday.”
Now don't get me wrong eye to eye communing is amazing
and it's not the last reserve of a luddite to prefer tactile phrasing
or to think sweet nothings into a there ear is best
but that doesn't mean there is nothing in mobile caress.
Because you can meet someone at a festival, and feel a sweet spark
that thunders through the roaming larks
and then when you part after a few days
think, "oh, that was awesome, I enjoyed their ways,
they made me laugh and gave me jumping smiles,
****, it's a pity between us there are miles and miles."
But when you arrive home and charged up a message pings
"you back now?" I see it and start to feel sing.
So we take our phones and chat all the next day,
getting to know each other in a happy appy way,
giggling at your words, beaming at the next
growing through lightning at each little text,
learning more in these screen chats;
you go to lots of BBQs and love dogs and cats,
you dye your hair and are calamity stricken
your top fajitas are finger lickin,
you know Mandarin and are ace at Catchphrase
and you have an inclination for New York days,  
you can analytically discuss scenes from C Street,
you can charm the customers at a store meet and greet,
you can decipher the nuance in The Bistro goss,
you can put up with **** from ****** at Argos.
You have a mate who picks up Mark Ronson's pooch,
you've saved a big crustacean when been on a mooch,
you can relate a song to Odysseus using sheep to save his men
and watch Mr G the musical over and over again,
you stay up/get up to watch the Super Bowl,
you type faster than a thought on a roll,
you've danced with Pete Barlow's ship mate from Corrie,
you can drive a car and a van, I recks you could handle a lorry!
You have loads of friends and often verge on more dislocation,
I want to be near you, whatever the location.
I want to pull you out of a hat
and see you stand on my welcome mat,
see, mobiles are good because it's good to feel that.
But if some quantum physicists are to be believed, after perusing their hefty tomes,
somewhere in infinite there is a place with no mobile phones,
and a boom of synchronicity has to be carried on by pen on paper
and there are days and days tween a tumbling heebie jeebie butterfly caper,
and then it's sent with a hope that it won't be lost in the post,
and be not read, like a bottled message uncorked by the coast.
Maybe a letter and no phones is better for starting a fizz
but right now mobiles make this what it is;
if not for them would I feel this close to you?
Or be writing this to you?
Right now I like feeling close to you,
and I like writing this to you,
to you Lou.

Your anonymous blog

To my face you are kindness itself:
cheerful, always upbeat,

but in your anonymous blog
you rip me apart.

You press your thumb and forefinger on each side,
hold, pull and rend,
and rupture my very innards.

You focus on me,
my life, my words, my actions and my body
like you are a Celestron Telescope
searching for every single crater and irregularity.

With an Ultima Barlow lens
and your Leica M9 18MP
You grab each natural image
and then rearrange reality with
your precious, perversely pesuasive, periscopic Photoshop technique.

poetic liberty has leased you a license to assassinate,
humiliate,
decimate,
invalidate,
severely lambaste,
and mockingly castrate
everything that I identify as me.

literary freedom allows you to liberally fabricate,
mutilate,
denigrate,
incriminate,
scathingly castigate,
and maliciously urinate
on what others think of me.

To my face you are kind beyond selflessness,
but on your online beat,
your anonymous malevolence
sets you apart
from all the others
that have ever wanted
to write me up,
put me down,
and publish me out.

– Zumwalt (2011) (copied from www.zumpoems.com)

I am the words of scorn on a child's lips,
for a sleepy, fetid home.

I am ingratitude, and spilt milk.
I am the frozen boxer, the burnt lightbulb.

I am the sickly mirror,
who peers into an illusion of identity.

I am pain, and nerve.
I am the one who waits.

I sing the Mariner who first unfurl’d
An eastern banner o’er the western world,
And taught mankind where future empires lay
In these fair confines of descending day;
Who sway’d a moment, with vicarious power,
Iberia’s sceptre on the new found shore,
Then saw the paths his virtuous steps had trod
Pursued by avarice and defiled with blood,
The tribes he foster’d with paternal toil
******’d from his hand, and slaughter’d for their spoil.

Slaves, kings, adventurers, envious of his name,
Enjoy’d his labours and purloin’d his fame,
And gave the Viceroy, from his high seat hurl’d.
Chains for a crown, a prison for a world
Long overwhelm’d in woes, and sickening there,
He met the slow still march of black despair,
Sought the last refuge from his hopeless doom,
And wish’d from thankless men a peaceful tomb:
Till vision’d ages, opening on his eyes,
Cheer’d his sad soul, and bade new nations rise;
He saw the Atlantic heaven with light o’ercast,
And Freedom crown his glorious work at last.

Almighty Freedom! give my venturous song
The force, the charm that to thy voice belong;
Tis thine to shape my course, to light my way,
To nerve my country with the patriot lay,
To teach all men where all their interest lies,
How rulers may be just and nations wise:
Strong in thy strength I bend no suppliant knee,
Invoke no miracle, no Muse but thee.

Joel Barlow: The Columbiad  (1809)

i couldn’t tell you the number of times they’ve told me
my family of seven
numbers only five.

i couldn’t tell you the number of times they’ve told me,
“they’re NOT YOUR BROTHERS.
lydia is your sister, but they’re BLACK.
they can’t be part of your family,”
though all three are adopted.

i couldn’t tell you the number of times they’ve looked
at my family as if it is BROKEN,
believing there’s NO WAY
those two little boys with DARK skin
belong in that family with WHITE skin, brown hair, and blue eyes,
the perfect depiction of a german family.

this is my REALITY.

it TERRIFIES me,

watching them look

watching them
see
   nothing
               but
                      the
                           skin
                                 that
                                       is
                                          darker
                                                    than
                                                           their
                                                                   own.

no one ever questions that my little sister
with her FAIR skin is my sister,
but when they see my brothers,
they don’t understand how we’re related.

in what world do we live
that this PREJUDICE is allowed?
in what world do we live
that JUDGING people simply by their color is acceptable?

they say that it isn’t,
that they don’t do it,
that they know black people—are even friends with a few—
so there’s no way that they’re RACIST.

and
    yet,
          it
      happens
                             every
                                         day.

we see it on the news all too frequently
but brush it off as insignificant,
somebody else’s problem.

PHILANDO CASTILE.
TARIKA WILSON.
LAQUAN MCDONALD.
REKIA BOYD.
OSCAR GRANT.
AIYANA JONES.   
ORLANDO BARLOW.
SEAN BELL.
MICHAEL BROWN.
YVETTE SMITH.
BOTHAM JEAN.
ERIC GARNER.
TAMIR RICE.
GEORGE FLOYD.

maybe you recognize these names.
these names are only a fraction of UNARMED african americans—
men, women, even children—
KILLED because police FEARED
the COLOR of their skin.

how can we allow this to happen?

they excuse racism, claiming it ceased long ago,
saying that because there are laws against segregation,
that because those laws were enacted,
people automatically follow them.  

then
      WHY
                 do
                     you
                            know
                               ­       these
                                               names?


i hope to one day live in a world
where I don’t have to fear for my brothers’ lives as they grow older.
a world where I know
they won’t have to fight RACISM and PREJUDICES while following their dreams.

i hope to one day live in a world
where we see more than just the color of someone’s skin.
a world where we can learn to ACCEPT and LOVE,
appreciating diversity.

i hope to one day live in a world
where my family is seen as just that,
a FAMILY. a WHOLE, LOVING FAMILY
regardless of the color of my brothers’ skin.

The Brother Gone
Domestic Noir
by rhiannon
One morning in a house in Scotland, Josh Wilson opens a gift from his brother, Matthew Snozcumber, and Josh knows their lives will never be the same again.

Whilst trying to rebuild his life, Josh witnesses a crime that leads him to question a new relationship. He becomes obsessed with enigmatic stranger Toby Barlow. What is his connection to Matthew, and why has he turned up now?

Josh's behaviour becomes increasingly erratic as she struggles to unravel the truth and the significance of a cursed rock, all whilst battling to cope with amnesia.

Every day, Josh gets closer to the truth. And the closer he gets, the more shocking it seems.