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Simon Soane Dec 2018
In 1410 the village of Little Darling was a pretty nice place to live,
it’s houses were stout and wonderful and the people had lots to give,
the lord who owned the area was benevolent, he never ruled with an iron claw,
he spoke with softness and kindness, not knowing a cajoling roar,
he left the people to get on with their lives, unless they needed a helping hand
and then he’d be there to provide a peg up somewhere in his land.
Because of this the folk who made home here had it better then most peasants from this time,
who were condemned to a life of grinding servitude as if their living was a crime,
they were happier and joyful and free from the toil of subjugate,
each second was a pleasure and every minute spent first rate,
however there was one thing they shared with those who spent every day under the cosh;
everyone was filthy, no one liked to wash.
Only about once every 10 days would they pull bathing water from the well,
If they were especially filthy and their stink they wished to quell,
the rest of the time they didn’t care that they resembled a muddy shrub,
or their faces were still covered in last weekend’s off grub,
nor did they think it mattered if their hair was a matted mucky mess
or that compost heap didn’t smell more than their locks, it actually smelt less,
to them water was mainly a drink when their mouths were feeling parched and shoddy,
not a soothing liquid  with which to  cleanse their body.
Everyone in Little Darling didn’t mind being ***** and looking a unhygienic fright,
actually not everyone, everyone’s not quite right.
Alice always wondered why folk didn’t wash
and that’s not because she wanted everyone to be pretty, pristine and posh,
she just pondered as she daily made herself all gleam,
“why does nobody else round here care about being clean?
They all wallow around in their own filth like a burrowed germ,
more buried in soil than a busy earth worm,
I don’t get when there is plentiful water from wells not that far away
why don’t they dose themselves in the aqua good at any point in the day?
She thought, “Of course it’s their own life and if you never harm anyone else you can never do anything wrong,
but how how how can they fester in their own awful pong?”
So every day Alice would get up before she heard the going to work bell
and go and fetch some water to cleanse herself of smell,
she’d make herself all fresh and totally sans of grit and straw
and revel in the gleam she had coming out of every pore.
Everyone else in Little Darling all thought Alice was great,
a truly smashing lass who had tons of friends and mates,
yeah sometimes they’d remark to her “I don’t get your penchant for keeping yourself immaculate if I had to say
but who cares, I love you, have a fantastic day!”
And yes due to the mud in the village sometimes Alice would get herself all shiny and within a couple of hours look like she’d just crawled out of a cave,
but she didn’t mind as starting the day with a sparkle was what she did crave!
One fine day the folk of Little Darling decided to throw a big party as they adored a drink, a chat and a jive,
just have a massive night of  dancing, where they could give appreciation for being alive,
as Little Darling was a ace place they invited another village to join in the hedonism,
as they wanted folk to bask in hours through a wonderful prism!
When Alice heard news of the shindig she let out a chirping coo,
as revelling in the realm of fun was what she was really made to do!
As the week whiled to an end the day of the party came,
Alice could hardly contain herself as carousing ran through her brain,
she picked out her favourite garments feeling all of a super gathering quiver,
and then full of beans moseyed on down to the river,
she washed away with gusto and dressed all primed to go out,
“I’m on my way to get down and groove!” was her gleeful shout.
She started making her path to the good times, feeling all content,
she couldn’t wait to be immersed in the hub of blazing merriment,
as she was walking to the barn where the party was she encountered others making their journey to fun,
lit they all were by the going down sun,
someone said “hey Alice, I reckon you’ve spent an eternity scrubbing yourself for this bash”,
another said “yeah, I bet you’ve wasted hours by the river to get yourself prepared for this night on the lash!”
Alice replied and remarked, “yes I may have used my time getting myself ready and not been able to enjoy the chills and sits
but at least I don’t have hay in my hair like you ******* smelly *****!”
Everyone burst out laughing and happy all skipped to the revelry,
the slow dusk sky reflecting calm as far as the eye could see.
They jaunted into the barn with the music already in full swing,
the harp, drum, lute and trumpet players all doing their tuneful thing,
Alice grabbed a jar of foaming ale and started moving her body to the beats,
each noise in the air a consummate amazing treat!
Then from out of the corner of her eye she spotted a guy with dancing around in the air,
who'd cleaned his garb,
and washed his hair!
Alice thought "Wow! That guy doesn't look like his stench would make my opticals weepy,
in actual fact he makes my heart all leapy!"
They saw each other and felt swirls and sparks,
a knowing of what could and will be lover’s larks,
a chance they both knew could never be missed
and finalised their first look synchronicity with a longing kiss.
Everybody else stopped,
turned to look,
and knew a little bit more about
loves' rushing roars,
and couldn't help but breaking out
into a round of applause.
Alice felt a dawn,
reciprocated the smile of her fresh guy
and hand in hand they left the barn,
on their lips a glimpse of forever,
and went to find a empty stable,
where they could become all
***** together.
Her eyes jaunted through my
Oppositional ghostliness,
Her hair screams “soft” in my
deaf but imaginative hands,

Her wineglass-visage stripped
My hollow strings of anomie,
Her uncorked skin spraying
On my lust-parched and sobered soul,

Her moonstruck glow poisoned
The rivers of my reveries,
Her poise dialectic
With wonders of the infinite,

Her breathe is shattering
The nihilistic love below,
Listless ears loosen by her
Magnetic harmony, “Hello”
Fish The Pig Nov 2014
So what do you think of me?
You think I don't try?
well I try
oh my god do I try
do I cry
always lie,
you think I'm reclusive
                         elusive
                         aloof
                 and kloof
You think I like it that way,
solitude every day,
think I don't care to talk
or catchup to you and walk
you think there's a reason
I don't and haven't socialized,
well It's because I'm being terrorized.
You can't see it
not from where you sit
step in my shoes
feel what it's like to lose
see the earth on fire
trapped on a spire
a hero holding arms out
too petrified to jump or shout,
you know where safety lies
but black rain falls from black skies
and you're not sure if those arms are for you
or another in need of rescue too.
So hear what it's like
with nowhere to hike
overcome by a thousand eternal flame
that make you think you're to blame
that you feel this way because you set the fire
it got out of control only growing higher,
you feel ostracised and unwanted,
hated ugly and shameful and jaunted.
You live in fear
it's all your fault,
growth maturity and experiences put on halt,
post traumatic stress
a scared, shameful child and nothing less.

So what do you think of me?
think I don't try
I don't care
nothing behind my blank stare,
well there's everything behind these eyes;
apocalypse covered in flies
bruises and scars
heart to the stars
a longing shiver
pristine liver
paranoia and neglect
depression can't forget
a pig reflect
insignificant insect
-So what do you think of me,
look and tell me what you see,
and for you I can guarantee,
nothing is as it should be.
As a girl you found
     comfort stitched
           like cinnamon
between the pleats
     of your mother's
         folded fragrance.
We are all a little
     broken but you
          were never brave
like your sister, who
       on winter's first
            snow jaunted
across the white
     while you clutched
          your mother's skirt,
tearful. What does it
      mean to grow up,
           beyond literally
growing up?
     And what do you
          make of the harried
father who never
     returned for happily
          ever after
, the seal
of a kiss goodnight?
Stephen Turner Dec 2019
The Wrestler

Sleek and slender with
Aerodynamic curves.
The sweat and smells of defeat
And the rapid flutter of whistle
And the occasional strained
Pulled sprained dislocated
Disjointed daunted jaunted
Stunted jammed and jostled
Human thrown across
rubber and foam and plastic.

Hurt by death
Twisted and torn and stretched to pieces
Through giveaways and usurpations
And takeovers and dominion rights
Not knowing where ends the detriment.
Strung together by wires and
Ink pens and signature lines
Mapping out adolescence
In the rearview lies a trail
Of broken promises or promising
Nothingness, a quagmire.

Screens which once shielded
Her modesties now rebuilt as
Hog troughs and kennels roofs
And tables for orangutans to perch,
A crow’s nest from which to
Target passer-bys with hurled
Feces.  Her modesty stolen yet
her Self continuously intact.

Mother

Without her presence
Random mosaic of life
Events and changes and shadows
Lifting the veil lifting the spirit
With guilt and wanton desire for
More time as if it really existed.
Answering the Siren’s song was
Unexplored by those of us
On this end, but by ink and memory
And glossy faded Polaroids.

She is idolized
Eulogized – leaving behind a beacon –
No stone nor seal nor
Piece of parchment could have
Created a more stunning
Masterpiece.  Tis no great
Rembrandt or Michelangelo
But this simple sinful woman
Created something so sublime.
No artisan would dare, no
Craftsman would be enough skilled,
No artist so bold or audacious-
But this naïve heralded an angel.

Victoria

Named for a great waterfall
Or a long standing monarch,
Her heart bled truth and
Her song wailed in agony
But her mouth, genteel and melancholy
Yet the story it told was a whisper
of something greater.  Her tongue
could speak of the sweetness and the
lightning and the immediacy of life.
And I fell into her eyes and she
Echoes in my heart.

I’ve wiped away her tears
And I’ve cradled her inabilities.
She bled on my sincerities and
Collapsed at my feet.  Solemnity
Awaits her every move, but most
Deserving of joy- something that
Evaded her for so long.

A toddler tiptoes back and forth
Moving merely inch by inch as
Balance is learned and gravity
Defied over months and years.
Passion has no such wait, yet
Happiness, the quest for the grail
Toddles toward some never ending
Oasis upon the horizon.
It is with the passing of years
That joy becomes ever more present
Long since suffered, long awaited joy.
Three poems for the price of one

— The End —