Poems by Jeffrey Side

IN JACQUELINE'S ARMS

In Jacqueline's gaze a truth resides.
Within her soul I find my silence.
Throughout life’s whirlpool our love remains true.
In her smile I find my embrace.

The years have passed but memories recall
the moments we shared in our concealed retreat.

In silent nights I recall her voice.
in Jacqueline's arms I find my sleep.

CYCLING

Cycling with you in summer 1989,
I am riding close behind you,
with the breeze in your hair,
and I can smell your scent
as we ride downhill towards the river,
with the sun in front of us, forming
a halo around your body and making
you almost a silhouette.

In your summer shorts and shirt,
that is tied in a knot above your navel,
your beauty enlivens my spirit, and
my soul yearns for your love.

You are the queen of my heart,
and the mistress of my soul—
an angel of delight sent from heaven
to show me how to love.


OUT IN THE WORLD

No one sees the darkest hiss of rain
or the authority of selfish tears
in the rattle of liquid night
like timber packets

Alone hot struggles of kitchen fire
that is her trade
driving her rampart
a woman unconsciously witnessed
with auburn hair low from time’s complexion
that nobody watched

The boatman passes like a gust
absently he comes scratching
cursing all the time
always afraid
strolling to him feels like plunging

Mud errands high hair unmoving
flat time downriver from uninterrupted
books I came not to take employment
for the room had not changed

Able herself supported
she walked with undercut pride
or perhaps with something better

Admit the truth
open the window
goodbye to houses and hello to farms
this is the way things are
out in the world


I SUPPOSE WE’LL WORK SOMETHING OUT

Nature charms you
outside the temple were things
will be understood though wrongly directed.

Unhappy idealists discover
doubts about principles or
otherwise confuse themselves.

Mansions bare the parched streets
where visitors gather by
statues with ironclad
stepping stone traps.

Accented people in the thin city
with frustrated friends
find destiny tumbles
in terror.

Deep in love like resentment
dragons and hyperbolic death
women remark that
men go out
on winter mornings habitually
balanced yet visible
in the way of the spent
room.

Gathering like the rest of society’s
house bought off with chairs
and wine congratulations
and with barbaric modesty
cultivated in vapours
my teachers come to me.


GOING HOME

“Looking in the mirror—

mirror

mirror

mirror

Tomorrow—bright light.

I will see God tonight.”

Thanks for running after that bus for me, Dad.

Poems by Jeffrey Side

WHERE YOUR LOVE BELONGED

I’m sitting here thinking
of a time I could have been
love-friend to her
about life

Pretty girl facing me
from the corner of a room
forward stretching over it
my bridges burnt

She said never leave me
as if I ever could
that was just something
in her mind

There were good days
and there were bad days
but the sun shone brightly
and the sky was blue


PRECIOUS REQUESTS

It was a Sunday morning.
And all the bells were ringing.
I work my fingers to the bone for you.

I want to buy you something new.
You can’t have that many things,
even if I say so myself.

There’s plenty of time, and there’s work to do.
What you hear in the dark,
always repeat in the light.

There’s no gold or silver for your belt anymore.

I shall never forget these things.
Your mother knew about them.
Let your light shine on these special gifts here.

Don’t keep your treasures all that near.
You can’t take them with you too.
Your father knows you need them all.

Is there someone asleep in the doorway?
My legs won’t keep me up:
not in the house we stand in.

Your precious requests have not gone unnoticed.


THE CROSSING OF THE BRIDGE

Dimness is here
followed by regiments
recoiling from containment
armour in Europe
remembering fire-eaters
absorbing what was put down
with great trouble along the bridge
while the rain saturates everything
the enslaved more furiously
throughout fictions and incredulity.

I remember my friends on dry roads
and wagons coated in perfume
memories on the ferryboat
love that is the distance
and the eternal clock
democracy and earthquakes
and women for all the troubadours
shuddering hearts and brains
that heat this world
and rulers furnished by other arts
when I was alone in Charleston.

Poems by Joshua Martin

HOOKED BOWL IS A BROTH

built to add an anger
index witch seesaw
squinted shoulder hex
back off STD offered
highs & lows & toes &
why Wake the Silence
dusted Nose Red Noise
previous makes a Yak
Attack field Boy Pointed
bottom Grim Bonkers Set
strayed interior thigh blade
Typified warbly grovel bacon
Back is cyst & ossification
ganging quack shrinkage
smell that Covers Silicon
& greens the cob Spoke


SAND STORM HOLLOW WHIP

Lost tattoo toothpick realm
Seldom scar glorified nail
Once bitten Thrice high
gig a bit thought market
under valuable stapler haven
heaven Near a Bucket
spine lustful tingle
Ring that singularity
truck preventing twit
witticism provision laugh
a NightMare spare tire
mire wire sire liar
sun stroke strobe rope
neo logistician gulp


MARCH MARCH STARK

Wed said redesign
necessitating slab poison
Air Raided Invader
tank grass grin
an owl noticed sparks
giver Of The Shiver
asked a Fan to Split
clock Repacking Shellfish
wish as ish ish ish
amuck cluck buck
a tooth a Trench a Vlad
disappear Dear speak spot

Poems by Keith Nunes

HOSTILE TAKEOVER

We installed a firewall,
Splashed the walls with fire retardant,
Plumbed in a fire hydrant in the bathroom,
Cut back lurking vegetation for a fire break,
Fired our double agent at the embassy,
All to prevent the rumoured
Hostile takeover being prepared by
HostileTakeover.com
Taken over minutes before
The Liquidation, and
Fire Sale.


OUT OF TIME IN THE TIME ZONES 

We sat around the crystal ball,
Gulping Spumante from crystal glasses,
It became clear to the 3 of us,
Crystal clear, that our
Fortune-telling was a sham,
Lady Gotitoverus was
Naked for a reason.

>>

Now that I’ve come to the realisation,
To the understanding that
Everything about the human condition is ridiculous,
I find myself immobilised.

>>

Toppled and
Erected and
Toppled again,
The ruins
Bleed a
Little of
Themselves
Onto themselves.

>>

Under rearranged skies,
At an unconvincing juncture,
I went to sleep a dog,
Woke up a cat.

>>

The buses I travel in
Have a window solely
For me to look out,
Nobody is ever
On the buses with me,
The only people
I see while on buses
Are footpath people,
Traversing.

>>

On the overbridge
The waiting had
Begun and ended in a single arc of the sun,
Heel down hard in the walk back thru
The underpass,
Wind tunnelling
I lean against it,
Over a cliff
Waiting to fall,
Goading myself to fall.

>>

Out I look from the window
To the world where everywhere
There are experiments underway,
An entirely experimental world
Where nobody sits comfortably,
Nothing escapes analysis, and
The gathering promise of overhaul is
Actually a threat.

>>

If only I was handed the Hindsight File a little sooner in the day.


YOU AND ME AND ME AND YOU

I carried offerings
You would take up
On arrival,
I was back and gone again,
I mentioned not
Being ABLE
Not being
WILLING to
Sit in a room with Me,
I put Me on my back and
Carted humped-back for 10 years,
Smoky compartments, desert grit,
Sudden drops in altitude,
Women who mistook
Me for You,
You for Me,
Back by plane,
On foot,
Here I am, and
Me?
Never fucking left.

Poem by Jimmy Crouse

INDIRECT SOURCE OF EMBITTERMENT

The with of are by to and from
On is than an as at a in
In a at as an than is on
From and to by are of with the

The with of are by to and from
The with of are by to and from
On is than an as at a in
In a at as an than is on

From and to by are of with the
The with of are by to and from
The with of are by to and from
On is than an as at a in

In a at as an than is on
From and to by are of with the
The with of are by to and from
The with of are by to and from

Poems by Neil Fulwood

MICRO-PUB, KELSO

Man walks in, leans on the bar.
Flat cap, olive jacket, shapeless trousers
boot-tucked - the tick-box cliché
of the half-arsed farmer fallen on
hardscrabble times. Asks of the barmaid

“Is Jim in? I’ve got a chicken
if he wants it.” Jim’s out; the fate
of the chicken shades into mystery.
A pint later, halfway down Memory Lane,
he’s slinging drinks in the trademark

Seventies rock ‘n’ roll joint that made
the fortune he squandered. Sounding
off to anyone who’ll listen, voice
like wet gravel turned by a shovel,
he remembers that Robert Whatshisname

not Palmer, the one who did Stairway
to Heaven - he used to come in, order
a beer, proffer a fifty pound note
dead sure it’d be waved away, his drinks
on the house. Emptied the till, our man

recalls, counting out a rock star’s change.
And that’s the length and breadth of it,
his once dined-out-on anecdote,
his claim to a cocked snook at fame.
The song remains the same, the audience

glazing to indifference down the years.


RED DIESEL

Lumbers out from concealed entrance
absorbing horn blast, flashed lights
and window-flung wanker sign
with a minor deity’s casual indifference.

Drags shit-spattered aluminium trailer
behind it, combined wheelbase
closing in on the road-hogging length
of some C&W-ready American rig

not that its ten forward gears push it
anywhere near a Mack or Kenworth’s BHP.
No blue collar balladeer would verse-chorus
its field-to-farm B-road odyssey

in steel guitar cadences, no filmmaker
frame it against sunset or storm.
It treats movement as a shrug, tyres
the size of an outhouse kicking up dirt.

The word juggernaut does not apply.

Poems by Martin Stannard

TO ALL APPEARANCES 

As per Janie’s suggestion
I’m changing my appearance
So as not to be recognised
At the border when we cross
From whatever this is to
Whatever that might be. I’m
A brunette and I don’t know
Why we are going although
I know we have to. Most of
The time it’s guesswork.
I’ve not eaten for days
In an effort to lower my
Cholesterol levels. The world
Is a little shaky. If I lay on
The grass and stare at the sky
Pretty soon the sky begins to
Slip away. I maybe ought
To drink more. Then maybe
I would start to see things
Differently. I’ve not always
Liked my hair. Soon we
Will be leaving and I will
Be forced to stop writing
Perhaps for ever. There may
Not be paper or pens where
We are going wherever that
Turns out to be. Happiness
Is only possible if there is
Stationery. Stationery and
A lack of movement suits me
Absolutely fine. I’m a blonde
Rapidly becoming silvery.


PINK 

1.

I was wearing the frivolous handcuffs
But The King called and told me to take them
Off. It was after a concert: we had been ordered
To celebrate The Gods but had long known
Not to expect too much. Having spent the best
Part of the day in bed soothing a variety of
Frustrations it’s time to get up and at ‘em.
But only if you feel like it, which I don’t.

2.

The years are starting to weigh
Heavily upon the old men of the town
Who have taken to laying on their
Backs near the swings in the park in
The hope of seeing girl secrets.
When it rains—as is its wont—
They don’t mind because they don’t notice.

3.

I took off the handcuffs (pink
Don’t suit me) and swapped them
For a special kind of twine
Guaranteed not to break
Until the cows return from their travels.
We have been alone for a long time now
And grown used to not expecting too much.

4.

The day I received your letter—the letter
You sent from the island of make-believe
Where worship of the Sun and Moon
Coexists with worship of supreme wealth
Alongside cold-hearted callousness—
Was the day of The Games and I had a lot on
My mind. I had mislaid an attractive girlfriend
And needed some toys to throw out of the playpen.