Death On An Axminster Carpet - Vic Gamble

she went blubbering into
the bathroom
& spliced her wrists with his razor,
her beautiful & delicate wrists,
as if they were rotten saplings…
as if they were  romantic molten wax
of candles…

her husband found her in an incidental barrage in,
left, & locked the door
& called an ambulance as if it were a shout
for pest control,
as if a predacious animal had been found,
his voice croaking with need
for mesmerising lights of blue
and other flashing toys of emergency.

“Don’t save me” she cried, “He lied”
& the ambulance man leaned close,
like an angel, and said,
“Don’t worry honey, he just didn’t want more blood
on his new bloody carpet”

Vic Gamble

Easter Tidings Rising - Vic Gamble

the catch-22 is that they issue
terrorist commands in gasping Gaelic
and religion in loose lineage of Latin,
yet not a broth of a man in the pub understands
the lilt of either language.

angry fists crush upon wooden tables
and wild shakes the froth
of Guinness
like gray tiredness of after-party jelly.

outside the spare air is groaning,
but it is only the copper of the storm,
while inside,sun ablaze, the boys are in short shape
for the shortcomings of the revolution.

The Dublin Times
runs a headline on the Pope’s latest decree
of Easter tidings;
bodies, it says,
will rise whole on the day of judiciary judgement
crushing all but daisies before them,
and though I will still have my balls,
and you the heat of your thighs, my love,
there will be no sex in heaven…..
though, he says, this Pope,
we will still be happy,
but somehow I doubt that.
But we will keep an open face
and good mind
for he is not the first Pope to be fallible…..
did not the last one die?

the catch-22 is that I am trained to shoot
who passes upon my own green land,
hidden here in the haze of moon
surviving by the rhythm of my enemies march,
knowing that when I splice his open wound
I shall retch at the sight of his cascading blood…….
perhaps the Pope has a take on that,
somehow I doubt it.

I know he is so busy assuring us
carnal knowledge is taboo in the afterlife
he has forgotten to wonder about
why we needed to die
in the first place.

Vic Gamble

Sorry John - John E Blaise

Grey, thin, drinks tonic water mixed with Gin.
Toothless, not bearded or a hag, walks with a wooden stick,
Winks an eye surrounded by wrinkled skin,
Try to imagine her first romance,
Love making between silk sheets,
Steamy passion behind closed doors,
Groaning and moaning through the floors.
Imagine, Imagine, Imagine.
Frail, once a plump woman,
Now a skeleton, dressed for dinner,
I see her wearing a shroud
Followed around by a dark shadow
Has nothing left to say or discuss
I don’t believe in Jesus

John E Blaise

Vegetable Patch - Vic Gamble

religion shits openly
on everything….but
there is always somebody
strolling behind the ass
  (dear God for thy name)
scooping up to feed
their dear little vegetable patch,
their not quite fertile
vegetable brain.

Vic Gamble

The Dilemma - Ian Duquemin

The gun lay loaded on the table
Its metal held a dull patina
Atmosphere lies heavy, on...
His agonised demeanour

Betrayal fills his angry thoughts
His finger spins the barrel blue
Hatred soaks his bleeding heart
The guns position - 10 to 2

Pointing at a photograph
The weapon aims towards her eyes
Those very eyes that sought another
Held so many lies

Returning to his grand finale
Voices scream from deep inside
"Do it" call the shrieking demons
"DO IT" they all cried

He holds the gun and lifts it slowly
Places it beneath his chin
"Pull it" shout the silent screamers
Taunting from within

Sweat rolls down like oily paint
That follows contours on his face
His fingers strangle, sticky handle
Time tilts him from grace

Eyes slammed shut and hands-a-trembling
Deathly silence hangs on air
Accelerated moments pass
He slumps back in his chair

Heartbeat rate now that of clock
Slows down with time and moving hand
Today was not the day for weeping...
Or the day he'd planned

Ian Duquemin

A Night at the Bar - Joan Raleigh

Straddled across my usual stool
in the Excelsior bar one night,
I watched the punters coming through,
male, moneyed, right for a bite.

Pete at the bar’s the prevalent pimp;
gives me a nod when he sees a full roll.
Then leaves me be if business is good,
(and if I come up with a cut ... arsehole!)

Playing the game as long as I have
when your instinct is right you can tell.
I can easily see a potentiality,
and their choice of tipple as well!

The guy with the cocktail could be good
but he plays for the other side;
And a treble whisky has got to be risky
in the one that’s a bit cross-eyed.

I thought ‘my luck’s in!’ with the next one in,
(a pigeon ready for plucking!)
Till a blowsy cow joined him at the bar ...
I swear that’s ‘Cliquot’ they’re drinking!

But when a good night works out right
and sex is with cognac in the sack!
I’ve got to admit, the graft’s pretty good,
so until I’m too ripe, I’ll be back!

Joan Raleigh

Requiem For Dead Alcoholic - Vic Gamble

With head well rigged
from bar port calls
he stumbles into yet another,
supping dregs of drams
and shit-faced flagons,
gormless in his gossamer,
a freebooter without plans.
And when they tired of him
they threw him out
into the sick-bay of the gutter,
where he churned and choked
in his own choice of vomit
and a slurred blasphemy
of mutter.

In the sweet bloom of morning,
while there was still a lacehole sky,
the cop turned him
with his bully stick;
his dead mouth open like a yawn
and a counterblast of emptiness
entreated in his eyes.
And nailed, like blue tattoo
the last words of his life
hung infinite in the air,
“Fuck it, Jesus, fuck it”.

It was as if
a beggar had been there.

Vic Gamble

Leeds 81 - Ian Duquemin

You never showed yourself to me...
But you may have passed me by!
Did I witness hatred in your soul?
See death within your eye!
I'd walked the many backstreets
Passed the red walls smoked in black
It never crossed my mind
That you might stab me in the back!
A kind of strange distraction
Just a twist to show you can
That maybe out of boredom
You would choose to kill a man
You wandered unknown freely
You were hunted high and low
Posters pleaded "FIND HIM"
And the search for you did grow
I strolled the streets at night time
My eyes watched out for you
Could I be the destined one
That stopped the things you do
I'd see you there about your work
And take a brick in hand
Then bash that brick upon your head
Above you proudly stand
I'd witness rage below you
From a horror scene of hate
Could I have been her hero?
If I'd not have come too late
But then the papers showed us
That the monster had been caught
You looked nothing like a demon
Or the devil I had sought
In fact you looked pathetic
Just a man beneath a beard
I'd imagined Mr Hyde
At least somebody weird!
Is that why you defected?
Did you need to be a name?
Did your god do all the killing?
And leave you to take the blame!
Or did you just find power
In the softness under touch?
And find that you enjoyed it far too much!
Ian Duquemin

Abortionist - Vic Gamble

Bleeding every one for her fee,
downstairs
there lives my friend the abortionist;
Merlin of the hot oils
she knows the vicious kick
of the pain beyond the pale of the Holy Union Grail;
but I am a full blooded male
and the mysteries of the unborn child
tend to get lost on me.

When those cries come skinless
from downstairs,
I dream of candy floss
and turn the hi-fi loud as sin
and smile my terrible smile
for every bleeding woman
pregnant with the loss
un-conceived by a double cross.

Downstairs there lives an abortionist
she shares my whiskey time to time
and talks deep voiced
on children she has worried to the bone
and all the arteries
she has broken, and all the clients
who took a loan;
she keeps her pain killers
in a petty cash box
scraped and scratched with dealings,
but I know she is the salt of the earth,
I see her dreams bloated with the
blur of her nightmares.

Downstairs,
in a cupboard
forceps shine
and slivers of surgical thread,
but I am a hot blooded male
and I do not have to give birth,
to the living,
or the dead.

Vic Gamble

Cop Show - Stephen A. Roberts

I'm looking for a TV cop show ending
Split screen, murder scene, forensics bending
Prime time, glamour crime, shotgun blasting
Helen Mirren, Kelly Reilly, central casting
Bent copper, bed hopper, always smoking
Drugs bust, bloodlust, SOCO poking
Old cop, girl cop, she good looking
Close up, bone cut, rookie puking
Blue lights, ripped tights, killer blow
Hardened rozzer, hard up prozzer, all on show
High rise, concrete sighs, urban hell
Dim lit, knife slit, pissy stairwell
Path lab, death slab, victim shorn
Legs splayed, flesh flayed, murder porn
TV cops, plastic cups, coffee vending
TV cop show, never ending, never ending

Stephen A. Roberts

The Angel From Hell Came Driving. (with his dog) - Alan Marquis

The wind a force of darkness, running its endless race,
the moon a huge silver rocket, soaring supreme through space,
as neon light bathed tarmac, at the last-stop petrol point,
when the Angel from hell came driving, to Charlie’s Hamburger Joint.

He’d a baseball cap on his head, a beard filled with boils at his chin,
a jacket of smooth black leather and Levi’s worn pretty thin.
His T-shirt glistened and glimmered, in that light it seemed like new,
but that was just reflection, from oil-stains, more than a few.

Wheels kicked-up dust in the car park, headlights cut night like a knife,
as he leaned on his horn for a moment, to call for the love of his life.
Skidding through a cloud, spilling beer from an ill-balanced bottle,
throaty engine roaring as he revved impatiently at his throttle.

Then a vision in shadowed light, she appeared from around the back,
Charlie’s black-eyed daughter, Conchita, munching on a snack.
Twenty stone of blubber, her bum almost four feet wide,
but the Angel from Hell adored her, `My Babe, My Babe,` he cried.

She hurried across the parking lot, her progress not with ease,
unfamiliar with any exercise, and her face filled with triple-cheese.
The Angel wrapped arms around her, or as much as he could reach,
in desperate effort to move her, like pushing a whale on a beach.

Struggling for breath the Angel, tried to lift her to the truck’s floor,
there wasn’t a moment to waste, and she’d never fit through the door.
Heaving one leg in a panic, he couldn’t manage both together,
and time was not on their side, if they wanted to live forever.

To the Angel’s mangy, cross-bred dog, this excitement lacked any fizz,
since he knew if arses got shot tonight, the first one would likely be his.
So leaping from the truck, he stole a triple cheese then bit Conchita’s butt,
and she cleared the tail-board in a mighty jump, thanks to a wise old mutt.

Then Charlie came screaming from the joint, greasy scarf around his head,
waving a twelve-gauge shotgun, he aimed to fill the Angel with lead.
But swirling dust in the driveway, spinning wheels, he was just too late,
as Angel hit pedal to metal, and in the back rolled his black-eyed mate.
(and a dog eating a burger)

Away along desert highway, seeking life they could live by their wits,
a forty burgers a day fat chick, and an Angel with a beard full of zits.
And whatever you may make of this tale, one thing is sure alone,
the Angel and his big Conchita, both owed the dog a bone.

Alan Marquis

The Great War - Aindre Reece-Sheerin

Aindre added this note to his poem which is why it has been put on an 'adult page'; "Please note this is not for the faint of heart or weak stomach."

The Great War - Aindre Reece-Sheerin

Great Uncle Patrick fought in the Great War
wounded very early on he told stories
of what went on with the Black and Tans
and how badly they treated Irish people

all the while his war wound would surface during
every other sentence as he had shrapnel
still inside his lungs and even on
an August day he sat by a roaring fire

roll of toilet paper in one hand and
gesticulating expressively with the other
then up it would come from the depths
Cough and Spit he called them
the two Flemish comedians

and into the paper he would spit mid sentence
calmly continuing the conversation, folding neatly as you like
leaving room for one more go and once the paper was sufficiently weighted
to the back of the fire he flicked it with a deftness unrivalled
and sit there and hiss and sizzle until it dried and then burned

hacccccaahhhh gurrrraaaach (spit)
over and over this would happen without any
formality, just routine and telling jokes all the time
until to bed he would go and then the real pantomime began

The house was always immaculate
dark brown stained doors stained glass front window
tiny rooms but with a huge kitchen
and always some scone or cake on the go

I remember being asked if I would stay over one night
and throughout the night he would call out Oh
Jesus, I'm done, I'm going Mary
Mary being his sister and my Great Aunt

A woman of kindliness unsurpassed a woman of substance who
wore bright blue bloomers and proud of them showing them on the Sea Saw and equally proud of being called Miss
never married, but a dancer supreme with numerous suitors

She shared the home and put up with the daily task of listening to many stories over and over and watching as we (I did anyway)
split out sides laughing at the eccentric actions
that only our family would take in our stride

he told many a near knuckle joke and so popular
was he that any Wake (Irish Funeral) and first
on the invite would he be

A hairdresser by trade and sported a fedora
drove a Volkswagen Fastback
drove it until Great Aunt Mary took his licence away
we would again laugh saying he kept death off the
roads by spending most of his time driving on the pavements

Sitting in his rocking chair with his checked blanket
and boiled sweets, a good and gentle man
God fearing and on that one night only
that I stayed, over and over he called

'it won't be long now Mary
oh Jesus, I'm dying
Oh God help me'
and I called out, 'I wish he'd hurry up
so we can all get some sleep'

He survived for many years after that
and I remember he offered to pay me
for staying the night and I was upset
but really I should have paid him for the entertainment

I can still hear him struggling to breathe and bringing up
phlegm laden cough after cough
I do not ever remember him complaining
and can even smell still the turf on the fire and hear the sizzle
of the gunk he had no choice but to bring up day in day out

Aindre Reece-Sheerin

All Around The World - Shannon Shell

With thanks to Al Green for the opening two lines.

All around the World
People are crying,
Listen and you can hear.
People are hiding,
Another beating they fear.
People are lying,
Plastic smiles from ear to ear.
People are dying,
It makes the pain disappear.

Jonny is crying.
His dad just died.
His family hates him.
They’ve taken his pride.
So tonight he cuts.
And his skin starts to peel.
Sometimes he wonders what it’s like to feel.

All around the world, sadness creeps in.
In all the places you’ve seen.
In all the places you’ve been.

Molly is hiding.
Her dad is drunk again.
She hides herself away.
She hopes she’ll be okay.
Then her dad opens the door.
He kicks her ‘til she bleeds.
He tells her she is worthless.
It’s a waste of air she breathes.

All around the world, sadness creeps in.
In all the places you’ve seen.
In all the places you’ve been.

Danny is lying.
All the pain and hurting.
Covered up by smiles.
All his stupid flirting.
And his laughter.
Just one terrible lie.
Drugs of salvation.
Rehab he’ll forever try.

All around the world, sadness creeps in.
In all the places you’ve seen.
In all the places you’ve been.

Jenny is dying.
She can’t breathe no more.
Noose around her neck.
Her feet don’t touch the floor.
The pain killed her.
Her family and friend.
They shut the door.
So this is her final end.

Crying can you hear.
Hiding and they fear.
Lying ear to ear.
Drying…then finally disappear.

Shannon Shell

Sarah - Shannon Shell

R.I.P Sarah (2010-2013)

Sarah - Shannon Shell

My name is Sarah.
I am but three.
My eyes are swollen, I cannot see.
I must’ve of been stupid, I must’ve of been bad
What else could have made him so mad?

When I’m awake I’m all alone.
My house is dark, my folks aren’t home.
When daddy does come home I’ll try to be nice
So maybe I’ll only get one beating tonight.

Don’t make a sound. ‘I’m sorry!’ I scream
But it’s no too late.
His face has been twisted into unimaginable hate.
The hurt and the pain…
Again and again.

Please god have mercy, please let it end.
He finally stops, and heads for the door
While I lay motionless sprawled on the floor.

My name is Sarah.
I am but three.
Tonight my daddy nearly killed me

Shannon Shell

Limerick on Annie - John Buchanan

There once was a woman called Annie
Who looked a bit of a granny
She picked up a sailor
Who thought he might nail her
But was shocked to discover she’s a tranny.

John Buchanan