bitch, he says.
stupid bitch,
reaching over the counter for my colleague
whilst his girlfriend stands behind him
looking bored.
at least, I assume she’s bored
under those big sunglasses.
they get their refund in the end.
it’s the quickest way to get rid of them.
it’s the only way:
a company
can’t accuse an individual
of inappropriate behaviour.
that would be fascism.
apparently.
I think.
anyway,
no – my shaken teary colleague
CANNOT have a break:
can’t she see how long the queue is now?
– Paul Tanner… ...continue reading
Ever since I was a child, the grass irritated my ankles. To combat this, I would wear socks when walking in the grass, leaving green stains on white cotton. Here the world looked safe. The sun was hot, striking my skin until it was a dark red. Blueberries crushed against the pads of my fingers. Their juice became stickier as the heat began to rise. I wanted to feel the grass beneath my feet. So I dumped the bucket of berries on the ground and started jumping on them. The berries became little sticky fireworks. My feet sunk deep into the berries. Grass began to grow between my toes, tangling around my ankles. Eventually roots took hold of my toes, and the grass wound up my wrists.… ...continue reading
With one leg not two, he’s a great little hopper.
He has to be. Our knowledge can only be finite says Popper,
a philosopher of whom this little black bopper
has possibly not heard, not even a whisper,
but Karl has a point, a legitimate view:
the bird can’t imagine hopping on two.
From the path to the compost, the rail to the bin,
he’s perfected the art of hopping on one
a hop left then right, like a one-legged trooper
adroitly avoiding coming a cropper,
backwards and forwards, forwards and backwards:
thirteen ways of hopping for a blackbird.
When fate deals you a bad hand or rather a bad leg or rather a non-existent leg it may seem improper
but as mentioned our knowledge can only be finite says Popper:
so when fate deals you an unfair cop,
what can you do but live in hop?… ...continue reading
– Paloma Sierra
Author’s Note: Life often exposes us to violent storms, but like the seed of the mangrove tree, we can find a home wherever we drift.… ...continue reading
I don’t know flowers
so I couldn’t tell you their names
but I passed a cluster of them
on the way to work:
they were light purple long thin buds.
maybe some kind of lavender?
I don’t know
but since the published poets
were always banging on about flowers
I thought, what the hell
let’s see what all the fuss is about
and I bent down
to have a sniff:
I didn’t like them.… ...continue reading
You used to leave your shoes beside the doorway, letting the season drip off onto the carpet. Now, you walk them off wherever you please, one foot out, one foot in. Sometimes, you grab the wrong shoe out the door, so you walk around mis-matched. You used to bring home honey on Saturdays. A treat from nature. You used to cradle my body to your chest and kiss the back of my earlobe. You used to pull quarters from behind my ears. It’s magic. Now, my ears are un- kissed and magicless. You used to try and bake cupcakes, but you never read the directions, so they were always very dry, and burnt. We would sit with a can of icing and a bottle of wine, eating the cupcakes.… ...continue reading
1.
Till the end (there is no end)
2.
Scores of flying scissors cutting the air
above the rooftops and cathedral
3.
She is so much younger
4.
They leave (hidden behind the column her friend
had been only an audio and purse). We stay
and take their place (watching, sipping
our beers, crunching our snacks)
5.
The burning fish is dying a slow death behind the cathedral.
A last gasp of orange and black has taken the scissors
and the fish. Only the cathedral remains, drinking
imperfectly (perfectly) from the absent
moon
– R L Swihart… ...continue reading