this modern life poetry and photography by Liam Lambert and Pete Taylor
welcome Hello there! This is a zine you’re reading, but unless you fished this out of a bin somewhere, you already knew that. Specifically, this zine is a labour of love by two UK students, neither of whom can seem to catch a break in two notoriously competitive and treacherous industries. If you’ve ever tried to sell your photos or writing (or music, or homemade jewelery, or black market organs) to another person, you’ll probably know how hard it is to even receive a rejection, let alone a something more positive. So, two school friends (that’s us btw) decided to take up our pens and cameras and try to release something ourselves. Inside, you’ll find a collection of poetry and photography exploring the theme of modern living, and the highs and lows that inevitably come with it. Pete’s photography represents a sober, sombre, beautiful look at the way we live today, as he perfectly captures images of cityscapes, bustling markets and fairground rides, as well as smaller, more personal scenes of joy, sadness, and, all too often, indifference. As for my writing, I can’t say anything too good about it, that would be super arrogant. There’s yarn about drinking, business, living with students, and videogames. Some poems are silly, some are serious. Some poems rhyme *gasp*, some poems don’t *phew*. I’m sure Pete would tell you: “It’s alright I suppose.” You might not enjoy everything that follows, but hopefully at least one photo or poem will make you say “Huh”, and stroke your chin a bit.
Thank You!
Thanks so much for buying/reading this. We probably don’t know you, but I bet you’re a super cool person.
All images belong to Peter Taylor. All words belong to Liam Lambert. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the express permission of either Liam Lambert or Peter Taylor. Zine designed and assembled by Liam Lambert. Printed by Printtalk Ltd.
Street Parking Jaguars hunt for street parking in their fine black suits and Monday whites the red, amber, green of the red, white and blue ushers them across highways and underpasses, through cultivated greys to the true almighty green. Big cats need room to roam, so they spread their paws across leather seats and look to escape their jaguar corridors. Six days of captivity plucks them of their being, so at week’s end they gather for hydration And pleasure. Lovers stay for reproduction, and fighters forgo the noise for a club of their own – steel barred. They remain wary of Alphas, and of course their rival cats (and dogs), because jaguar corridors are tight And cramped, with little room to breathe or think or speak or roar. Give it seven and they’ll do it all again – The parking spaces change, but the hunt remains the same.
Oven Gloves When I was three I liked to wear my mother’s oven gloves round the house. I wasn’t baking bread, nor browning chips, but cutting the air in two with my fists. Give me gloves and I rise like moreish loaves, though droves of parents made their puzzled looks known, on the playground where I whizzed and popped, alone. When I was four those oven gloves sent me crumbling to the floor. The joined hands locked around my hips, I crashed into concrete like a sack of bricks. Give me gloves and I sink like heels in mud. And would those watchers help me out, or simply stare and say, aloud: “What do his parents feed him?” When I came of age, I understood there’s more to life than looking good. Life is an expensive cheeseboard, Filled with choices, badly cooked. Take these gloves, and with them carry the burnt pizzas and turkey dinners of existence. Be careful not to burn yourself; and pass them on when you are done.
Glass Bottom Bloke There’s shomethin’ shpecial about the way you melt in the bottom of my JD glass. Your legsh that go all the way up to… the top bit of your legsh, and a waist like two ocean buoysh nailed together. I’ll bomb one more toxic shambuka, and shummon up shome shemblance of courage, to ask you to dance to… is this Madonna? Taylor Shwift. I knew it! This box of lights and flesh pulshates and churns like my shtomach and head when I shee a shmile, or possibly a frown shrouding your face. Yesh, that’s one crooked shmile. There’s shomethin’ shpecial about the way you leave from the bottom of my JD glass.
TM20 You to me are rock-type. Stalwart against my electricity, but weak to your own waters. I, to you, am fire-type. Brief and scalding; left briefer still by those waters.
But I am grass-type; odd and venomous - a sickly spindle given life by your waters.
And we will never be normal-type. As long as we can TM20. And you are steel-type. Cold and hard, but hardly immune To stranger substances that come.
Little Black Box In the little black box you swipe across toys and boys, and time wasting tools, and the nonsense words of useless fools who scroll through you as idle chatter seeps through their ears and grey matter. Caught black handed pleading to a worldly court. Lying to the public gavel as they unravel tall tales and proverbial porkies kept inside that walkie talkie. Dirty, fleshy secrets kept in the clean-filthy shard, because: “Life’s so hard!” and needs respite. The glow of box’s light will guide you to your next obscene delight.
Foreign symbols here and there, reality cannot compare to all the modded snaps as humans lapse. For what? A peek inside that little black box.
Sonnet 130.1 My mistress’ eyes are nothing but her sight. It matters not, the redness of her lips. If the Kardashians be dun, then her breasts are white. It matters not to her, the Chinese food on her hips. If hairs be wires, a new metaphor I’d need. Not that I’d ever even think so low; Perhaps a cable or a white extension lead? Does Rihanna bottle her breath? I didn’t think so. But of course music sounds better than her voice; There are no rehearsals for simple conversation. But I’d certainly listen to her out of choice; For hours on end, without hesitation. It’s no surprise, then, that I think my love as great, As the first, third or 200th date.
Home After The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim The sun no longer keeps the way, fine green and purple lanterns take his place. Their sickly glow will guide us through the wonderful nightmares our home has to offer. Thieves, beasts, purveyors of the occult be warned. This is our home, and we do not take lightly to the dark; those to whom danger is no more than a day’s work. We wipe our boots on rock mats, then curl up on matresses of grass. The lights are out entirely now. Even the lanterns fell to the inevitable blackness of oh, whatever time it is. And as we take turns watching, there’s something irresistible about blood soaked matted fur on snowy carpets, or the way the water shines a wink at you upon reflection. It’s a rather large home, so it comes with its hazards and quirks, sure. But only when faced with ghastliness of death, do we appreciate the sharp edges and cold evenings of living. Awakened by our 8AM alarm call; flame soaked arrows volleyed from a cliff. “No matter” you say, white knuckled and with that look of steel. This is our home. “Time to do some housekeeping”.
Retail therapy Sit back against the sofa, sir, and take the weight off your feet. It’s premium black leather, that, not made from cheap-o cows. You say you’re feeling down, depressed? We’ll soon sort that out. It all started last year, doc, when my Missus left me. She took the kids, the car, and my 40 inch TV. Walked out the door, broke my heart, and my Rolex watch. But the crux of your issues, my friend, lies elsewhere I’m sure. She took your things, I understand, but what did she leave you? A hollow, husk of a man, I know, but what of your Blu Ray Player? She took everything, Doc, I’m telling you straight! I’ve not a penny or pound but to pay for advice, She didn’t even leave me with a single Apple device. And this has left you dejected, yes? The loss of wealth, Property? Let’s go back a little further. Your mother. What was the first thing she bought you for Christmas? There was my Action Man bike, then my football boots. Then how could I forget, Christ, my “Barbie Bake With Me Oven” I never forgave her after that. The cruelty of that woman! I see the problem now, I do. It’s clear to all but you. Between festive seasons – of this I am sure the dip in gift expenditure.
Eulogy for Art Arthur V, or Art for short, A man of bold creative thought Lies here in frozen ground today His nearest, dearest send away He took and gave in equal measure, Concerned with only pain and pleasure. The art I knew was kind cruel and kind, A unique beauty plagued his mind. Remembered mostly for his work, His biting prose and obtuse quirk. But few are here to mourn his death, And less could hear his dying breath.
Twenty one I count at church And his good name it will besmirch To see so few turn up today, But Art has always been that way. To the world he leaves his kids, Pernicious, tech-mad invalids. Art’s funeral is more the bitter; His kids can’t look away from Twitter. To his wife, the faithful muse, The one he thought he’d never lose, He leaves an utmost simple task: Remember me, that’s all I ask.
I Had Sex With Captain America We tumbled around on his star-spangled sheets. Awash in his deep, red face, his brilliant blue eyes, and something white. We grappled as if in mid fight; let’s just say he won. I lost. “Hardly Iron Man, but better than Hawkeye, at least” (his aim was off). He clutched pillow as shield: “I must return to the field. My country needs me.” I’d certainly hit a nerve. The flaccid member of the Avengers began to weep, softly, into his hands. “That was my first time… since 1945.” “I could tell.” As he left, I stifled a howl to a giggle. Scrawled across Cap’s back in hot-pink lipstick, a message to the world: “Hail Hydra.”
Mathematics Four walls times eight tenants. Times so arduous we soon forget we’re simply eight to the power of walls that ate tenants. Eight tenants divided by two different kinds of living. To find the difference, one must first calculate: Four walls minus eight tenants equals everyone out in the long run. For walls mine us of our strength in this long division. Eight tenants squared off against each other, and divided into two groups of four. To solve this particular sum, One must subtract times spent inside four walls from eight tenants, then divide them by the sum of their parts.
“Paradise” It’s that smell again, Of pricey cologne and Coconut syrup forced down My throat like a tropical Tracheotomy. It’s those fingers now, Rubbing my sides like Sweaty meat wands rearing Up for the strongman’s Operation. It’s the neck of it, Bulging frog-proud to Bursting. Unconcerned That I will need a Doctor. Please.
Sarcoughagus You’ve made your bed, now lie in it. Til the bed makes you and you must lie To yourself about all the reasons you can’t get up. Five, ten alarms burrow holes in your skull. Those sheets were toasty warm, now cremating, A heated coffin to house your coughing And sneezing, and tears to stain the stains Put there by happier fluids – days before. I’m encased in quilt, this house I built. I’ve made my bed, and I’ll die in it.
And On The Seventh Day God created atheists, And was super bummed out On the eighth.
Pete Taylor is a photographer from Lincoln, UK, currently studying Contemporary Lens Media at Lincoln University. He currently provides comission photography for weddings and other events, and his images have been featured on HitRecord.com. Twitter/Instagram: @Peteylor Photography: petetaylorphotography.tumblr.com Contact: peteylor@gmail.com
Liam Lambert is a writer from Lincoln, UK, currently studying Creative Writing and Media at York St John University. He is an editor and writer for games media outlet Gizorama.com, a creator of D.I.Y comic strips, and has had short fiction published in online magazines. Twitter/Instagram: @Crowtagonist Writing: wordsfrommynosebone.tumblr.com Games Criticism: gizorama.com Contact: liamclambert@gmail.com
this modern life