Not So Poetry

SO

NOT POETRY

Collection I

Kate Lewin, Ticaux, Daryl Mersom, Matthew Joseph Johnson, Emy Neu Jade French & Anon Illustrations by Angus and Soest www.notsopopular.com Contribute: notsopopular@rocketmail.com

Spilt moonlight obscured the room Light breath rose the skin Sensations crept up her back Through the hands Close touched by fever Unbroken, delicate, Barely touching, Wholly present.

A moment before, The moment of muted youth.

by Ticaux

To His (more recent) Coy Mistress If I was as honourable as I suspect you’re hoping Then I wouldn’t really mind your aversion to my groping.

If I cared for more than just a night’s cold passion Then hell, I’d sit and make it my mission To compare you until you’re well beyond bored To wondrous things I could never afford.

But at my back I can already hear My mates are going to get more beer; And I’m not that bothered either way But we all know that your long lost virginity Can no more be found in this neck of the woods.

Truth be told I’m desperate. And I’ve heard you’re good.

Whilst the affects of this alcoholic hue Make you look a lot fitter than credit’s due, And given your mates have left you alone You’ve really no way of getting home So there’s little point in your half-arsed protest Or your mutterings about being ‘just another conquest’.

My vegetable love is becoming firm And its your cracking rack for which it yearns Though in the morning I’d rather you left – You’re a 5 pinter, a 4 pinter at best.

by Kate Lewin

Daniel’s Well A Diaspora of great men; Now rendered in pallid reflections, Bound in surrounding DLR demarcations.

They feel the snag of gentle rage For the boys of summer hanged.

Who groped in a tangle of foreign limbs, Bedraggled and moaning a small town yawn; Dipping milk bottle feet into streams -ink drops in a glass of water.

Forgetting who wrote For Jane After the shadows had faded.

by Daryl Mersom

Die Haare an meinen Beinen Nachgewachsen,wirr und stachelig Schwarz-blond gekruemmt und doch gerade von oben bis unten in eine Richtung Die Naegel meiner Zehen tragen keine Farbe durchsichtig sauber leer Sie tanzen entlang der Sehne Ser Blick wandert hinauf an meinem Bein So genau hab ich sie noch nie betrachtet ‘I saw the fear in your eyes as you were holding me tight’ Singen sie ich sah es Alles was ich jetzt sehe sind haare und fuesse Meine eigenen

by Emy Neu

I wondered in the spaces in between The silences felt, I wanted spoken The noise was open, friendly, contained It was the silences that kept us guessing.

Quick, stolen silences A muse that repulsively excites The disgust which intrigues exhilarates sickness The gaping silence – the gap

Faces turn into boiled eggs without the core of yellow gold Heavy steps, a rock bound to my leg I stole it from the see Thats where I met you Since then, it hasn‘t left It follows me everywhere I go like a cucumber-coloured shadow of heritage And even on the plane, I carry it with all my strength Get through it- Go throw itBut it wont go Every breath my exhausted, crumbled lungs take A rattling dizziness umklammert mein Herz Say, what does the Schnitzel cost?

The egg is tumbling down the rock‘s hairy back Pieces get tangled in it‘s finest curls This city, this placeI‘ve never been here before The incarnation of dusty ham The rock-connected to my heart through a spaghetti and a tomato clip The rock grates the parmesan

By Emy Neu

Appreciation, praise, impression Do they hear the silence running between Can they hear its breath light on the skin The silence panting, denial trips the runner He is submerged amongst the leaves Tangled but present, confused and disgusting discussing his existence, excites the blood.

Ageing or maturing, to taste an age One cannot be – to sample beyond – To break the silence, to vault the gap Is to pleasure the self in deluded reality knowing never attainable, never wanting to hear The silence.

by Ticaux

Cream Cheese I cannot sleep knowing what I do: I am not the one. Not the one to trip across antediluvian lands rose centred and conquering.

You find me hoarding, rooted and crying under the mulberry tree Milton danced under. Legend is not a word I will know. No man will intimately find me under a suffering sky.

What is there but neurotic brain and fantasy emotion?

Who knows what is true truth and focus... The weight of historic passion pulls like an upturned clown smile. Bare and arm startled.

So I tear at the tendons of the nucleus...

Unloved and dissolutely raging as champion of unconsidered reason

by JF

The field was ripe underneath his feet, grass curling upwards over his bare toes which wriggled. Soft notes in supine positions cracked with velvet velocity as his head turned upwards, bathing in the sun.

Daggers fell from his fingers, piercing the fertile soil- in their place grew trees baring diamond fruit. Hard and soft entwined. The sunlight began to touch all corners of the field and flowers sprang to life, trees blossomed, snakes began to slither from the ground as herons pecked at the spout of a lake. It was here he renounced his faith, pouring every drop he had ever learnt into the ground. He scrabbled, throwing soil into the air, rubbing it on his face as he dug a huge, gaping hole. Into that hole he poured every drop of holiness he had devoured. Then he lay next to the hole and appreciated the scene around him.

He saw that it was good.

When the Dark Comes Waving Fire touches the truncated mountain As lulls of gushed water mull the riverbank The ship sank downwards, spiral uncontrolled Bubbles rising for an instantaneous age The rust- that rush of oxidised boneBegan to shift, to spill into the deep water With infant bubbles bursting to the surface Frail in their dignity; skin ruptured in the light.

Seeing Ball Lightning Is Believing “A long ball of fire was rolling down the stovepipe…

Ma tried to brush it into the ashpan.”

On the Banks of Plum Creek, Laura Ingalls Wilder The ball entered the church, evaporated Holy Water, knelt at pews till they smoked, burnt hymn books into soot.

At each station of the cross this impossible electric force caressed a carved Christ with fire, splitting and doubling his strife.

At the altar there was no stoop to bended knee, no crossing, just sparks and ascending flame: vestments burned thread by thread.

Until Ma Ingalls took up her brush to sweep that pentecostal ball away.

The good parishners were careful not to play cards in the pews again.

by Matthew Joseph Johnson

The ghosts of nature took their nymph-steps Treading lightly over glass and broken songs Remembering the eyes which first glanced On the hills and daffodils; odes composed With tender-hearted prose. Now wolf-cries Howl in the early morning; giant swarms of Chaotic sound prowl the sun-glinted streets Rolling for an oceanic hit of life in the gut...

And the fire touches the totem sky-scraper And the forgotten ship corrodes in a shell Of long-lost symphany

by JF