Lust
By Daniel Wright
If you like this piece come check out Sinners Club, the English Society’s every now-and-then social and reading night. Tuesday, March 6th in Cafe Natura, 6-10PM. Check out the event page here. The theme this time around is sin. If you’d like to read something, shoot us a message, or introduce yrself on the night.
Humour me if you will. In this winter of diabolical discontent is it wrong to die? Think about it, wrong to die. Is it wrong to die? I think it probably is.
I heard a whistling from the next door room, my brother’s room, the room where he lives and watches filthy videos and reads his novels. I heard a whispering from my brother’s room, where he reads his novels. Humour me if you must, but why does he speak to himself, murmuring, grunting, whispering. I would kill him if I could, break his neck, the sound of snapping spine. He stirs and walks soundlessly to all but me down the carpeted stairs of our shared house. It would frighten him don’t you think if he knew that I wanted to break his neck. I’m not going to, I wouldn’t have a brother. I would have a prison cell, an age to read, write and be savaged by fellow inmates. An eon of sexual lust and assault, of pain and compressed orgasm. Yes, I can put up with these murderous petty insults, his whistling and stirring.
1992 - 2012
By Daisy Jones
I grew up surrounded by girls
Faces and curves and tiny white rows
Girls!
The dressing up box
Mud pies, cucumber sandwiches
Crabs and blood splattered rocks
At the seaside.
My mummy’s teenage belly
Covered warm in stripes and boyfriends.
The Golden Girl of the West
By Daniel Wright
She was Leanne, the golden girl of the west; so Henry Miller had described her, so he had told her, so Henry Miller had know her grow from that, away from that. Leanne, the golden girl of the west, with mod mini and everything; just as Henry Miller had described her. Along the Pacific Coast Highway, Highway 1, the road at the edge of America, the edge of the world, the world before Japan and the magic east - the magic Orient - she took an axe to a roaring fire, and watched it as the floor burned. Golden girl in flames, the Pacific Ocean in mourning.
This Tuesday, March 6th, The English Society will be hosting the first instalment of Sinners Club, our very own every-now-and-then social gathering and reading night. Join us in Cafe Natura from 6-10. Get a little drunk, listen to some work, say wonderful things about it all and go home happy. The theme this time around is sin. If you’d like to read, shoot us a message, or come introduce yrself on the night.
Check out the events page here.
012011
By Ashley Clarke
Left me in the snow and
And so intensely alive
Against that grey earth
I crushed up a lavender memory of you,
Laid it on the sodden pavement
Knelt
With sore, bloody knees
Bowed my head – into the gutter
And delicately touched my nostrils
As I took you in
And for a moment forgot the cold
Christ.
By James Lemons
Christ, what have they done to your hands?
They have filled them with placards
and sewn up your tendons with cotton.
I remember,
when you used to bleed.
This is not my Calvary, that M4
in your arms held stiffly with broken shoulder arched,
this is not my cross, at its foot I
don’t remember those small skulls.
Listen closely. They have fed
your starving with salt and sulphur,
AIDS and typhoid, your birthplace
is the grave of some woman or some
small child and they say this
is righteousness.
Untitled
by Daisy Jones
Hibernating amongst the waters of Greenland Dock
Resting, bobbing, cutting through the still green film
Where lone swans bow their sweeping necks
And boots scuff in shit across thudding wood
Pounding against my kicking legs in bed
Lies bare a thought so delicate with ease
I imagined the capture of rusty academics
The naked collarbone in morning heat
Itching the flush in the dormant of sleep.
Jazz Poem No.1
By Daniel Wright
Head:I speak of danger.
I speak of danger now to you,
And of danger now to you.
I speak of danger to the jew
and of danger for the yew.
I speak of danger for your lovely voice
and of danger in your lovely voice
and of danger shredding a wretched voice
in a furious laugh of never know.
Poem
By Christopher Whitfield
just so you know
the richest note you ever sang
fullest
standing tallest against the weather
too fell to crashing lips
and perished on the pile,
the most beautiful boy
with flowers under
ochre then skin
green turtle neck in the sun
hair piled up
too drowned in the mud of yr eye
no cleaner than the rest.
A Woman’s Heart
By Emily Cooper
With her blonde hair and pale yellow dress she reminded me of Sandra Dee from Grease.
“Look at me, I’m Sandra Dee, She looked directly into my eyes. She had no fear. I knew she would answer my questions honestly and I knew I wouldn’t like what she had to tell me. “Do you know who I am?” I feigned confidence and hinted at condescension. “Oh yes I do, the question is, do you know who I am?” She had a nicotine edge to her tongue. “That’s what I am here to find out.” Catfight.
Lousy with virginity,
Won’t go to bed ‘til I’m legally wed,
I can’t; I’m Sandra Dee.”
