Don’t Worry, Kid.


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I shed my skin many years ago.

At the back of those high trees in junior school.
That never ever seemed to grow gold in autumn.

It’s still there I bet – petrified. Old. stone skin.
Knees supporting a chin somehow still held high.
With a muddy arse on blooded school trousers.

Just still lacking whatever that place kept
Telling me I lacked.

We are different people him and I
He is my Bukowski’s bluebird
The boy I nurture and protect. As me and my own.

No one sees him – no one hurts him.

Only problem is –
He tells me what he used to tell everybody
“I’m fine, nothing to worry about, I just fell over”

I wish I didn’t know any different.

© Chris Flame 2013


A message to a younger self, and a reflection on current woes, “Don’t worry, kid” is a poem which strikes deep into the darker side of growing up and life itself. A personal, reflective piece by Chris Flame, this is a poem that will be familiar to many who read it. A dark, brilliant piece of confessional poetry by this young writer from the UK.

If you want your poetry featured on this blog and our upcoming, new site, then send us an email with your poetry in the body of the text, to


The Porcupine Lady


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Your brushstrokes make me smile.
You have weaved fluorescent purple streaks
about my hair.
Standing tall on my head a hat –
crafted from wire; all shiny bright and prickly.
Porcupine springs to mind.
What was on yours – when you painted it?

At the sitting
You offered me a plastic cup of lemonade.
Fizz went up my nose
I sneezed, you laughed.
What was the meaning of all that.

It doesn’t look like me
you have captured me young
Salad days – party nights
excessively overly overconfident
in my pig headed way.

The painting was a birthday bequest
just me, my smile, the wire.
The rest of me, seemingly lacking of attire.
I stand back admiring its dignity.
Such a pity that it resembles
someone else –
Someone: Who could never be me…

© Poppy Taylor 2013


With a certain touch of Sylvia Plath about it, “The Porcupine Lady” by Poppy Taylor is todays featured poem. With a certain tender, shy awkwardness about it, this poem by one of our regular authors fold back the layers of a summer romance and looks back on halcyon days wistfully. A beautiful, reflective piece of poetry to add to our archives.

Whilst you’re here, why don’t you take a few minutes out of your day and check out the other poetry by Poppy and the other writers we have featured on the site?

Mourning Broadcast


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Culturally obsessed celebrity death tontine
I don’t fucking get it
Maybe I don’t want to
But how in the holy mother of fuck did we get here?
Arrive at this juncture at this time?
How did we, as a culture and a society let the bar so freely fall?
I am ashamed; bashful at my contemporary existence
Make no mistake, this is not an elevation nor sanctification of the fore bearers,
As appreciative and respectful of their contributions I am,
God knows they made their mistakes as well
But goddamn, surely you upheld your poor choices and lowbrow decisions with a bit of grace
Being no historian, I do not recall a case of hieroglyphic paparazzi
Or tabloids having to know what color Martha Washington’s underwear was
I have yet to hear the story of Lana Turner twerking in a public market
Or Fred Astaire protesting abortion clinics with throngs of demonstrators
Maybe I missed that in history class
But back on point,
Here we sit making weekly bets on the radio of which celebrity will die first
This runs deeper than the trivialization of death and the idolization of celebrities
Those deities which we scrutinize and follow with feverish interest,
Forcefully forming our beliefs around them
This cannot be what media was purposed for
This is an infection that is pleading for amputation
Yet, here I stand
Befuddled by the goddamn wastrel of obsessions and sad state of prominence
As a society we stand waste deep in our own cunt rags and call it progress
Fucking hell!
So deeply we have dug the trench we place our minds into
We may never get out
Certainly not alive
It is nary a delusion
Merely a depressing conclusion
That with this inclusion
To cope with sad confusion
May be my sole solution

© Cody Jemes 2013


Seething with discontent and disillusion, “Mourning Broadcast” holds up a magnifying glass to the state of modern celebrity culture, and burns it’s flesh away with a concentrated beam of cynicism.  An intense, angry piece, this poem rips it’s subject matter to pieces, throwing away the remnants in disgust. A breathless piece.

Leave your thoughts below on this piece, and follow us for more new poetry and news of what is going on in our little corner of the publishing industry.

Weekend Poetry Readings: Jack Kerouac – McDougal Street Blues


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Hello again, WordPress. How is your Sunday doing?

Time for a little bit of Kerouac, we think. Always good for those slightly gloomy, overcast days when your private thoughts turn to themselves. There’s something about the jazz-infused sentiment and sensibility of Kerouac’s work that has an odd pull over the listener, enveloping them in a world that is strikingly familiar yet ever-so-slightly different to that they may have experienced themselves. Jack told his vision of America the way he saw it, with warts and all. Brutal honesty and cynicism, sarcasm, humour and a way of finding the beautiful in the morose and everyday that still rings true to this day.

We hope you enjoy this reading by one of the greatest writers of the 20th Century.

Negative Aesthetic


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winter sunshine through the breakfast window
a pod of whales blowing mists in the bay
draw the curtains tight
must block out the day

coffee mug is dirty
grease is on the walls
and though I’m well past thirty
still have not seen it all

haven’t seen a lady dance
in motel neon lights
haven’t seen a shower of
falling broken kites

haven’t tipped a green canoe
tread water beneath its curve
never lounged with demimondes
drunk gin and lost my nerve

a bird is on the windowsill
suppose he sings to me
I pull my soiled blanket tight
rap the glass pane angrily.

©  Wallace Barker 2013


In “Negative aesthetic”, Wallace Barker presents the reader with a window into the soul of the lonely and disaffected. Musing upon feelings of regret and unfulfillment, the poem draws us into a moment in time where thoughts turn to negativity and introversion. Dark, introspective and desperately seeking something more that this life, Wallace’s words have a power that punch heavily with a minimum of weight, and sparsity of language.

What are your thoughts on this poem by Wallace Barker?



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Rereading page after page,
Paper burns with a crackling sound:
The sound of burning bones
(Excepting one).
Fire purifies, fire destroys;
It converts charred remains to ashes:
Pure, gray and black melange,
A language is yet to be found;
Limbs entangled like ropes,
Bonds broken when one breaks down;
A lost pair of eyes, searching for another of its kind
Where is that hand to be found again?
Glittering, heavy with weight-
Diamonds and wrinkles
Look beautiful together;
A laugh left behind swollen eyes.
Shocked, the pages turn of their own accord:
Enchantments do not work any more.

© Geetakshi Arora 2013


Invoking meanings lost within memory, Geetakshi Arora’s poem “Remembrance” envelops us within a private moment where situation leads to reflection. Introspective, evocative and tender, this piece draws the reader in to the writers own life like a moth to a solitary candle. A nicely constructed little world of hidden meanings.

What are your thoughts on todays poem by Geetakshi Arora?

Weekend Poetry Readings: Ted Hughes


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Good afternoon everyone, how are we?

For this weeks poetry reading, we decided to go with some Ted Hughes. Always a delight to find readings by this great poet, and it pleases us to share them with you for your weekend listening. There’s something mystical about Hughes work, this reading is poetry as storytelling, very accessible but also deeply complex.

Enjoy this reading, and have a great day, whatever it is you are doing on this Sunday.

Piccadilly squares at the Hoxton Circus (From Happy Hour At The Misery Bar)


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Maybe just a shadow in the
Shape of London calls me back.
The well-worn alleyways
I have danced and crawled home on
Now feel like the burst capillaries that go unwashed
By the version of the Thames pouring
Into the powder smeared basin
Of a certain someone growing old disgracefully.

The Topshop princesses that
March to the beat of a receipt
Written in 4/4
(I wonder what they do that for?)

Wear kind daisy smiles
That turn to flower-on-fire scowls
When I politely point out –
I know where they bought their names from.

And the men are even worse,
Phosphorus pretenders with as much
Sparkle as flat cola.
They talk shit without value; it festers
Leaking from their mouths
Like processed cheese oozing from a burger.

And just how do they imagine the working people
Their dedication to cool evicts,

Bare strung wailers in the humility of night?
Or the actuality of bankrupt teeth
Chattering sharp on heartless late shifts.

As I climb the jacket of a skyscraper –
Numbed by the thin embrace of
A polystyrene coffee morning,
I laugh at just how tired the life they desire is.

© Sean L Macro 2013


Todays featured poem is by Sean L Macro, and comes from his debut collection “Happy Hour At The Misery Bar”, which is also our latest publication. We thought we’d share this one with you as a taster of the book itself, which we would very much like if you picked up a copy of. A cynical, satirical look at the nightlife and it’s inhabitants that many people will be aware of if they have ever walked through any one of our cities at night, this piece has more than an element of Bukowski about it.

If you want to see more of the talent of this up-and-coming young writer, then go grab yourself a copy of “Happy Hour At The Misery Bar” for either your bookshelf or kindle. You won’t be sorry.

Paperback version (£4.99):

Kindle version (£2.02): (US – $3.05 –

Things that don’t concern me


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I guess a part of growing up
Is learning how to be comfortable wearing someone else’s tongue,
Learning all the ways their shoes bend with the dirt.
She says once in a while, standing on the edge is fine
But I stay out on the line much too late
And hear all the talk about how I’ll never make it in this world.
No, no, in my defense, that ain’t right
But they can’t hear me from inside the kitchen,
So I guess I’ll wait a little longer until the ground blurs up a bit
To go inside by the warm
And discuss my thoughts on things that don’t concern me.

© Christopher Stubenrauch


Todays piece is by Christopher Stubenrauch, an 18 year-old poet. Dealing with themes of adolescence, individuality, growing up and the need to find one’s place in the world with their own thoughts and opinions, this poem showcases a burgeoning talent in this young writer. A piece which begs the question of why people think they know more merely because of age, and argues the case from the viewpoint of youth, this poem by Chris is questioning, introspective and private.

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The Mere


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‘Do they have boats on The Mere?”
How we laughed as the Norfolk lilt
Slipped uninvited into his voice
Like the woman no-one knows who
Always sits at the back at weddings.

Snapshot memories of golden cornfields
Painted forever late Summer,
Poppy filled remembrances of early mornings.
Woken by a distant crowing rooster
And the strangeness of an unknown bed.

The awkwardness of a child
Around relations unknown and newly met,
Family in name yet unfamiliar
The comfort of laughter as my Father asks
‘Do they have boats on The Mere?’

© Angela Perkins 2013


Reminiscent of summer childhoods, “The Mere” by Angela Perkins is a sentimental poem that is fuelled by memory. A beautifully personal and reflective piece which arouses memory of better times and family, “The Mere” showcases Angela’s talent and is poetry at it’s most evocative.

Leave your thoughts below on this poem by Angela Perkins.