POETRY REVIEW: You Took the Last Bus Home – by Brian Bilston


On Brian Bilston and why he rocks and stuff and things.

Liberate Tutemet


I’m not one to compare writers. I hate that. Yuk. Sure, it’s great for marketing, I suppose – if you must market. “Fans of such-and-such will love this novel by so-and-so…” YAWWWN. That sort of crap is lazy and unclever, and has never once given me that I JUST GOTTA HAVE IT vibe.

It’s somewhat pissing on the author’s skills, too: when the blurbage tells me that Writey McScribe is the next Clive Barker, all I hear is “this guy is wholly unoriginal, having re-hashed some dying old trope or other.” Talk about damning by faintstuff.

What I will do, though, is tell you who my own particular boat-floaters are, just so you know where I’m at; this *chick is notoriously hard to impress, particularly when it comes to those who poe. If you’re gonna rhyme your way straight to my heart, buddy, your wordplay is going to have to…

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WALL – by Dyer Wilk


A head on TV said it’s like this and that
Then another head joined into this little chat
The two heads then talked and yammered and yawed
With no full cessation of flapping of jaws
And of earlier times, they did reminisce
Though every word spoken was quite meaningless
Expounded they did on American greatness
Insisting so much that white men were thankless
But this greatness they wanted so much to restore
By showing the brown folk the exiting door
And then flashes of fascists appeared on the screen
King Asshole on stage, flanked by Asshole Queen
King Asshole then smiled, his mouth like an ass
And by freak of nature his voice was then shat
He said, “Thanks for the crown and the loyalty, too,
But I’m loyal to no one. The joke’s all on you.”
Then he won the election, ascended to throne
And he dropped every pretense that he had a soul
He rounded up brown folks and started some wars
He killed many children, I hope they weren’t yours
Yet he’s emperor crowned and we’ve all grown so tired
Now we’re against a wall and we wait to be firedimage

Sonnet 119


Sonnet 119
Across a pond a televisual church;
Displaying Armageddon unforeseen;
Our continent with theirs united: merged;
When British eyes ‘came glued to godless screens.
We fell at once into our chairs and pews;
As unbelievability unfurled;
A sermon painted in horrific hue;
An unprophetic evil unforetold.
A pestilential fever plagued glue-eyes;
Whilst fire and brimstone spoke destructive psalm;
And as this story true yet not devised;
For us to bear: a cross, to offer: alms.

Yet as not concrete-steel nor God protect;
So hopeless was each prayer and genuflect.

Sonnet 911


Two planes: our past and future would converge;
One outcome proving difficult and rare;
Four aeroplanes took flight while death emerged;
A five-walled building torn apart by air.
Into a field appeared the scythe of woe;
Aluminum and alloys razed a pair;
And those who should be allies proved the foe;
With perpetrators underground in lairs.
Political decisions at the root;
Retaliating badness’ voice was spoke;
And heard: a falling body, found: a foot;
Relations parted hearts – forever broke.

Horrific by the number, lies dispersed;
Impossible to sum by mournful verse.