Shakey’s Got Back

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My preference be known for larger rumps;
Unable as my conscience be to fib;
All other men, their inner voice be stumped
By sphere-arsed ladies showing waists of wisp.

Her pantaloons of blue have caught me deep
I find my mouth agape, by fisher reeled;
Mine eyes can not avert, t’is bad to sleep;
If artist present, paint a picture real.

I took a warning of such perils round;
Behinds that make my nature think of bed;
Afore my eyes I see this dance renowned;
And as she shakes, so parts of me pump red.

Pretenders to the throne in waifish guise;
My queen be large, be fat – no time for lies.

LMN

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Sin, oh!

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I flutter around the cluttered bookshelf in my head
When I should be asleep in bed
But instead
I float because I know
That many words have the same meanings
And I have leanings towards those sorts of things
So sing with me, a winged sylph
The tune, the song, the ditty
Of the pretty Synonymph.image.jpg

Sonnet 2,864

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I can’t express the things he does to me;
Not telling feelings true, I hide my thoughts;
And as I cannot speak the things I feel,
Instead I find I’m saying what I ought.

It’s not as though we wrote the rules of us:
A contract in accordance with a bond;
No more, nor less, no reason for distrust;
We cannot split a kingdom once we’re gone.

Descending into madness leaves me blind;
With horror mainly happening offstage;
And if we spoke our hearts the way we find,
Perhaps we’d see life imitate the page.

For now, ignore the youngest daughter’s way;
And only speak the things we ought to say.

LMN

Sonnet 2,231

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I do not claim to know the shapes of love:
Do cotton cumuli hearts manifest?
Perhaps it’s that I’m cautious, wary of
My heartbeat sounding nothing like the rest.
Because no frames of reference may be found,
It could be that I don’t know how love’s done;
My wax it melts and settles on the ground;
As I am Icarus, I’m my own sun.
No feathers left; impossible to fly
Without direction, flight’s forever lost
With intervention I shall skim the sky
As I become the Me that love forgot

I may not know the curvature of love
But I shall board the flight till life takes off.

LMN

Art: Erik Wilson

Sonnet 2,947

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Though miles are bastard plenty, they be traced
So near you sit; so far you fuck my mind
This empty, full-up World is but a space
Now time and old new planets are aligned

Two starstuff parts had fucked to become one
Though stars be dead their light remains alive
Across the universe our pieces shone:
A single part made two become revived

Right now you’re a fuckternity away
Yet close enough to make my soul complete
Our bodies are brought closer night-by-day
For as we write in song, we breathe in beats.

My time, my space, my last and yet my first;
My life, my mind, my fucking Universe.

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

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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 contend with the likes of Thackray and Lehrer, and you need to be eatin’ Shakespeare and Gilbert for breakfast – and you have to be able to think all four of ‘em under the table.

*Old bird.

Disclaimer: If you believe that poetry is simply defined as ANY OL’ PROSE WITH ARBITRARY LINE BREAKS arbitrarily shoved in ARBITRARY PLACES, then:

I

will

not

be

read

ing

your

stuff.

If you don’t put your very self into your art, please refrain from bothering my eyeballs. I ain’t interested in reading writing; I want – NEED – to read WRITERS.

So, what DOES make a poet? Or, rather, what makes my kinda poet?

It’s simple. It’s not about what the words mean to the reader – but what they mean to the person doing the poeing. Can they twist and bend words like Twisty McBenderson at his finest? Do they leave you salivating, dangling that end rhyme in the air, postponing it until you can cope no more, before landing it safely on the runway? A true (to himself and the reader) poet relishes how words feel, smell, and sound, how they taste in your mouth as you speak ‘em, and he knows exactly how to make ‘em DANCE.

I can count on one finger those I hold sacred amongst my contemporaries. Ladies and gents (and every gender in between), I give you Brian Bilston. This dude knows how to word.

THE LAST BUS HOME is Bilston’s debut … oh, bollocks to all that. I’m not going to tell you the stuff you can read anywhere else. That’s just padding. If you want to know when and where it was published, and by whom, then check the BUY IT NOW OR FOREVER HOLD THY WORDS link here:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Brian-Bilston/e/B01I8GPLFG/ref=dp_byline_cont_pop_book_1

This is the sort of book you should forget to feed your cat for. This is the sort of book for which you should drop everything, RIGHT NOW, and just reaaaaad. (Speaking of dropping, do not even THINK of taking said volume into the bath with you. I speak from soggy experience. Actually, strike that. DO bathe with it, because then you shall have to take purchase of a second copy.)

Unputdownable is a term that should be reserved wholly and exclusively for the work of BB; his very mind is on them thar poetic pages, I tellzya. From simple silliness to moments of sheer genius, there’s something for everyone. And if you have a brain of the more literary persuasion, then this stuff is nothing short of grey-matter-fodder.

To say there is wordplay in store for you is the underest statement since Tiny Isaac, my local skint midget, said he was coming up short. Who else would do poetry by mathlight to make words be all Fibonacci sequency? Who else could offer lip-reading lightbulb moments of broken hearts and fixed words? Who _ls_ would omit a l_tt_r from an _ntire po_m to mak_ a point?

I have many favourites. But Read My Lips is the one – THE ONE – that seeps right into the very core of me (I won’t spoil the ending for you):

“To be clear, I’m not talking

Fifty Shades of Grey here,

but someone who knows their way around

the complete works of Shakespeare.

 

“I would rip out my heart

and write her name upon it

if she might recite to me

his eighteenth sonnet.”

THIS – right here – is how he rips my wordy l’il heart out. I was using that, damn you, Bilston.

So yes – buy this book. NOW. Eat this poetry. Salivate, devour, and relish it, and savour every last drop of Brianness as you decide whether to envy or idolise the man. Me?  I’ll be right here, waiting for the next bus.

Linda Angel

TO DO WITH ME

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There may be lesser-crying, better-trying women,

Much more fun and better at puns than me.
And if you were a man for simple things,
Like flawless lives and smaller baggage,
My dearest, you might have no more to do with me.

But I know well enough that you are much more choosy.
I want day-to-day to find myself with you.
With the hand-in-hand, the word and song,
The songs and poems and the laughs and stories,
You surely can’t want anything to do with me.

A romance is supposed to go like happy-ever-after network,
Marking things with a regular ping  of “I like you!”
But there are days enough when the like is racked and pinioned,
Which nobody else knows better than we two do.

There may be better-placed and better tasting women,
Or toned and sightly girls more tight than me.
And if you were the simple sort of bloke
For Whisky sour and Rum and coke, oh
Dearest, you would have no more to do with me.

But there’s no such dependably stupendous man,
Hot as Hell, you can tell that I fell for you.
And lip to lip or cheek to cheek
Playing with toes or rolling some playdough,
My dearest, I hope you want every thing to do with me.

A romance is supposed to go like happy-ever-after network,
Marking things with regular pings of “I like you too!”
But there are days enough when the like keeps coming and coming,
Which nobody else knows better than we two do.

There may be smoother-talking, ruder, squawking women.
Better-spoken, much less baggage here than me.
But they’ve all got, as like as not,
Less love for you than I have got
Dearest, I hope you shall just make do with me.

There is just one-caress-and-leave-you-breathless woman,
One such tender, godless friend: that’s me.
And not now and then, nor if and whether,
But time and again for ever and ever,
My dearest, I hope you want everything to do with me.

Original words: Jake Thackray

Reworked badly by Linda Angel