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

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

Liberate Tutemet

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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…

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Sin, oh!

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Liberate Tutemet

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

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SPEAK WHAT WE FEEL – REVIEW: KING LEAR – Shakespeare’s Globe, London

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King Lear: Shakespeare’s Globe

Liberate Tutemet

Nancy Meckler’s take on King Lear sure ain’t perfect. Far from it. But it’s certainly inventive, and whilst it’s perhaps over-confident in parts, it offers an innovative (if inconsistent) glance at the ultimate dysfunctional family.

We see the stage, which all the world is. Only here, it’s covered with sheeting, and is to be gradually revealed throughout the performance. Dotted about the blank canvas are a number of pretenders to the throne that is The Globe: painted vagrants having a doss as the real action is happening. Perhaps a nod to current conditions (or, indeed, our shocking attitudes towards them,) I’m not sure this device adds anything positive to the production. Lear is enough of a play on its own without adding extra layers or weaving contemporary subtleties into its fabric.

KING LEAR is getting on a bit, and is contemplating abdication or retirement or foot-putting-up or whatever you wanna…

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SECOND DO NO HARM

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Liberate Tutemet

Your stories need you

As is the case every single day that ends in y, you pick up a book. And whether it’s just-pressed fresh, or hills-old and tattered, it looks and smells delicious – each individual page tempting your nose towards a sniffywhiff, and collectively, begging you to fan them towards your face just so you can snort their entire essence right up the ol’ snout in one go. Shaven, pulped wood feels more natural to you than the trees whence it came; books just make you happy, gosh darn it. Good ones – happier still.

Some books are bookier than others, though: they were not all published equal. The one in your hand now, for example, has certain majestic qualities from its smart artwork to a title embossed in tall metallic lettering.  And until you unshelved it, it had just been sitting there lording it over all the other little books, knowing it looked…

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Tongue

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Liberate Tutemet

Now let me win you over with my tongue;
Sensations too persistent to ignore;
Emotions that are hitherto unsung
Perhaps I’ll make you drop to bed, to floor.
And let me make you beg and salivate;
My tongue shall fuck your being to the core;
So eager to explore and lubricate;
As I enable beauty, ripped and raw.
Then let me finish off by my own hand;
Designing and refining love’s ascent
Ascending to a place that should be banned;
All happening with passion and consent.

My tongue, of course, refers to words I spoke;
My hand to this: the poetry I wrote.

LMN

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Sonnet 3,011

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Forgetting how to love, I lived in chains;
Those shackles became sentimental ploys;
Existing in a world of only pain;
All hope had gone, all self-respect and poise.
As life became a bitter, twisted mess
I had to kill my hopes and crush my needs
There were no happy endings then, unless
I saw them in my poetry or dreams.
Then suddenly, a heart just like my own
Appeared before me, beating strong and pure;
His heart was also filled with sorrow though;
So similar the things we had endured.

As love saw us, demanding to enchant,
We recognised each other at a glance.

LMN image.jpg

 

 

Sonnet 2,511

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image.jpgIf I could tell the beauty of his eyes
I might describe the way they look at me;
Perhaps I’d write of how they paralyse;
I see his eyes and neither move nor speak.
If I could tell the story of his lips
I might go overboard and lose my thread;
Perhaps I’d write of love so true and this:
They kiss my own and melt me into bed.
If I could tell the way his soul inspires
I might then speak of how he has me soar;
Perhaps I’d write of burning, love on fire;
Our souls, they are the same – for evermore.

If I could write our future in one line,
It’s this: now I be his, and he be mine.

LMN