red kites in hayes

beige-headed cloud bird, i watch from the warm

as great circles crooning o’er chimney and slat

you glow in brown crimson ‘gainst light of morn.

wise eyes scour like ice, for vole, bird or rat.

o’er treetops thou drift in mighty estate,

while blackbirds and seagulls claw at thy wing.

grey snow clouds desperate to unload cold weight

are but wet, windy backdrops for what thy bring.

i’m at the window. i’m waiting still,

hot fingers steaming — hips leant on the sill.

i’ll watch as you dive through eight o’clock’s sky

yet inward thank that my food’s not so high.

red kite in thy splendour, teach me of death —

teach me the true treasure of each full breath.

written in the n.p.g.

a rich gold scarf does bind his forehead. jaw
of divine carving, he will gaze until
we all have crumbled into dust and bone.
he holds the midpoint, some curator’s will
to herald hedonistic man’s delight
has kept him cardinally on this wall.
i wonder would we know his face at all,
had desperate hearts been satisfied and right.
behind me, on the left is one who gave
much deeper praise to that which selfish man
took and took and took because ‘we just can’;
he is peasant poetry, calm and grave.
nature’s deft spokesman, soft as summer’s breeze
in orange fields immortal with sweet ease.

Suckerpunch, the Second Coming- Henna Sjöblom


Whisper and the Roar


Have you ever tasted true revenge?
Ever feared the loss of a wound more sacred
than the hollowed out palms of Christ?

I’ll tell you, I dip my knuckles in holy water after each defeat,
so that soon my skin will be impenetrable. I charge my gun with self-pity,
coat my blade with spite.
Don’t talk to me, I grin.
I am self-destructive.

Don’t get me wrong.
I’m not stigmatizing, and I can’t be a martyr, as I never bowed to anyone.
Who the fuck set the rules anyway?
I’m a bloody artist, displaying slashes as exhibits in a showcase,
and I take pride in my performance,
but presenting wounds won’t omit the truth,
and the truth is
I’ve never felt better

Than the night I woke up in the hospital,
chains rattling around my wrists.
Nurses with faces made of paint scrapers.
Is that what I am?
An exhibit

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Too Bad

here is one i adore. the wonderful Kindra

Kindra M. Austin

I wish I could transcribe

poems, epic of dirty French kisses,

orgasmic ‘neath rainbows

spread ‘cross the coasts of Ireland.

But I listen to music, American.

Suicidal Tendencies

You Can’t Bring Me Down.

I’m a heathen with a heart, and

not what you deserve. My love,

you deserve something lovely—

something uttered When in Rome.

Or perhaps something celestial.

How ‘bout Just like Heaven?

You’ve always had The Cure.

Too bad I can’t accept it.

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Katherine’s Rhythm – Introducing Lois E. Linkens

my first post on Whisper and the Roar:

Whisper and the Roar

I want what you can give me,
Her letters said.
The life of it all, the love
Of white arms, cold in marble and
My colours on canvas
Hanging on the parlour wall.
Her face and her flowers
In words,
I want to give her the yellow sunshine.
I want to paint
Under human bodies and music,
While the lights of London still
Outshine the dusk of Wellington – aye, the ships
And the control,
Did my father speak of this?
He spoke to you, I see. I hear his voice in yours.
I can only play the servant,
With very bad grace – but for art’s sake.
[Lois is an English Literature student from London. She writes poetry and prose, and enjoys early morning coffee, Jean Rhys, period dramas, chamber choirs and walking through cities. Her work has been published on various online blogs and magazines, and she…

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pages, pages, pages
dripping in incongruity;
train tracks, and European travel nudging
the green hills of England.
renovations, renovations
– ‘i am so, so pleased.’
my splendid white house sings virtue.
you must be one way, just this way
madam, see
these women
with Betty bangs and bobs,
who write about the Mona Lisa
and dream of being her,
there is a lotion for that loathing, it pays for the print.