Joshua Davids
Thursday, 11 February 2010
He Lifts the Trumpet
He lifts the trumpet
through the bleary room.
The smoke and suffering
hanging on the clothes
of barflies with black hands
and red eyes
reaches his nose.
In the alley children dance
hopscotch on the coals.
The angel glances from
the pocket of a bum.
Below the coming chorus
the wheels of love hum
and all breaks!
The first note flies
as his left hand shakes
voltage from brass
tone like broken glass
and he keels over one
splits two with a gold crown
three he's a holy ghost
four is none —
the stagger staggers on.
The night passes through
a bell of burn
and is found melted
into a beauty blow
at the shoeshone heel
of the new creator.
His blown head is open
like a crater.
The echo sobs and
in the street everyone falls
to their knees.
His trumpet has the sky
by the throat.
And then he plays
the second note —
Owen Lucas
through the bleary room.
The smoke and suffering
hanging on the clothes
of barflies with black hands
and red eyes
reaches his nose.
In the alley children dance
hopscotch on the coals.
The angel glances from
the pocket of a bum.
Below the coming chorus
the wheels of love hum
and all breaks!
The first note flies
as his left hand shakes
voltage from brass
tone like broken glass
and he keels over one
splits two with a gold crown
three he's a holy ghost
four is none —
the stagger staggers on.
The night passes through
a bell of burn
and is found melted
into a beauty blow
at the shoeshone heel
of the new creator.
His blown head is open
like a crater.
The echo sobs and
in the street everyone falls
to their knees.
His trumpet has the sky
by the throat.
And then he plays
the second note —
Owen Lucas
Mother's Milk
I know these things
because I keep a photo
in the drawer
beside my bed
of you with the cat.
He’s curled round your
neck trying to strangle
the life out of you.
I found a white hair
on my new red sofa.
It caught in my throat
like a fish hook
and I swallowed it whole,
down my oesophagus
into the sac of my belly.
It grew into a cat baby,
my homesick womb
becoming a nest for a stray.
I gave birth on all fours
and you brought catnip
wrapped in bright blue
paper, cigarettes for
a new mother.
You didn’t kiss me
lightly. I had whiskers
then, along with the
post-natal depression.
They both left marks.
Lydia Searle
because I keep a photo
in the drawer
beside my bed
of you with the cat.
He’s curled round your
neck trying to strangle
the life out of you.
I found a white hair
on my new red sofa.
It caught in my throat
like a fish hook
and I swallowed it whole,
down my oesophagus
into the sac of my belly.
It grew into a cat baby,
my homesick womb
becoming a nest for a stray.
I gave birth on all fours
and you brought catnip
wrapped in bright blue
paper, cigarettes for
a new mother.
You didn’t kiss me
lightly. I had whiskers
then, along with the
post-natal depression.
They both left marks.
Lydia Searle
Bedtime
The sky that never quite sleeps
stares in at me through
the closed window. I stare back
not quite sleeping,
wishing for black and white dreams
like the olden days
and piano keys. The tree, posing peacefully,
knows silhouettes always
look good and pretends not to notice me
poking at emotions,
trying some-heartedly to tune myself
into a melodic shape.
Hear the train gush past; imagine
midnight shadows
drinking train tea from cardboard cups
and looking at the
houses of dark windows to wonder.
This night-less sky
has grown familiar to the point where
it reflects me better,
manmade smog mirrors my mental
state more than stars
could now. Sometimes that seems
coincidence and
other times I wonder too, like train people
going somewhere
as shadows in the light in the darkness.
Tamzin Whelan
stares in at me through
the closed window. I stare back
not quite sleeping,
wishing for black and white dreams
like the olden days
and piano keys. The tree, posing peacefully,
knows silhouettes always
look good and pretends not to notice me
poking at emotions,
trying some-heartedly to tune myself
into a melodic shape.
Hear the train gush past; imagine
midnight shadows
drinking train tea from cardboard cups
and looking at the
houses of dark windows to wonder.
This night-less sky
has grown familiar to the point where
it reflects me better,
manmade smog mirrors my mental
state more than stars
could now. Sometimes that seems
coincidence and
other times I wonder too, like train people
going somewhere
as shadows in the light in the darkness.
Tamzin Whelan
Familiars
For that screen of smoke behind your eyes
Or the slightest of your clever ways
They’d have burned your bare body
In the olden days. Mean women
Persuading their husbands to murder.
They’d have tortured you first,
Each rent bated with the fervour of men
Who know they’re doing wrong.
And you’d find it funny
How seriously they worked.
And when they asked you
To name your familiars
You’d speak to each one in turn,
Spitting their spouse’s names
Through the gore in your mouth.
Teo Bozic
Or the slightest of your clever ways
They’d have burned your bare body
In the olden days. Mean women
Persuading their husbands to murder.
They’d have tortured you first,
Each rent bated with the fervour of men
Who know they’re doing wrong.
And you’d find it funny
How seriously they worked.
And when they asked you
To name your familiars
You’d speak to each one in turn,
Spitting their spouse’s names
Through the gore in your mouth.
Teo Bozic
Saturday, 6 February 2010
Suzanna Scott: Suburban Pretences
More photography from our home-girl Suzanna. These are only a taster -visit her site for the main course: suzannascott.co.uk
Wednesday, 3 February 2010
SAMIZDAT #6
Yes, we have been quiet for some time but no, we are not dead yet! New issue of Samizdat coming soon. #6 will be available in the usual places around Goldsmiths College plus on this blog in .pdf form -you'll be hearing from us! xx
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