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Macc Writes Christmas

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Christmas Flier

Join us at the King Edward Street Chapel in Macclesfield on the 5th December 2013 where we will be celebrating Christmas with a selection of our poetry and prose. Tickets are £4.00, further details in the above flier.

Modern Art Killed JFK – Lavinia Murray

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JFK JFK

Jack and Jacqie on display

*

the Fort Worth touchdown’s one big smile

grand ol oprey Texas style

shoot the breeze and stay awhile

Dealey Park’s about a mile

*

Oh JFK hey JFK

Dallas greets your final day

*

Oswald bookworm sure as hell’s

a worm’s a-turnin’ ne’er do well

*

Your temper gets a little frayed

on stop-start stroll-pace motorcades

in your head you launch tirades

at papers blabbing escapades

flaunting all the times you’ve strayed,

the women you have JFK’d

you’re decadent as the decade

*

other thoughts play touch and go

in your topless, broad limo–

Monroe Monroe Monroe Monroe

the Bay of Pigs, Fidel Castro

brother Bobby, father Joe

*

Oh Jacqie K oh Jacqie K

you hold your pearls and glance away

you know about Jack’s other ‘girls’

you’d crawl the boot to get away

despite the push-back from those churls

*

Bobbie Robert Bobbie K

Every Kenn’dy gets his day

L.H.Oswald, Soviet troll

is lurking at the Grassy Knoll

*

Look JFK look JFK! –

a gift sent by the CIA

*

upon your knees your fingers run –

Les Demoiselles d’ Avignon

is cubist  blueprint for this gun

‘It’s great!’ is your o-pin-i-on

*

Oh JFK Oh JFK

careful how you go today

L.H.Oswald, Soviet troll

is lurking at the Grassy Knoll

*

Our troops will wave this cubist colt

the barrel, trigger, grip and bolt

all interwoven for assault

an each-side-seen-at-once gestalt

*

the trigger’s here and also there

the bullet flies out anywhere

it’s every soldier’s worst nightmare

touch with caution, use with care

a cubist firearm, JFK!

the ruskies’ have their RPK

(one wound per shot — bar ricochet)

this cubist firearm differs, yay

one bang creates a bullet spray

*

Western art’s un-soviet

and cubism’s a great big niet

it’s the biggest jibe that we’ve purped yet

it’s both an insult and a threat

*

Oh JFK, oh JFK

do not hold the gun that way

*

Yes, do not hold the weapon thus

you’d better hand it back to us

flip-triggered as a blunderbuss

the kickback’s liable to concuss

*

sweet jesus do not mess about

the barrel’s like a teapot spout

the bullet can just dribble out

and take your head off –no, LOOK OUT!

*

Lee Oswald, elbow on a shelf

sees JFK unpick himself

modern art killed JFK

its power blew his mind away

Night Duty at the Zoo – Lavinia Murray

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I’m Keeper Triggs, night duty staff
I fold the legs of the giraffe
and stack him in the keeper’s gaff,
unplug hyenas from their laugh
remotely tune the wolves: D minor
put them on the random timer;
check for smuggled language-primers
tick-off primate social-climbers
reverse the knees on geese and ganders
teach dressage skills to anacondas
remove the frills from salamanders
then take the bandit masks off pandas
Each night’s different, yet repeated
stairs are hills that someone’s pleated
the earth’s still spinning, please stay seated
moonlight’s tread is deeply cleated

Meet the Noahs – Patrick Prinsloo

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Meet the Noahs. Act 2, Scene 3

“Dad, I’m starving.”

“Me too, Shem, me too.”

“Everyone’s complaining. Moan, moan, moan.”

“What’s your mum saying?”

“She’s really pissed off. Thinks it’s your fault. Says she should have been involved in the planning. Says that just because you’re a bloody Patriarch doesn’t mean you should behave like a bloody patriarch and she can’t stand it any more.”

“So she’s angry?”

“And hungry. Says if you’d had any sense you would have done the supermarket shopping before getting the animals on board.”

“Yeah, well. It’s too late now.”

“Slaughter an auroch?”

“Had better. Fetch the axe, will you?”

Scenes from a Basement Cafe 3 – Charles Heathcote

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Baba Yaga kidnapped me when I was a toddler. She did not eat me

– I was too measly a portion.

14:04, September 27th

 

Let’s deconstruct the corned beef sandwich:

 

Firstly there is the corned beef itself, bought from the supermarket.

Secondly there is the butter, real butter, I cannot abide margarine.

Finally there are two slices of thick, fluffy white bread.

 

Some may add salad, I say let them. There’s nothing wrong with adding lettuce, cucumber and other remnants of rabbit food to your sandwich, it just isn’t for me.

Deconstructing a sandwich is easy; if I were to deconstruct my life I don’t think I would be able to concoct a successful formula. It is not as simple as learning the alphabet, I did not journey from a to z, but I veered off in between, I tore through formulas, shredded algorithms and filtered myself down. I am not yet a polished diamond, my edges are still sharp and, when I walk, black dust glitters from my pores.

One of the many imperfections to riddle me is the inability to find a knife when I need one. I’ve closed the café for lunch and now I stand at the counter, butter in the refrigerated compartment in front of me; corned beef, in its rightful place, on a plate beside the butter, the slight globules of jelly shimmering in the dim light. Yet, I cannot find a knife – whenever a customer asks for a sandwich, or a baked potato, or salad, or anything that may involve a knife, I can find one, right where I left it. If I need a knife, however, I believe the café hides them from me – she has been known to do things like this before.

I crouch down and open the cupboard door. It has a steel handle, cold against my palm as I tug on it.

It won’t budge.

A lock of hair falls across my forehead and I pinch it between my thumb and index finger, setting it behind my left ear. Biting my lip, I brace the sole of my left plimsoll against the tiles beside the door and clench the muscles in my upper arms.

I’ve never had these doors fitted with locks. Sometimes, the café finds it almost humorous to lock doors and move rooms around. I remember, once upon a time, I spilled egg mayonnaise on my collar – I went upstairs to get changed, and by the time I’d returned, we were teleported to the River Thames. We were a raft, selling our wares to waifs and strays who had found themselves caught in some form of maelstrom.

I didn’t make much in the way of money that day.

I heave a breath and pull on the door handle, but it refuses to open and I let it go. Losing my balance, I fall backwards, and land on my hands, filling my palms with crumbs.

A bell above the front door tinkles announcing the arrival of a customer. She’s unlocked the door. I know she must have done because I still have today’s key on a string around my neck. Today the key is a long brass thing, flaking black in places with a round end, and two ridges to insert into the keyhole.

I roll my eyes and push myself to my feet.

‘I’m afraid we’re closed for lunch.’

‘You’re afraid?’

‘Well … no … I’m not afraid about being closed for lunch; it’s something people say.’

‘They’re afraid?’

‘Everyone is afraid.’

‘Of what?’

‘Life.’

‘I don’t fear life.’ She has crow’s feet, their toes clack against the tiles. Her hair is red – but not of blood, nor of fire, this is the red of fallen leaves, forever in a stasis between life and death. ‘I fear nothing.’

‘We are closed.’

‘I brought you a gift, an offering, temptation.’ Her tongue curls around the word, forks from between her lips.

a tongue to taste it licks her lips it lingers in the dip

                        beneath her nose it rises further covers her nose

                        pink to red blood red over the eyes over the forehead

                        down her back this tongue trails she is surrounded

                        she clashes with the tiles rolls to my feet: temptation

I pick up the apple and rub it on my apron.

one bite

                        poison in an apple core

i do not

die for

it only happens once

as dark as snow white

as hard as fairy wings

the café deconstructs

floorboards rupture and fall through cracks into

molten earth the ghosts escape the foundations

-          they wail -

window panes release memories bricks let go

the voices and they wail, they wail, they wail

and their search for an answer will be lost

for there are more answers than questions

and like all good jigsaws none of the pieces

                                fit

Misheard Bible Stories 8 – Phil Poyser

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VIII. Damson And Dee Lilacs

 

Der once was a strong kid called Damson,

whose 6 pack made him look damn handsome.

His girlfriend, Dee Lilacs,

his locks she like hijacks

for which she was paid a king’s ransom.

 

Now, Damson, he was not best pleased,

more like he’s completely off cheesed.

“I’m fed up with wimmin

hair sneakily trimmin’”,

so brought the house down when he sneezed.

 

© Phil Poyser, Macclesfield, 23rd. October, 2013

 

Misheard Bible Stories 7 – Phil Poyser

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VII. Handsome and Delightful

 

Well, thank you very much. That’s really kind.

It’s been hard to cope since they made me blind.

They chained me here in Gaza, tresses shorn.

At first, I wished that I had not been born,

but time has passed and I now have my plan.

Vengeance I’ll wreak on every single man

….. and woman too. I was deceived again.

Betrayed and betrayer both will be slain.

Week after week, for hair my temples yearned.

My hair’s regrown and with it strength returned.

The climax of this story I will crown.

Step back. I’ll bring their temple crashing down.

 

© Phil Poyser, Macclesfield, 23rd. October, 2013

 

Note: An episode of the Simpsons was entitled “Simpson and Delilah”.

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