Wednesday, February 26, 2020

Lily Arnell Excerpt


Excerpt from Certain Ways She is Trying

By Lily Arnell
Illustration by Elliott Wyatt


1
Sometimes, when she looks in the mirror, she thinks about her face, that her face is her face and will always be her face. She will never know what people see when they look at her face- she is too familiar with her face- she knows its topography well. She cannot look at her face without all of its context. She says, “You and I are in it for the long haul, bud.” She feels warm friendship for her face- she didn’t choose it and it didn’t choose her, and they have both faced challenges because of that. There is no friendship she has that is more founded on pure compassion. She hopes others have come to similar places with their own faces because she feels sad when she considers the faces that are shamed by their hosts, abused with needles and harsh exfoliants, left never feeling good enough. She feels guilt when she thinks that she has not yet come to such an understanding with her torso. They both agree that they’ll address the problems later. 

2
She frequently sees crows in groups of three. This happens so often that it feels like the most prominent and significant ‘through-line’ in her life. Her world feels small, like a damp, pleasant cavern, or “the study” as portrayed in the board game Clue when she perceives through patterns. She does not know what all the coincidences ‘mean,’ but she is comforted by the idea that something is supposed to mean anything at all. 

3
The view of the moon has great impact on how she values properties. She imagines becoming a real estate agent, gesticulating beside a white brick, art deco styled house on a wooded hilltop, saying, “This property has a remarkable view of the moon.” The prospective buyers will look up into the pale blue void and imagine the glowing orb perched above the cracked slate roof. She will say, “At 8 o’clock it hangs between the copper beech and the ginkgo.” They will say, “What rare specimen trees for this area.” She will say, “Have you seen the cove of Japanese Maples?” They will say, “We’ll pay cash.”

4
She imagines herself lecturing to a crowd, “Look at all these divisions!”

She was surprised by her ability to watch black-head-extraction videos on YouTube without gagging or experiencing any type of nausea, which almost always occurred whenever she watched pimple-extraction-videos. Wondering if her ability to cope with extraction videos had altered since her last attempts, she watched a pimple extraction video titled, “Long and Satisfying,” during which she gagged and after which she felt nauseous for around 15 minutes.

6
Consider this an apology.



Lily Arnell Interview


Interview with Lily Arnell from Silent Auctions

What inspired you to become a writer?
I always really enjoyed creative writing assignments as a kid, but never actively or seriously considered as a child what I might “do” as an adult. I became increasingly shy in the 7th grade and reaching its pinnacle around 17 years old. I wasn’t good at articulating or expressing things to the extent or effect that I wanted and felt very stunted and uncomfortable. During this time, my mom was a graduate student at Sarah Lawrence College and in a craft class taught by Tao Lin, who was a guest professor then. My mom kept emphatically insisting I Google Tao, probably knowing how much I’d appreciate him. Eventually I did and audited one of his classes was amazed that someone who I could see aspects that looked closer to my own disposition and internal world (rather than the public figures I was aware of and looked up to at the time) seemed to exist so successfully-socially, artistically, intellectually-in the world. This dulled a sense of loneliness and hopelessness I was experiencing. That’s when I began reading his work, that of his contemporaries, and the books/stories he assigned to my mom’s class. My mom asked him if he would be willing to teach me in a one-on-one “craft class,” and he agreed. That’s when I started really wanting to be a writer. 
At what age did you start submitting words for publication?
When I was 17 Tao published a story we worked on together on Thought Catalog and MuuMuu House. After that I submitted rarely, mostly to college publications. It wasn’t until I was around 20 or 21 that I began submitting more actively and consistently. I still have hardly been published despite submitting for a few years now.  
Who and what were some of your influences?
            I’ve studied privately, in both high school and throughout college, with writer and Sarah Lawrence professor, David Hollander. He is and has been a really important teacher and person for me. Tao Lin obviously played a critical role in the development of my reading and writing. Other names that come to mind are Donald Barthelme, David Markson, Yoko Ono, David Foster Wallace, Lydia Davis, Sam Pink, Eric Andre, Claudia Rankine, Robert Lopez’s Kamby Bolongo Mean River, Anne Carson, Sherman Alexie, Michael Ondaatje’s The Collected Works of Billy the Kid… The list could go on for a long time and is still growing. 
How and why did you decide to start Silent Auctions?
            I went to the Punk Exhibition at the Museum of Sex on 27th street, which discussed and explored the history of the 1970’s and 80’s “punk movement,” its DIY ethos and its passion for, determination toward and unapologetic reclamation of a sense of absolute freedom and freedom of expression. I felt a sort of kinship to the hundreds of posters hanging in the museum, and a longing to have been a part of them. I felt a sadness that something so sincere feeling, something so pure and raw, honest and open didn’t seem to exist in my world. I often felt (and still often feel) that every avenue had its red-velvet rope, requiring some exclusivity I couldn’t produce. That night I decided to start Silent Auctions in an attempt to create that sense of freedom, openness, and accessibility for myself and other artists.



What is your favorite beverage or drug while writing?
I write on caffeine or water.
What is your favorite food?
Right now, poached eggs and/or butternut squash. In recent past, hamburger and fries. Food preference with the most longevity: egg noodles; vinegary things; lemony things.
Do you drive or prefer public transportation?
I drive and very much prefer it. I like being alone, listening to loud music, and the feeling of freedom and autonomy driving gives me. I have subdued fantasies about being a taxi driver.   
If you could travel anywhere, where would you go?
Currently, I would like to go somewhere moderately warm, with unpopulated beaches and tidal pools.
If could live in or visit another time, when would it be?
I really want to see some of my favorite bands perform, so probably the late 60’s or early 70’s. If I could, though, I would spend every weekend and vacation traveling to experience a different time throughout human and pre-human history. Generally, though, I appreciate my life in 2020.    
Do you have anything special that you would like to share with the Ppigpenn audience?
Silent Auctions is currently working with poet and artist Shane Allison toward a forthcoming chapbook titled, Peep-O-Rama. When there’s more news to share on the matter, our readers will be the first to know. We are taking submissions for short fiction, flash fiction, prose experiments, poetry, comics and cartoons now. We love new, bold, passionate submitters and hope anyone reading this might check out Silent Auctions at SilentAuctionsMagazine.com and consider submitting. Lastly, I want to say how amazing and awesome our readers and contributors are. They are such a committed, ardent, supportive group so embracing of new, unknown, and bravely authentic voices. I appreciate them all so much and want to thank them for being so open, kind, interested, helpful, and engaged. 
If you could have three magic wishes, what would they be?
  1. I wish I could transport myself to any ocean at any time with no consequence.
  2. I wish that my cat did not have an instinct to eat birds, because I desperately want one to live in my house.
  3. I wish I could eliminate my own feelings of fear. 
Tell us about going to school for drumming and your musical background, please.
I have been playing and writing music since I was a kid, frequenting a lot of open mics and “songwriting circles” throughout high school. I went to Bennington College to study writing and literature, and ended up perusing Bennington’s closest equivalent to a ‘minor’ in African percussion. After transferring to Sarah Lawrence and learning that (because of the way their programs are organized and established) I could not take music classes, drumming became something I do on my own. I am currently in a duo called Uncle Kingsley, in which I mostly sing and write for, but occasionally drum and play guitar in. 

Lily Arnell
Lily Arnell is the founder and editor-in-chief of online literary and art magazine, Silent Auctions. She graduated from Sarah Lawrence College with a BA in creative writing in 2017. She is half of the musical duo “Uncle Kingsley” and currently lives in New York.


Thursday, February 13, 2020

Marianne Szlyk


Thelma on Foot

As she walks north, the fog lifts.
Clouds harden into blue-gray stone.
The sunlight, a strip of pink satin,
shows up.  She supposes
it’s hope.

She turns to the east, away
from the sun’s slight cheer.
Bare trees turn bitter.
She can taste them
from across Viers Mill.

She didn’t expect to miss her sister,
the one who fought her, cursed her,
scratched her face, pulled her hair out.
Bare trees turn brittle,
but they resist the weak sun.
A sister is company in old age,
the empty house facing south,
direction of false hope, all else gone
but cable’s bark of voices
throughout the night.

Now Thelma is alone.
She walks away from the west,
far from lakes and rivers,
the direction where she could find Callie,
the place where she won’t.

------------------------------------

Listening to March of the Protestors
            After Reginald Cyntje

I remember 2018, the year
we were to snatch everything back
and rush headlong into the future,
the trombone’s vibrato, the drums,
even the bass impelling us,
even us, to march.

I fear 2020, the chance
everything may be snatched
back from us.  Like children,
we labor over sandcastles
that will be smashed
by the acid rush of tide.

A dark-haired Obama grins and waves
from the poster above the bar,
waiting for someone else
to join him, willing himself
not to fade.


Saturday, February 1, 2020

                  Poems by Beau Blue


After CindyLou Left

'I know guys lots better at this than you'
Guys that climb back up on their crosses the minute the nails
are pulled from their palms. And they smack their heads against
the wood and dig for splinters with the tops of their skulls
screaming the whole fuckin' time "I'M IN PAIN! PAIN! PAIN!"

Guys who can't get enough twistings into the stiffness they
call their necks or enough piercings through strange body parts
(and places in their psyches best left alone for pleasure) that
they need to curl long agonies for any second they feel sane.

Guys who think two guns just ain't enough and want their rooms
dark and their women whores and they get off on just that fact
alone but seek exquisite torture in the bending of their minds
to a master/slave mentality climaxed at certain shame.

Guys who spiral into high-walled oblivion as an ever narrowing
corridor leads them round and round and round to less and less
and blacker bleaker cells that leave them drained and contemplating
genitals while looking desperately for some broad to blame.
* *
*
When Allan came back his tongue was pierced
and the flame around the new decoration on his arm
screamed for codeine and tequila
like no other I had ever seen.

  "Where'd you go?" I muttered.

"Down to Navy's .. god that guy's sadistic .."

  "there are others ... "

"yea, but you know how well that wife of his fills jeans."


-beau blue


Purple Ash


I burned
all my journals
the last few days.
Fire. At last,
real warmth.

A surprise,
the times they'd disappointed
my desire screamed
for revenge.
I obliged.

No note
book begged
a second chance.
Each followed its brother,
too cold to complain.


-beau blue

What's this here for?


Of all the broken things
in the fix-it-later drawer
the tiny flashlight
with the smashed lens
and broken bulb is the most
hopeless refugee waiting
for inspection
looking every bit a something
to be thrown away.


-beau blue


Jade and the Giant Bird

Ever get the feeling
  in the middle of the party
that maybe it was you that just began,
that there were just too many things
you just didn't understand?
Born yesterday's the phrase.
Dazed and confused, you've heard
those terms too?

No wonder your paranoia
keeps getting out of hand.

I keep thinking I'm about to be
  devoured by a predatory parrot
the size of a Buick. Ever feel that
foreboding constricting your windpipe?
I've been feeling that since the beginning
of November. You know? Raptors are everywhere,
they tell me, and I look tasty, they say,
in a devilish way. Oh damn.

I don't even know
which weapon will work on a Buick.

Turns out I've been a member
  of the resistance my whole life.
And let me tell you it hasn't done me any good
except for warning me, every now and then, that
I'm really not equipped to take on massive birds
of prey all by myself. So I'm standing here
thinking on all the ways to start
a Buick-bird protection society,

and then it occurs to me
that it just might be, a tad too late.


-beau blue

Beau Blue


Beau Blue

Thank you for reaching out. To short hop an introduction, I present an interview from a decade ago. It gives a quick shot of who I am and where I'm coming from:


I was grousing on face book about not knowing anyone in the poetry blogosphere and Catfish volunteered about ppigpenn. Oh, I have a blog .. a long time now .. that I neglect with an indifference that is motivated by the two Ezines of animatedpoets.com that I publish

. Beau Blue Presents (animatedpoets.com/beaublue) has a collection of Internet poetry broadsides .. from text only, to text/audio, to text/video, to cartoons .. that I've done over the last 20 years.

  Blue's Cruzio Cafe (animatedpoets.com) is my main site - Individual poets, animated and presented on one of the Cafe's six stages. Over the years we've presented some pretty good poets. 
So, again, thanks for the touch, I look forward to talking more with you soon,   -blue


Saturday, January 18, 2020


Ryan Quinn Flanagan

On the Clock

He says
he is quitting his job
in the city,
telling that bearded gingerbread fucker
with a name no one can pronounce
where to go next Tuesday
and we celebrate
because his job is shit,
buying the rounds
for the rest of the day
knowing our jobs are shit as well,
but at least we have them,
and that this one is on the clock
and will really have to lie and whore
himself out for the next 30 days
so his landlord doesn’t toss him
and begin the great couch surfing
extravaganza all over
again.


Jukebox Road

A hairless cat walked by in the body of a bald man.
Everyone hummed to themselves along jukebox road.
Felix thought of overturned shopping carts with the wheels removed.
How everyone climbed into cold beds and up even colder mountains.
The way you could see your breath and never the future.
                                 
It was geisha girls and appendectomies.
Townhouses with ridiculous pygmy yards fenced in by a sea of black iron rod.
Felix found himself humming without even thinking about it.
His fingers dancing along the side of his torn pant leg.

The impaled sky darkened, threatening to spill its guts.
A young women without shoes stood tiptoed by the mailbox.
The exposed brick running around nude under vinyl trench coats.
The uncontrolled tremor in Felix’s hand an imminent earthquake.
Covered up by the way dried chewing gum broke into song.



Solid Eight

My big baby browns trample over vision quests
so animal they lose the journey
so that my yellow cowardly teeth fall out of ancient skulls
refusing to smile on this most partitioned of days 
and the way a solid eight hours stands in for best sleep
in a supporting role, yawning arms stretched overhead
winning questionable yard sale trophies with a different name
and none of the glory, passing cars so boxy you can
read: This Side Up on all the doors which would make
safety features really happy if they actually existed
outside of that famous Frisco car chase they keep trying to duplicate
with crash test dummies that don’t have any lines
and even less talent.



Tuesday, December 3, 2019

John D Robinson

John D Robinson




1.        
What inspired you to become a writer?

I guess I was about 14 and I began to learn to play the guitar, it was the punk scene, I also began writing lyrics: I was a truly lousy guitarist, I wasn’t a natural and had no imagination but the writing continued and transformed into poesy: I didn’t know anybody else that wrote poetry and didn’t mentioned it to anybody else for years: It was a lonely time back then thinking about it, I’d scribble away secretly: poetry was something that was never mentioned, it was something that wasn’t considered, it was sports and music and pursuing romances, there didn’t seem to be much else: at 17 I read Kerouac’s ‘On The Road’ and was set on fire, I was set free, liberated and I read everything that was beat related and then a year or 2 later I read Bukowski and it was like I had been picked up and shaken and slapped until I had woken up, I read ‘Post Office’ and had never laughed as much whilst reading a book, I read everything Bukowski that I could get my hands on: I had the original Black Sparrow copies of all his books, which I later sold at a ridiculously low price, but I was desperate at the time and needed a little cash: something I regret, selling those books:









2.      At what age did you start submitting words for publication?
I was 17 I think: the poem was accepted by a local small press publisher who published a magazine called ‘First Time’: it was absolutely thrilling and I still have that same sensation when a poem of mine has been accepted for publication, whether online or in print: this would be early 1980’s. I sent out until 1990 and then stopped submitting altogether, I never stopped writing: it would be over two more decades before I began to send out my work again, the internet age had dawned and I found I could send something instantly to the other side of the world rather than waiting for endless weeks for it to be delivered and for a reply:





3.       Who and what were some of your influences?
Sibelius: Basquait: Kerouac: Mozart: Pollock: Corso: JS Bach: Franz Kline: Bukowski: Hayden: Rothko: Gutierrez: Stravinsky: Modigliani: Sonny Barger:  Vaughn Williams: Davinci: Dan Fante: Pacabel: Haring: Carver: George Butterworth; Don Martin: Doug Draime: Bruce Lee: Mahler: Dan Propper: Billie Holliday: Elgar: Bob Kaufman: Gesualdo: Larry Rivers: Claude Pelieu: Charles Plymell: Dan Propper: Wyatt Earp: Presley: Monet: Chet Baker: Brahms Sex Pistols: Frank Lima: Carravaggio: Steve Richmond: Rauchenberg: Paganini: Arvo Part: Gary Aposhian: Andy Goldsworthy: Ray Bremser: Lizt: Jack Micheline: Johnny Cash: Mary Beach: Joan Of Arc: Boudica: Hendrix: Puccini: Wantling: The Clash: Jasper Johns: Dylan Thomas: Lorca: Hank Stanton: Catfish McDaris: Mendes Biondo: Satie: Villon: Huffstickler: Holst: my wife, daughter and grandchildren and cats.







4.       How and why did you decide to start Holy&Intoxicated Publications?
I was very much encouraged by UK  friend/poet/small press publisher Josephine Austin; it took me a while to get around to it but it is very much something that I enjoy: it has given me the opportunity to meet and speak to so many quality poets and artists from all over the globe and the process of creating a chapbook from an idea to holding it in your hands gives me so much pleasure as much as seeing my own work in print: Holy&intoxicated Publications is pure passion, quite how I came up with the name , I cannot recall, but aren’t we all at one time or another holy & intoxicated, be it with drink drugs love theology or some fucking thing?





5.       Do you prefer to read poetry, fiction, or non-fiction for personal enjoyment?
I very rarely read prose these days, I particularly enjoy the writing of the Cuban poet/writer Pedro Juan Gutierrez (If you are not familiar with this writer, then check out his work, unfortunately none of his poetry is in English translation at present) but there are 4 books of his available, novels and a book of short stories:
 I occasionally read biographies, most recent was Mathew Polly’s  ‘Bruce Lee’:
I read , for the majority of time, poetry:




6.       What is your favorite beverage or drug while writing?
       I enjoy smoking hash every chance I get, no matter what time of day or night: whilst          I write I drink white wine: Chardonnay: a bottle or 2 of Caseiro Del Diablo if I can afford it: I smoke hash and drink wine and write everyday: I take codeine and Valium  for spinal pain:
7.       What is your favorite food?
I am a vegetarian and have been so for some years: there have been times in my life , long ago, when I ate meat: but I cannot see me doing so again: I have no favourite foods and have a good healthy appetitive: I do eat fish: so maybe it would be fish: I enjoy Indian food and also Asian food but I need to be cautious as I have a stomach full of ulcers so too much spice/acidic foods can opened these fuckers-up and I bleed internally:
8.       Do you drive or prefer public transportation?
I cannot drive: I used to ride a motorcycle for a while: I use public transport quite regularly, it’s not so bad but quite frequently , on the bus/train I can hear some loud-mouthed asshole using a mobile phone and holding a dying, mundane boring conversation or hear some shitty music coming out from some fucker’s earphones:

9.       Please, tell us about your family?
I have been married for over 3 decades: I have one daughter and three grandchildren, two cats and one dog: My wife and I literally grew up 300 yards apart from about the age of 6 or so but got it together in our very early twenties: she has put up with a great deal of bullshit from me and I often wonder why she has done so: she saved my ass for sure: I was on a self-destruction pathway, drugs, alcohol: in my mid 30’s I began to take control of these demons and made them my friends:
10.   If you could travel anywhere, where would you go?
I would visit Catfish McDaris where-ever in the world he was or Egypt/Mexico/Cuba is a country I would love to visit:



11.   If could live in or visit another time, when would it be?
1880’s USA Frontier Towns: Tombstone: it was a wild almost lawless time, Wyatt Earp was one tough mother and never backed down in a confrontation, he went onto to write for sports newspapers, covering boxing matches and at one time was an editor of a New York Newspaper and John Wesley Harding, who I think shot dead 22 men, once shot dead a man for snoring: the snoring man was sleeping in an adjoining hut , Harding fired 2 shots into the hut in the pitch black night, one of the bullets hit the snorer in the head: I don’t think I would have lasted too long, like Billy the Kid or Johnny Ringo, a tough ruthless frightening but exciting time.





12.   Please, tell us about the part of England you live in?
I live in a seaside town called Hastings on the south coast of the UK: like most coastal towns it makes it’s money during the summer season and dies in the winter: Hastings has one of the the biggest fishing fleets in the UK: It is a blend of very old and new: 1066 and all that Jazz: The town has always had a thriving music and arts scene: I used to read poetry regularly but these days I am working on being a recluse: I like solitary quiet times these days: I was born in Hastings and apart from teenage wanderings have lived here all my life: the place is full of cafes and cinema’s a 3 or 4 theatres , countless bars and night-clubs , casino’s , junk shops, book shops, supermarkets and fresh produce markets, arks.  Hastings is surrounded by miles of greenlands and woodlands and hills, the beach is stony and nearby is Fairlight, about a couple of miles from Hastings, was established one of the first ‘nudist beaches’ in the UK: Lord Byron’s sister lived in the town for a while and he would visit and swim kin the sea: the demon television was invented in the town by John Logie Baird: ‘Grey Owl’ was born in Hastings before he emigrated to the wilds of Canada:

13.   Do you have anything special that you would like to share with The Ppig audience?
Check out the works of Mendes Biondo and ‘Ramingo’s Porch’ : take the time to catch the words of Catfish, you’ll never be disappointed: buy all the Holy&intoxicated Publications books that you can get your hands on: buy my books of poetry:  Check out Henry G Stanton amazing words and genius art works, check out his ‘Raw Art Review’‘ checkout the cider drinking sharp poet and publisher Martin Appleby, ‘Paper and Ink Zine’  and the very energetic and wonderfully productive  Marc Bruseke and his Analog Submission Press:
‘we are all related, whether it crawls, slithers, walks, flies, hops, skips, crawls, swims, we are all related’ Lakota Sioux:
14.   If you could have three magic wishes, what would they be?
Not in any particular order: that all forms of violence come to an end: that not one soul, not one living thing upon this planet will know of hunger: that we stop polluting and poisoning this beautiful planet:

15.  You’ve spent a lot of time with the same life partner. How much has this changed your writing style?

A good question for sure: We have ‘grown’ together and I behaved recklessly and self-destructive for a number of years and she stood by me, put up with my bullshit and self-pity: Carmelina, has always been very encouraging of my writing and it has taken us to places where we would never have gone: one time I was a guest poet in an Arts exchange, Hastings with Dordrecht: The Netherlands: all travel expenses were taken care of and we stayed in this beautiful apartment with this kind and gentle woman who lived Buddhism and would rise every morning at 5am and begin chanting, she had this gorgeous overweight cat that was so sociable and affectionate: I read in this elegant old theatre, it was a great experience: I do not share all of my work with Carmelina, but occasionally I share some poems and when she begins laughing I know I may have cut it: one poem I had used the word ‘cunt’ several times: it is a word she dislikes intensely: ‘Why have you used that word so many times?’ after I explained of whom the poem was referring to, she nodded her head and smiled: a good editor: my wife is one of the biggest influences in my life:

16.  Is music important while writing? Do you prefer to write while music is playing or do you do it in the middle of everyday silence?

I write every night in silence: I occasionally write to music and this would be classical music, I
stopped listening to contemporary / pop music about 2 decades or so ago and find this music to be irritating, loud and crass I cannot/could not write to this music: I prefer the sounds of my own heart beat and the scratching of the pen against the paper and the raising of a few glasses of wine as I write: most nights I’ll write gibberish, but now and then, I hit something hard and fresh: silence and solitary: I would be more than comfortable being a complete recluse, alone with my wife, cats, dog and easing gentle classical music:


17.  Any wild adventures from your past you’d like to share?
I had a period of unemployment in my very early 20's: it was by choice, my girl and I (my wife now) decided 'fuck it, let’s fuck about for a year' and that's what we did, we hitched-hiked and drank and smoked, we went hungry sometimes but there was always wine, sometimes we didn't have a roof over our heads, but somehow we'd find shelter of some kind: we had a great time back in the day: for the last 30 years I've worked for the same circus, my area of work is housing, in the UK, the housing situation is way beyond crisis, homelessness is everywhere, visibly everywhere,: the night shelters in my home town (4 churches) open up the doors for the homeless ( December to March) and offer a camping bed and hot food, but there are not enough spaces for everybody, so I know that some poor souls are out there somewhere.




THE TOOTHPICK POEM
When something happened
 or was said out of the
ordinary, unexpected,
spontaneous, shocking,
humorous, surreal and
unbelievable or unthinkable,
he’d say
‘Well, you can fuck my
granny with a toothpick!’
what a fucking horror
image this drags up,
particularly if your
granny is dead, worse
so, if she’s still alive,
I guess.








THE CUCKCOO
When the police raided the
property they found 6
machetes, a large quantity
of heroin and cocaine,
two persons sprawled
drug-unconscious on a
sofa, a large sum of cash
and 2 teenage boys
hiding in the loft, who
had been reported
missing a couple of
weeks earlier:
the official tenant was
not present and
would not be found
until 2 days later
when a dog-walker
found her body
hanging from a tree
in a local woodland.




THE VALENTINO
‘I love you’
we whispered to
one another as we
kissed and groped
in the midnight
darkness of her
front-porch:
‘See you tomorrow’
Sarah said
as I walked away
to a neighbouring
street, climbed
onto a garage-roof
and tapped gently
on a window:
‘I’ve been waiting
for you’ Stephanie
said opening the
window for me to
climb through:
‘You’ll have to
go about 4am’
she said:
‘Okay’ I said
wondering who I
could call on
at 4am.










Lily Arnell Elliot Wyatt