Chris O’Carroll: Self Portrait after the Mapplethorpe Exhibit
My butt isn’t impaled on the butt of a whip,
But I hope you’ll regard me as sexy and hip.
♦ ♦ ♦
L.A. Mereoie: Bedside Manners
The doctor bent, felt something slip,
And diagnosed a faulty zip,
But calmly said to those who viewed
‘Apologies if I extrude’.
♦ ♦ ♦
Rob Barratt: A West Midland Poem
I haven’t talked Black Country since I was a kid
So I’m reluctant to say it
And I don’t write dialect poetry but . . .
Bostin’s a bostin’ word, ay it?
♦ ♦ ♦
Terese Coe: Self-Surveillance
Here in your pocket cell they lie in wait,
those portable vestiges that seal your fate.
♦ ♦ ♦
Sarah Paulos: The Night Is Too Young
Only until this rum-and-Coke is over
I offer my DD a solemn vow:
The night's too young and I am still too sober
To send my ex a drunken text just now.
♦ ♦ ♦
Jessica Smith: Feeding The Beast
This can of sloppy cat food smells like a dead rat
and will probably make him lazy and fat.
Arrogant street cat, I hope you wont hang about
so at least I won't have to smell it when it comes back out.
♦ ♦ ♦
Daniel Galef : Toothless Rhyme
Johnny was a—no, belay that—
then he—uh-oh—we can't say that.
♦ ♦ ♦
Thomas Martin: Cruel Close-Up
I loved you from afar
Then, coming near
I saw you as you are
And shuddered . . .
♦ ♦ ♦
Jerome Betts: Chacun À Son Goo
The water's looking quite opaque,
To human eyes, plain mucky,
And yet for dabblers on the lake
It’s probably just . . . ducky.
