Issue 95 / Dec18/Jan19

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ARTISTIC LICENCE As part of our continuing series focusing on the region’s wordsmiths, we’ve curated a selection of work from some regulars on the city’s poetry scene. Ellis Williams Earth Turning earth turning i wish i could have walked across your homeland split orange and burning i wish you could have walked across mine split grey and hurting but instead we meet under a spyglass and now the earth is turning i wish you could have seen what i have saturday nights in the rain a damp liverpool pavement waiting for something anything to take away from a desperation i wish i could have seen what you have where the sky goes on forever and you walk on the air a cold wind driven mad through your hair but now we are here together in white noise one million flashbulbs burned into our eyes walk with me put your ear to the floor and if you’re lucky you will hear the earth turning Tammy Reynolds Last Night I took a pair of scissors from my desk and got into bed. I rested the blade on my little finger and clamped down on the knuckle. Snipping through the skin was easy, it cut through like raw chicken, then crack. The stubborn bone gave way under pressure. Four fingers later, I had to switch hands, Zena Davine STRANGE WAYS TO DIE I once saw a boy swallow a sex toy, And rush off to a+e, They said you’re shit out of luck, Your insides are fucked, That’s why you don’t eat dildos for tea I once saw a man get his foot stuck in a van, Pullin’ him into oncoming traffic, He flew through the sky, As golfers screamed nine, And died of altitude sickness I once saw a girl swallow a hundred pearls, And turn into a human bean bag, A whale thought she was a cushion, probably cashmere or Russian, And squashed that poor little nag I once saw a punk get far too drunk, An’ try to make out with a moose, Stinkin’ of ale, he went kinda pale, When the moose’s husband let loose I once saw an emo punch Danny DeVito, Start throwin’ fists in a brawl, They rolled over a cliff, As the little fella slipped, Now all that’s left is his jaw Listen kids, grown ups and nits, There’s a trillion and one ways to die, It’s a not matter of how, It’s a matter of why, Bonus points if you’re thrown into the sky I eased the handles onto my red stumps; blood makes everything slippery. The skin of my thumb caught on the blades, and splintered bone dropped onto the covers. I couldn’t do the same to my right hand, how else would I have written this? I let go of the scissors, turned off the light, and kicked up the wet quilt. My fingertips fell to the floor, and I went to sleep. 60
Day Mattar Today i’m good // rape’s the chair leg i’ve not swung me foot into // sat at the table wrapped birthday presents in front of the window made coffee for me flatmates parents // ran 4k in the rain and didn’t think about it // i sang in the shower and didn’t think about it // it’s the leg of a chair i’m not gonna break over me own back today // i ate one of them donuts with cream in the middle // and thought about it and scoffed it all anyway // rape is the chair leg i played footsie with writing this poem // pushed back under the table when i was done Esme Davine I like TV I like TV I like TV I like TV I like t.v. I like TV I like TV I like tv Lyin’ on the couch drinking Lucozade And all of my troubles seem far away My eyeballs feel like raspberry jelly Guess I’ll just watch Tom and Jerry I like TV I like TV I like TV I like TV I like t.v. I like TV I like TV I like tv Stretch me out like Michael television I don’t wanna break out it’s my favourite prison My eyeballs feel like strawberry jelly But I wanna watch the fuckin’ telly @niloo0151 Local 2 Look we’re not cold as we rub our hands in Chinese chippies and Pound Pubs and Poundlands and racist taxis and smoking areas of wine bars named after racist dads with creaky floorboards and incomprehensible chalkboards with scrawled, never-changing menus where we go to whet our weather-beaten eccentricities. The potholes stay open and so do we, huddling in the spaces missed by Google Maps, clusters of sleepy racist sub-towns which we hate, embroiled in the ecstasies of small-time hatred in reoccurring hairstyles and reoccurring outfits but the boys won’t admit it the rules dissolve if they’re spoken here so we just follow them and we won’t admit to a thing, we’d have to spit them away as a matter of integrity. Do birds ask the way of each other? This flock formed with the silent accord of blood, we organise on instinct only, glancing across at the others under streetlamps with their correct shades of blonde and heels so tall they’ll make your back bleed but not ours with our pinched faces, and we don’t even need to concentrate, we’ll pierce you good with the silent cruelty of iron-clad trends and we’re still not cold. We’re traditionalists, I suppose and you’ll apologise for a moment for your brown face and wire-hair and the soft hair on your knuckles and the kindness of your mother and your curfew. But many years getting taxis through streets named for the evil, to some sordid party where others kiss, always turned away from you until the noise of our nonsense sickens me, and the taxi driver says, “No, I meant originally” and you explain again, and again, there, later – many years of that and I tell you what, I love you, Liverpool, but you sure don’t love me. ARTISTIC FEATURE LICENCE 61
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Issue 95 / Dec18/Jan19

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