Pamplona Gut

The running of the bulls

down gullets dusted with olive oil,

Hemingway chews hungrily

on the tail of the slain creature.

Plenty of garlic, a dash of Navarra grape,

the colour of Picasso’s dreams.

Merry-go-round

The birds circle on

a Ferris wheel in a

polysyllabic sky

In miniature, they

look like great eagles forming

knitting pattern pearls

Light patches of white

sky, seeing is believing,

enthral the storm clouds

Turner seas in swells,

God is moving furniture,

all is lost it seems

The Sun is a ghost

making shadow puppets

out of burnt arrows

Peritoneal

I have sewn a safety loop into my

flesh to be used for fastening hinges

inside my blood cells. The tubes, feather dry,

sugar my rose-hip tea, the milk syringe

howls into the clunking machine midnight.

Might I go outside in the bone orchard?

Young jowl roots coloured yellow, the old white

imagination, slugs on the morbid

nettles. A killer on the honeysuckle

noxious in the healing of the limbs, an

abattoir staring up at a petal

rasping a last breath before I guzzle

divorce, swallow divergence and red wine.

Severance, sable dust is my bloodline.

“Contemporary Poetry”

It’s a digital
playground
of unworthy
abstract
artists

Desperate
smiles and
poetry that
owns no merit

Who can write
in volume
the most
forgettable
amount of
poems

It’s a race
to be first
and nobody
is watching

The audience is
the competition
Both are stuck
on the same stanza

Write your boring
little heart out
Write like you
actually have
something to say

If your writing
meets the standards
of contemporary
poetry

You’ll be awarded
a friend request
on Facebook
by some other
guy with an
equally small penis
waiting to praise
your boring poetry
in the hopes that
you’ll do the same

© Michael Marrotti

“A Critical Self Analysis”

If I were a little
more dishonest
Smiling when I
didn’t mean it
Offering praise
instead of candor
I’d have more friends

If my penis had
a few more inches
Got off sooner
than later and
lowered it standards
I’d have more lovers

If my dealer would
lower his prices
Picked up the phone
when I wanted
and didn’t behave
like a green eyed
bastard
I’d be less unstable

If these words
weren’t so fluent
Profound and
proactive
Worthwhile and
clever
By the standards
of the small press
My book of poems
would’ve been
published

© Michael Marrotti

“The Banality Of Poetry”

If each platitude
was met with a fist
This world
of monotony
would be
bestowed
the gift of
originality

If there were
laws against
banality
You’d be
guilty as
charged

If there were
fines and restitution
for each cliche
thing you do or say
Socialism would
flourish and the
trivialities of life
would cease to be

Redundancy
would vanish
and then maybe
just maybe
I’d take the time
out of my schedule
to sit down with you
and hear what it is
you have to say

© Michael Marrotti

Dead Dog

Tonight

I opened the Ziploc bag

encasing the cremated remains

of my dead dog.

She was the family dog

at first, of course, but

as my siblings and parents aged,

she became my dog.

Under the mist

of gray clouds,

I spread the last remnants

of once was my

first love.

A black canine

without prejudice,

judgment or malice,

just a mutt

with freedom

allowed to run wild

no matter what

shit she returned

her fur was covered in.

In her gray years,

she developed a pinched

nerve in her spine,

providing her with seizures

that voided her bowels

all over me, as I was

always the only one

to hear her yelps for help.

I’d watch her stumbling

around the back yard

against the dark night

as she tried to recover,

leading her back with

optimistic white lies.

A few weeks later,

my parents put her down.

All I have left

is a blurry photo

hours before her

lethal injection,

and a yard that is

no longer mine,

but is scattered

with her bone fragments

and ashes embedded

across her final resting place.

Scribbled by Chris Butler

The Boy With No Manners Broke Your Heart, Really?

So you like bad boys,
do you?
Then why are you crying
and upset
because he’s doing
what bad boys do?
Oh, you don’t want him
to be a bad boy to you
just to everyone else,
a selective bad boy thingy?
You’re pissed
because he keeps going out
with his bad boy friends
(You’re actually saying this?)
Ok, he can go out
with his bad boy friends
but not when you say so?
So you want control?
you want to police him?
You want to be his prison warden?
You’ll be picking out
his clothes for him next,
telling him what to wear each day.
Cutting up his meat in restaurants
and spitting on Kleenex
to wipe his dirty face in public.
That bad boy of yours
needs to get himself safely
away from the likes of you.

© Paul Tristram 2016

She Has A Face Just Like That Donovan

You know, that folk singer
from the 60’s?
I keep waiting for her
to start singing
‘Season Of The Witch’
or something stupid like that.
Apparently she really likes me?
I mean, she’s lovely to talk to,
has a great sense of humour,
knows her single malts
and her interests go way beyond
kittens, cosy nights in
and long, romantic beach walks.
But I can’t fuck that,
it’s just too disconcerting.
I guess I’m just not
‘Mellow Yellow’ enough
to get that image
out of me bonce, mate, innit.

© Paul Tristram 2016

Word’s Of Wisdom

These words
I speak
are charitable
It’s on the house
have a poem on me

These words
I speak
live in the
moment
Time is
precariously
ticking right
on bye

These words
behave
like a slut
off the rag
You can
have it first
I’ll take
sloppy seconds

These words are
like humanity
When you need
them the most
They’ll get up
and leave you

The soul alone on the Island

The Stone shack – alone austere

Birth simply happens

An almost non-event

As too is death

Equilibrium is as it does

Moss silently listens

Men’s blood is black

The children – know

The air breathed is rock

Cementing each – and – every – action.

Nothing is valueless

Everything is indivisible

Walking along this horizon

To a backward infinity

A thousand slated rectangles

Mirroring the light –

Days are as ripe as seams

Ever-expanding –

The girls dream of strawberries

And Keats wanting Lawrence

Boys dream of Zanzibar

Fulfilling their fathers boots

Whisky whistles a merry tune

From dusk into timeless night

Dark tales shared across raucous  

Laughter, horror, fear, wit, and wantonness

Then tomorrows Tells

Remind the men like a wife reminding

These aurora borealis 

Mystical majesty

As they in their youths blood

Know their destiny but may not understand

SCAM CALL POEM

“Hello” I answer.
“Are you the owner of a PC on this number
sir” a voice asks
“Yes” I say
“Sir, you have very serious problems with
your PC; it has been sending us data
informing that your device in under
serious threat and I can help you”
“And who are you?”
I ask
“Sir, my name is Pedro, I am calling from
PC Experts and I need
you to give me remote access to your
PC so I can save your PC Sir”
“Yeah, and I’m
Napoleon” I say
“Excuse me sir?”
the voice says and then repeats himself
“Sir Pedro” I say
“So you want to help me out because you’re
worried for me and my computer
and you’re doing this
because you’re a nice caring person and
wouldn’t want to
think of me upset and you want to
help me out for nothing”
“Excuse me sir? It is my job. I am Pedro”
the voice says
“And I’m Caligula” I say
“Excuse me sir?” the voice says
“Die fighting not waiting” I say
“Excuse me sir? the voice says and then
the line
suddenly
dies.

TWO PUSSIES

They’re in my garden

Jawing at one another
Nose to nose
Whisker to whisker
Claw to claw.
I gaze at them intently
And wonder why they spend
So much time together
When they clearly
Hate each other’s guts
One swipes at the other

And they screech and whine

Move back
Come together again
The black one tries to leave

Tentatively

Its eyes always on the other
Waiting for a sneak attack
It thinks better of it
Stays.

The smoky one seems to be
The boss.
It prowls and dominates
Its land
like this was ancient Egypt
and it knew it was the Queen
like it belonged to Sheba
or Nefertiti
or one of those other ones
that would have made it a God.
I’d love to know what

The hell they’re saying to

Each other
These two pussies
In my back yard.
Eventually they strut

Slowly along the fence
And finally leave
Out of sight
Nothing settled
Nothing gained.
Wait.

Why?
What the hell
did you think
This poem was
gonna be
About?