Ian McEwen

Laird’s Prayer

Our porker
Who art in commons
(Bellowed be thy name)
Thy pigdom come,
Thy swill be done in Perth
As it is in Kensington,
Give us this day our daily dread
And forgive us our bus passes
As we forgive those expenses against us
And lead us not into taxation
But deliver us from people
For swine is the pigdom
The Labour and Tory
For ever and ever

Copyright © Ian McEwen 2014

Ian McEwen’s first collection, Intermittent beings, was published by Cinnamon Press in 2013. He is treasurer of Magma Poetry and lives in England www.ianmcewen.co.uk.

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Montgomery Thompson

The Western Voice

Mine is a western voice
Calling silently from the depths of the bath
Peering out from a surface that tears itself apart;
Minute tears driving upwards to join with cloud cousins
Who are always watching down, banding together to gather
The courage to tear apart and come down.

And I, in a huff of thought, submerge.

We sing as one, we western voices,
Though each to different moons.
It is to the paper now my whimsy serenades.
I have pinched this afternoon’s immersing
From garden’s seeding chore.
Instead planting perspective that now grows slow-mo visions.
I try to still that eye as I dry and fly
To the blank page. How much can I save
Of the precious prize that inspires and dies?

I, in a bathos brume, ablate.

No big words, sings the western voice
Booming in on board rattling spurs.
I just took a bath o’ and my woman works the brume.
Ablate of her good dinner is fuel for my tune.
And what’s all this of clouds and surfaces tearing and banding together?
Just say that it’s steam from the bath behaving like upside-down weather.

And I, in my western voice, agree.

Copyright © Montgomery Thompson 2014

Montgomery Thompson is an Idahoan living in Northern Ireland. Monte is a science fiction novelist, graphic designer, musician, and eater of egg-sandwiches.

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Raymond Miller

Good Men Have Bad Dreams

according to Jewish scripture.
They aren’t signs of ill health
(I assure myself)
but a necessary safety valve.
In these pictures born of repression
is there a lesson to be drawn,
a symmetry to form?
Might the dreams of bad men be good?

Let’s suppose that they could:
forewarned is forearmed
and cure is inferior to prevention;
then by extension, early intervention’s advised.
Imagine Sigmund Freud analysed
Adolf Hitler (when he was littler)
and discovered that the bugger
had a thing for his mother
yet lacked the art of Whistler;
his father was a bastard who battered
young Adolf in particular.

Sigmund couldn’t help but notice
the facile diagnosis of an Oedipal Complex.
The lad was rather self-obsessed
and circumspect concerning sex.
He’d reluctantly confess he weren’t successful
with the gals: two exes topped themselves
and another tried and failed .

All sufficiently disturbing but what Freud
finds most unnerving are the dreams.
Dreams of water -
Adolf floating motionless
on an ocean stretched
to the horizon and beyond;
a sense of lebensraum,
a vast purifying pond
in which his magic wand
launches golden showers
to cleanse and scour us.

A single figure in a liquid mirror;
Freud sees the flicker will glow and grow
into Kristallnacht, into The Holocaust.
What if the final solution
lies here at the source?
Hitler’s  on the couch, it’s
now or it’s Auschwitz.
Will Sig pull the trigger?
A simple click, a bullet to the Id;
a Freudian slip we’d all forgive.

Then I wake up.

Copyright © Raymond Miller 2014

Ray Miller is very old and has too many children. He’s opened for John Cooper Clarke, Attila the Stockbroker and his poems have appeared in Prole, Antiphon, Message in a Bottle,  even The British Journal of Psychiatry. He coulda been a contender.

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Kevin Cadwallender

The Secret that we Took from Stone
It was ours, we found it
Smoothed it from the crude rock,
It was beautiful and honest.
It grew out of raw stone as
Our fingers bled to find it.

We knew its form as ancient,
Primeval, idealised.

It was ours, we imagined it.
Chiselled our likeness
In its hard heart,
Lay down beside it
And listened
To its endless silence.

We made it our icon;
Our metaphor,
Our god,
Our headstone.

We lie beside it

Copyright © Kevin Cadwallender 2014

Kevin Cadwallender has published many books of poetry, his most recent (with Aidan Halpin) being ‘The South Face of Groucho Marx’ (Red Squirrel Press)

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Joe Murray

this cosmic moment
for Jan

a flawed meandering moon
ranging its way
around an earth
silently sounding a course
around a gold-leaf’d sun who
with all her children
all her lovers gently
flits and follows her fabulous
sisters through a galactic sea
that tides out and in
from that ancient godpoint –
that vital spark – to
this cosmic moment
of sacred balance that
begins and ends with


© 2014 Joe Murray

Former editor of West Coast Magazine, Taranis Books and has revitalised his Mythic Horse Press.  Recently returned to try his hand at writing again after a long absence.

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Keith Parker

Cult Chariot of Strettweg 7th Century BCE

The goddess holds a bowl like a radio telescope
above her head. Her army of followers have
waited patiently for almost three thousand
years. Two steady a deer by its antlers as it
waits to spring forward from the chariot.
Others sooth their horses, make fine adjustments
to their shields and axes. What are they waiting for,
a signal from somewhere vanished to activate
their tiny vehicle`s bronze wheels? To set off
like some planetary rover following software
from a long forgotten religion
in pursuit of a parallel reality?

Copyright © Keith Parker 2014

Keith Parker writes poetry in the North East of England. He has had some work published in magazines and is working towards a first collection.

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Thomas Papp


A turn of the head and
the flow across the room
tell me about your shackles and chains
watch life quickly ebb in a room
(my hand in yours)
to whereabouts unknown
prayer & whiskey & time = decay
many, many years from this day an embrace shall stay
the remembrance of all things
& the ring of the bell & rising sun
is so distant now

Copyright © Thomas Papp 2014

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