Guest Poetry – Kevin Stubbs

Guest Poet - Kevin Stubbs

Guest Poet – Kevin Stubbs

At the end of the garden,
In the outhouse bog,
I sit,

Red-gold rays of the retreating sun
Crawl through the cracked and weathered window frame.

This old man will countenance no waste
On 3-ply, 2-ply or aloa-vera infused.
Rough-ripped squares of daily mail on a driven nail
Are all that he will use.

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A dollop for the masses

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“Mostly nonsense – zumpinequanger!”

Coax the words out from the pen
Slap and shake them out again
Splurging, surging, oozing out
Patterns form, some rhyme, some shout
Sometimes short, sometimes longer
Mostly nonsense – zumpinequanger!

Smothering all that’s on the plate
A verbal ketchup to placate
And mask the truth (that bitter pill)
With a poisonously addictive tale
made palatable
by a sugar-coated quill.

Angster Rap

Angster Rap

“I, am a teenage angster…”

I, am a teenage angster
A frustrated mid-twenties gangster
Words for bullets – obviously
Expletive explosives
don’t f@ck with me

With wit as sharp as a knife
I’m in your face for a slice of life
Don’t want your fear you fool
Respective, defective
And cool in school

Now there’s faith hope and charity
I punched their lip ‘cos they sneered at me
They left, now my life’s a Hell hole
Humility, futility
I sold my soul

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When I died

When I died

“Desperate for a final glimpse of the life,
eternity is poised to erase”

In death I stand
Beside a house
Lodged in the darkness
And press my face to a window

Seeing only silhouettes
I strike a futile blow against the pane
Desperate for a final glimpse of the life
Eternity is poised to erase

I turn to stare out towards my future
And contemplate what lies ahead,
Alone, in that dark silence

I shiver.

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Christmas list

Christmas list

“…all I want for Christmas is…”

Last year,
All I got for Christmas was…
A pinch of salt – for resolutions
A bottle of glue – for broken promises
A roll of paper – for cracks
A camcorder – to capture missed opportunities
A drop of milk – over which to cry
A carpet – under which to brush indiscretions
A cabinet – to hoard all mistakes
A room – for an elephant
A knife – for the back
A clothes line – for airing dirty laundry
A spectacle – for neighbours
A bridge – to burn
A road – to hell.

This year,
All I want for Christmas is…
A new lover – preferably one who doesn’t fancy my best mate.

Yapparister – December 2013


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The Backie (back alley)

The Backie (back alley)

“A back-garden-walled no-man’s land…”

Away from the safety of my childhood home
Around the back of twitching curtains
Lay a strip of half-forgotten land
A back-garden-walled no-man’s land
Where bins, toppled,
Spewed their plastic intestines
Across a tarred and broken path.

Wild borders, long grass, nettles, weeds
Dead rats, dog crap, dark freedom
The place to dissect a long dead crow
Scoop shit on sticks and throw
Chalk a name, something profane, onto Mrs Walker’s wall
And darker still
A place to sip alcohol
Light a smoke, set fire to bins.

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