It's a new month, and with it comes news! This month I'm very pleased and proud to announce that I've made it into Bangor University's own Pulp Magazine, with two of my poems including 'Rude awakenings' and 'Short Night'. This is the first step to getting where I want to be, and I'd like to thank all of my loyal readers who keep coming back and giving me that push I need to create something worth reading. As a treat, I'll put the two poems that Pulp are using on here also, (but shhh, don't tell them) along with my usual assortment of poetry antics, such as my first solo ride on a train and much more. Expect news of my Novel's progress, as it nears its final manuscript form and preparations for the dreaded agent search.
So without further ado I present, Short night, Inspired my my best friend in the world Douglas Crawford, a man with a good taste in friends and an unusually spectacular taste in Ales and Ciders.
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Short Night
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No stars. Breath of wind. Far off voices.
It’s only just turned dark. Voices. Lots
Of them. They clamour around, not
Staggering yet. Side lane. Trees overhead.
Cutting silhouettes into the sky. Church.
Stale piss. The smell burns my senses.
Clamour. People. The cake. Oh look
It’s a celebration. Food. Orange drinks.
Lime fingers. The centrepiece went down well.
Swan. Apple. Melon with boiled strawberries.
Girl. Darkened room. Lights. The party can
Begin now. Shudder of shutters. Click, click. Click, Click.
Man with a camera, hope I get to see them later.
Fuzzy hours. Lazy games. Memories. These
Are what I’d dreamed of. The coat. The bag.
The empty room. Trees. The night is still black.
No stars. Dead wind. Far off slurs. They don’t
Walk, they stagger. I know the night is ending.
Room. Bed. Clock. The slurred voices never lie.
It’s late.
