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EAT MY WORDS The Anthology Jasmine Jones - Sarah Fossey - Oliver Gibb - Nick Morris Aimee Roberts - Victoria Fossey - Leighton Birch - Bethany Hayman - Adam Morris

T天 Newydd Writers Centre 03.03.13


Mum Every day is bed time, Lying there in your night gown, Sleep talking in your nursery rhyme, The swirl of your blonde hair Is your princess crown, Your dark brown eyes like your gravy Which I find divine, Your lips that so gently touch mine, Your small body just like a doll, Your anger expands you just Like that great chinese wall, My love for you will never fail As I’m your boat and you’re my sail.

My Little Sister Her smile lightens up my day, Her curls just take my thoughts away, Her smile from ear to ear, When she sees me walking near, Her little feet running across the ground, So soft you can barely hear a sound, Just like a butterfly flying my way, Her brown eyes lighten up the room, My fairy princess sitting on a mushroom.

Jasmine Jones


Mum Sitting there with your crochet hook, No time to listen no time to look, She taught me once she taught me twice But I just can’t seem to get it right, Her hair so short but her eyes so bright, Just like the apples hanging in the light.

Excited Orange like the sun going down, The feel of popping bubble wrap, The smell of food cooking, The sound of children at playtimne, An excited lamb jumping around, The effect of the body, Trampolining on the spot.

Sarah Fossey


The Mosh Pit Dizzy drunk with deathly dregs I stumble through the door With kilter swagger, proud and fierce I walk the sodden floor His scragly beard sprouts sandy spikes He’s come with kin and kith With grim locked face and charcoal hood He looks just like a sith His stance is stoic, straight up steady He states his silent challenge Sensing my doom, i flee the room As fast as i can manage Push pit in fits, the music hits They start their rhythmic fight For glory brief, they grit their teeth They will taste blood tonight I can feel my vision blurring Sense the thrashing bodies whirling And the beast within me yearning For that taste of glory brief Fists and feet Bruise and beat Eat the meat A bloodied treat Silencing the feeble bleat Of cowards Planted to their seat Our battlefields These stomping grounds We come to fight The drum beat pounds Our senses drowned We raise our hearts To frenzy sounds


And march in mangled time Oliver Gibb

Victory is Mine! Four more turns until i win My knuckles white Pinned to the bed Desperately, deliberately doing nothing Terrified of inquisition, scrutinization or question Four more turns until I win Three more turns until I win I am the crouched cat The purring panther Swishing tail Waiting to pounce Three more turns until i win Two more turns until i win My ears thirst for their groans of anguish My eyes hunger for the deathly palour of their faces Sick with envy Two more turns until i win One more turn until i win So close i can taste it The sweet sticky nectar of Glorious victory Be still my pounding heart One more turn until i win My turn Hands sahking Palms sweating Hands scooping Die casting Oliver Gibb


Sainsbury’s Standing wretched and afraid. Pudgy face sodden with salty tears The boy looks up at his last hope With gurgling screech, he entreats “i’ve lost my mum!” From the top of her marble monolith A stone faced clerk asks: “whats her name?” “Barbara” the boy burbles Inhaling the trail of ooze Hanging from his nostril The harmonic choir of the intercom Calls out across the store Heralding An Angel In no time at all she is striding towards the desk Corkscrew hair bobbing in step He rockets to her with infant haste clutching verdant velvet Of mother’s green coat Calloused tips of slender fingers Caress his worried head She smiles at him, takes his hand And walks him out of the labyrinth Their ordeal over For another week Oliver Gibb


The Abandoned House The room is empty as you walk in the creaking floor boards are brown as bark. The stale smell. A dull grey wall as if the life has been painted out of it. A light gleams in the corner of the Room drawing you there.

Fear Fear is the black sky at night. The sharp snapping of a bear trap. The stench of burning in the air. The screaming sound of a warning alarm. A tornado speeding at you. A lion’s roar. The galloping heart rate.

My Nana Her glasses make her see a different world Her hearing aid’s ringing so loud. Her three false teeth that she never wears She back combs her hair like an afro You would swear I was a sky scraper When I stand next to her. Her legs move fast but her steps walk slow. She can never keep up. Nick Morris


Nan’s House Your house was warm like sunshine, smelled like lavender. Sitting by the window, the heat pressed onto my young arm. The brown coffee table, stained with tea spills, darkened with age. How I used to search for ladybirds with your magnifying glass, then display then on the table’s surface. The fridge filled with cream that I’d down straight from the pot, bananas in the jelly. The ancient biscuit tin filled with Grandpa’s face and medals. My tiny knife and fork.

My Mum Her cheeks are like hamsters, full of false teeth, her real teeth broken and bruised. She sings to an audience of cats, silence when she is laughing. Her olive skin and her round chin, beauty spots like chocolate dots. My Mum smokes twenty a day, leans in and drifts into her paradise.

Love Love is red, it tastes sweet and sour. It feels warm and whirly. It smells like sweet red roses. It sounds like a baby’s laugh, the sweetest thing to my ears. It’s a chimpanzee, clever and amazing. It looks like a winter love scene. It makes you ill with nerves. Aimee Roberts


My Old Bedroom A place to hide away, shelves of toys we didn’t share. The smell of fresh laundry, the square mirror on the wall. The wind coming through the window, waking us up. Pink papered walls, I wanted to be purple, which we wrote all over the day we left for good.

My Mum She likes to wears leggings, two pairs at a time. Green eyes that make me laugh, even when she’s angry. She loves to dance to Gangnam style, cracking her moves in every room. Loves to sting but can’t string a note. We dare not sit in her chair or she gives us that stare. We get home from school to find her knitting her neverending jumper. Don’t make me half a cup, drinking tea all the time. Always there for me.

Love Love is purple with the texture of chocolate; the smell of strawberries, the sound of music, flowers and love hearts, dolphins swimming together, funny feeling in my belly, heart racing.

Fruit Pineapple sour, sticky, super sunshine in a prickly, spiky skin. Victoria Fossey


My Mother The red spot on her cheek and a little button nose and a pretty smile fair dues. She’s got beautiful eyes like the sea, which comfort when she looks at me. She wears a woolly jumper all the time, she crashed the bumper several times. She dances everywhere and drinks lime all the time. My Mum hasn’t got a job but she’s always searching. She’s very pale and wears sunglasses, on my I-pad with the light shooting on and off her face. Always thinking about everyone else first, takes a lifetime to brush her hair and teeth. My Mum has a dead soft voice in a constant daydream.

Anger Anger is dull black, stinging nettles, a thorn in your side. It is the smell of a petrol spill, the revving engine of a motorbike behind you. It is the kid being beaten up by a mob. It is the charging rhino with his horn coming at you. It is the collapse, the heart slowing down, the lips getting thinner.

Strawberry Some fruits are super soft and some amen-saley spiky. They are red, sour and sweet, all different colours, all different textures, all different shapes.

Leighton Birch


Nature Twigs on the trees, withered and worn from weather. Honey cone at my feet, beware of the bees, they may sting your knees. I see a string of wool looped up on the fence. Snow drops form white and small, they will live until they grow old.

House from the Past One bright house, memories pouring from the walls through the kitchen where my great grandfather died on the floor. When alone, beware of the cold. In the back room, there is an empty chair. No-one sits there anymore, the yellow stain of tobacco liver-spotting the flowered pattern.

Bethany Hayman


My Mother My mother has brown starry eyes and a dimpled smile. Her bobbed, coal-black hair with lightening, blonde streaks. which she tucks behind her hair when she goes to work. Always a cup of weak tea in hand in the green mug with the constant grin. Her pale skin with the occasional dot, which only ever burns in the sun. Lost in the laptop with your reading glasses, with the light darting off you face. Your soft voice that swells into a scream when you hear I’ve been left behind.

My House Rose red wall paper on the chimney breast, a tangy orange surround. Cream curtains with flower pattern blinds, the clock with changing pictures of the family, chiming in the different hour. The black oak table that barely fits in the room. The carpet is the colour of a person bleeding cold-blooded.

Angry Anger is the blackest black, the jagged edge of a knife’s blade. It is the smell of gas leaking, someone getting the crap beaten out of them by a gang. It is the bull seeing red, it is feeling nothing, a dead silence.

Adam Morris


Eat My Words Anthology