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thejunkyardprocession

Art and poetry issue 3

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This issue was meant to be out end of April, it got postponed, due to my dissertation writing , also with it postponed i was really hoping certain writers /artists would send in their pieces, but i can no longer wait , nor can keep chasing them. Hope you enjoyed the last issue; this issue features submissions from further afield which is rather exciting. There are some exciting live nights lined up, also there are two cd releases both contain spoken word music/noise, there was another project lined up but interest was very little. So that has come to a temporary stop. you can find us at www.facebook.com/thejunkyardprocession www.soundcloud.com/thejunkyardprocession www.thejunkyardprocession.bandcamp.com www.thejunkyardprocess.wix.com/junkyardprocession www.thejunkyardprocession.bigcartel.com/admin thejunkyardprocession@yahoo.co.uk Thankyou to destroy all monsters for there kind generosity for the promotional material for Junes event and owen findlay for the flyer design.

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contents Page 1-front cover- Front cover illustration by Paul Hannah page 2-Welcome page 3-contents page 4-Junes Event page 5-Michael Chrisholm Hometown, People and places page 6-Michael Chrisholm The other side of town Page 7-/8/9 Mistree Silent treatment Page 10- Richard Barrett My autobiography by alex ferguson page 11-Richard Barrett Depressed Vampires Maybe burn this computer Dress down friday page 12- Crumpall song Page 13-crumble song continued Page 14-Untitled sequence about water Page 15-Paul aitch art-Walter white page 16-Ozy Ozborne Page 17-Joe Strummer Page 18-About Pauls art Page 19-Bats Page 20-Bob Marley Page 21-Billy joe Page 22-Jazzman Claude Page 23-John Langley- For Isa Pages 24-33 David Burgess-ART Page 34- Robert M Francis-Passsover Page 35-Matt Nicholson-Domestically Unbalanced Page 36-Matt Nicholson continued Page 37-Kamal Imani Ms Melanin Page 38-Kamal Imani Now thats heavy Page 39-40 Kamal Imani-lyrics Page 41-Mark Burrow-Alter interactive-isms Page 42-Mark Burrow Continued Page 43-James Shearman-Silver in me lies - Od,ds,mod,delay Page 44- James Sherman-What would i say Page 45-Jacobb Sackett-Chaos in practice Page 46-Jacobb Sackett -People are drugs Page46-Jacobb Sackett -Summarized Page 47-50-Jacob Sackett-Magnificent sight Page 51-JacobbSackett-Barber Who is ten feet tall Page 52-Jacobb Sackett- Slide over - Fire Meetings Page 54-Jimmy Andrex-Bob crow refuses to rest in peace Page 55-Jimmy Andrex-Sparklers Page 56-57-Jimmy Andrex-loe song of the paid professional Page 59- Tom Kwei-Kusadasi Page 59-Tom Kwei-You remind me of the high street Page 60-Tom Kwei-The start,The Start Page 61- A Straight Circle Page 62- Zach Rodis-Bathtub Page 63- Page 64-The finer points of sadism-essore or Essore Page 65-Prolonged Version-All watched over by machines with neurotic disorders Page 66-Robert M Francis-Broken Landscapes

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Michael Chisholm Home Town

I stand here and moan about this town All my dreams revolve about moving away Stuck here though till my grave that’s what they say. Stand and complain that there’s nothing to do, Half these fool don’t even have a clue Have you seen what they wear All Henley’s and trainers and That permanent slouch Somehow Satisfied by the 9 to 5 and the bip-bop soundtrack to their days The only way to get by is in a drunken haze and latching on to the next craze Ill moan about my friends The rain that never ends The deluge of their lives Yet somehow I still like living in this town Patches and Places These clothes don't fit any more, there are new patches over the places time had worn away. This town doesn't fit any more, there are new places to cover up the stains. We don't fit here anymore, we've changed. Wait no these clothes are fine, vintage is all the rage, who cares if mine are just worn with age, patches that's the next craze. This place ain't so bad, trendy bars they are the latest fad. We're the same, nothing's happened nothing's changed. These clothes are alive they've evolved there part of my skin, memories engrained and thoughts within. 5


The towns alive it morphs and changes it grows, but it's still the same beast. We change, life has its hooks in us, they rip and tear, we mend and repair, live

The Other Side Of Town The other side of town, the one that still broken down Full of beggars and thieves, everyone is on bended knees Where the smack, crack, coke for a snack isn’t the sound of a tennis bat and a commercial taste down your neck They’ve heard of the rat race here it’s the loose your face to broken bones crew They only know two colours and those are black and blue The houses are found in rows, the doors are always closed The shut down, the broken in and that is only where the troubles begin Rolling in the gutter is your bread and butter of this town filled with sin There’d be girls on the corner but I’d better warn you they have less teeth than you Spin a yarn, tell a tale got to get out when rock n roll fails When a vacant lot is all you’ve got, do you wonder why they turn to dealing pot They’re painting over the cracks, with another art attack Just in time for the new shopping mall, which will close down all the old stalls There was heart and soul and yes rock and roll in that broken down old town that we once new

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SILENT TREATMENT By Carla Massey aka Misteree

Never ending Bickering Can’t get along For the life of me Why aren’t Any of your smiles Directed towards me All I receive Frowns Short answers The known hazard To your soul Freeing Goals beaming Across your face Seems like thoughts you have Are all over the place When I look The glimpse of hope Penetrate your divine Strong vision Captures The fewest of times I’m not the subject Your mind travels Relationship unravels Each argument Stretches my patience too far Patience like a rubber band Eventually you will understand Our differences Makes us No wish Can we repair this That night You came home Talking on your cellphone 7


Gestured carelessly Threw back your head quickly Like whiplash That’s the best you can do Your greetings To the woman Who unselfishly holds you down My eyes cold Like a tip of an ice pick The stare sticks Piercing Tirelessly cursing My actions Reversing When you come at me No longer am I fighting Trigger of words Splurge from my lips Drying up finger pointing drips To your face Now it’s time to freezer burn My actions I learned From my daunting past My anger towards you May be of he Who graciously stole from me A chunk of my projecting serenity From my surmounting peace Somehow I need to sever My clever Lip biting silence Will now challenge My persona To begin a silent Treatment to seek my love Within me For you Are you paying for a past love’s debt That I hadn’t cleared yet At first Noticeably my silence Caught you off guard Like a siren You noticed in my handgun of comebacks No bullets were firing Anger actually festered Because this treatment you weren’t used to Encumbering 8


No lash back of words Slaying your character So now the refreshing change Your approach Rearranged The air smoky To clear it I must Be clairvoyant Rapture the newness to my ways My viciousness calmed the hurtful spoken words To your days Now lighter My silent treatment Paid off to be something you began to admire

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Richard Barrett

My Autobiography by Alex Ferguson Come on horse. The excitement of the race track Is like nothing on earth. Rah rah rah When you reach a certain point in life what is left Other than to buy a horse? I believe In horse racing as in life. Yes, positive thinking can Yield spectacular results. Get out of bed; draw back The curtains. Don’t say fed-up as fed-up is what Teenagers say & anyway aren’t there always jobs That need doing? Remember the 80s? Whole days Spent sitting in industrial sized tubing waiting For something to happen. We’ve come a long way Since then. I believe if you ask the universe for What you want – and if you’ve lived a decent life The universe will deliver (usually). Come on; finish Ing lines mean winners & in the race of life there are Only winners and losers. Don’t smoke; train hard

Depressed Vampires Poor me. Begin every poem by showing the reader Where the poem will go And what the poem will be about

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Aha poetry is not real poetry. I am not interested in That moment when I can go Aha! I get it now! This poem would be better off being Left unwritten Probably. But, you know, I am bored and bubbling Over with self-pity So with this poem I would like to either (1) elicit some Sympathy or (2) Make the world feel as bad as I currently do. This poem is Not a noble poem I am ashamed of this poem (by its end I will be even more ashamed), If this poem existed in Some other form than on this computer / I would advise it Be burnt.

Maybe burn this computer? Today the meds just haven’t Worked I am dreading tonight I will go to the pharmacist and explain about waking At half three every morning And that I don’t want that again and ask If they can give me something I will go and see a film about depressed vampires YEAH

from Dress Down Friday Behind, the whirring fan On the desk. The man speaks Unignorably Two striped shirts One white on red; one Red on white 1 And thanks to J. Tiplday who, to my knowledge, was the person who came up with the phrase ‘aha poetry’

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Kit Kats on ‘special offer’ In the shop. Would you like Kit Kat? No. Thanks How many times this afternoon Was the plant watered? Twice. Tomorrow the plant May Not be watered at all. It depends on the soil The fan whirrs still. Even with the agent

Elsewhere During the period of refurbishment Neither enter nor egress By this door

Crumpsall Song 1. I hear Benny and the Jets Coming from, I think A radio the nurses are Listening to, til I realise It’s the bloke in the next bed His TV. My dad is sleeping 2. The big houses; wide pavements And trees; I tend to associate with South Manchester; but this is North Manchester. I walk From the tram-stop by the pub, school + Boots To the hospital

3. Sunset is impressive from The third floor ward window

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By my dad’s bed and the bridge Before the tram-stop; elsewhere Though the sunset’s lost Trees, buildings and dips In the ground the cause. I post to Facebook something 4. Brick steps. I’m going up them The wire fence pushed aside Behind traffic passing; to Salford And Manchester. Some bush or Flower brushes my face I find Nothing of interest. Richard you can Call it a day if you like. The viaduct Disappear here forever 5. Proving the truth of that Einstein epigraph About times future, present and past being Constructs, essentially; in hospital all sense Is gone of night becoming day. I bite my tongue Down on a correction. Me, I’m forever getting The day wrong 6. I text his sister: he seems better today He has more colour; is more talkative And is cracking jokes with the nurses Doctors & orderlies. I hit send. I don’t say: his awareness of his Condition and the pain he seems in, still Is why I’m stood here, right now, crying. A Metrolink worker approaches And says “in January the line will be down” 7. The buildings drop suddenly away And those lights I see I know to be Manchester. Nightly, given me a Different view of the city. I must Remember it. The Mosque; the Closed shops; the takeaways; open Neon lit. From the rail replacement bus I’ll be back there soon. Yesterday my Father

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Apologised for not being good company 8. I don’t know what this poem’s for Not to communicate what’s happening Because it fails there. Maybe to Help me deal with difficult and scary feelings By putting them into words and thereby Making them easier to handle. I could hate this poem

from Untitled Sequence about Water The light on the canal Is pretty I want to say & watching the water Is enjoyable. That’s all. (The lines I wrote here I deleted as being far Far too sad. In every sense of the word Really they had to go)

richard burnett

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Images pages 15-21 by Paul Hannah (aka Paul Aitch) July 2013 was the the 40th year since my first gig (for the record Slade at Leeds Uni). Since then I have seen 100s if not 1000s of bands. I have always been driven to draw portraits, usually of the bands I like at the time. I have also always been interested in Tessellations, the geometric shapes that fit together perfectly without any gaps. Of course the master of tessellations is MC Escher. It was in 2010 I had the idea of combining my interest of Rock Music portraiture and Tessellations and came up with the Shape of a guitar which tessellates. I proceeded to cover an A2 sheet with these guitars and then coloured each one in. The end result was "Strummer Axed". Since that first "Tessellation Portrait" I have added Billy Bragg, Ozzy Osbourne, Ian Brown and David Bowie to the port folio. These portraits can take me up to 9 months to complete and I started to draw "Big 'Ed" portraits of family, friends and people I knew from going to gigs, as artistic relief from the intensity of the Tessellations. These became quite popular and I now split my time 50/50 between the two formats. The latest Big 'Eds are from the TV Series "Breaking Bad". Other than commissions, 95% of the musicians I draw I have seen live or they are represented in my record collection. As such, on a couple of occasions, the drawings have enabled me to meet the subjects backstage. In 2013 I had the honour of meeting Billy Bragg after his gig at Leeds Town Hall and earlier this year I got backstage at Manchester Arena to meet Flogging Molly. I have shown my work at Strummercamp and had my work on the Walls of CuvĂŠe Bar Leeds in February 2014. Hopefully I will get the opportunity to show my work at more exhibitions in the future. Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/punk.art.1 Email: paulaitch.arty@yahoo.co.uk Website: http://paulaitcharty.wix.com/paul-aitch-art

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You know the feeling:You go to bed with a sparkling idea and you wake up with a spliting headache. & The description:'Creative Writing' is a tautology. (c) John Clarke 26 April 2014 Best & Beats Jazzman John Clarke TEL: 020 8318 3813 (NO MOBILE - 'OLD SCHOOL')

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john langley

For Isa Please forgive me, this world is not my own Please forgive me, I’ll be leaving on my own Please don’t judge me, I will not sit on that throne Please don’t hang me, I can do that on my own My true colours, will never be free In the closet, it’s not warm enough for me… Cause the weight of the world is always bringing me down (Atlas couldn’t help me) Now I’m six feet underground… Please don’t love me, I’ll just ask for more You were my blood, now it runs across the floor Sleepless nights asking if I’m right inside Fight or flight, no one ever takes my side… Its not safe to walk the streets knowing the world is not my friend Constant rumination, “will it ever end?” This is my final cry out against the world But it was never heard… In the mirror, someone’s staring back at me Who is that human? That can’t be me Because he’s gay, that’s not allowed He should be straight to make his parents proud Rest in peace Isa Shakmarli, I hope you find the serenity you were fighting for…

JJ Langley

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daid burgess

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Robert M Francis Pass over Occasional clink-squalls of metal on metal, the tram whispers over bogs of lichens and mosses where ruins of factory tracks sit between chewed up cars, withered rusts of dying foxgloves, terraces and red brick mills. Now tourist hotspots where artisans turned toil to song – home to meets where eager eyes were braced for its own sake. Now, my marketing company work from a barn, new media bred from nouveaux riche neighbourhoods, riddled with stainless steel and glass, faux plants and tokens of trade, my bluechipped barn farms consultants for consultants and cuntsaltonts and … In the distance the unseen lungs of the basin bubble in the matchstick models of crisscross waterways. Where Baltic timber followed the ebb and flow, where grain from four corners passed Detroit Bridge, where rumbles clap an undercurrent, where a “proper pub” serves its scotch eggs with balsamic dressing to twenty-four hour lawyers.

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Domestically Unbalanced Two black eyes and a broken nose When you came round mine today. You said after you left the pub last night You were attacked in the alleyway. You said four men attacked you, That you never saw it coming. They punched and kicked you to the ground And you had no chance of running. But something in your eyes was wrong I knew your story wasn't true. But what the fuck are you supposed to say When your best mate lies to you? Two weeks back it was the same thing But the story was less violent, After another evening beating Had been delivered with less intent. I didn't question then, likewise I didn't this time either Instead I hoped you'd tell the truth Not trying to be the great deceiver. I sat and listened to you for hours As you sighed and wheezed in pain When you said the one who did this I knew by face and name. You see the thing is mate...I I didn't get jumped, you said I got home last night safely And was beaten up by our lass instead. I never hit her! I swear to you! I didn't provoke her either. You should know it's, not the first time But, I swear, this time I'm gonna leave her! I have to see a specialist Ruptured is my eye they think It could lead to partial blindness I'm in fucking agony when I blink.

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Rolling trouser legs up to show me And taking his shirt off too He revealed bite marks and bruises I couldn't believe any human could do Bitten on his arms and legs His back and thighs and chest were blue. Face scabbing after being scratched Fresh blood on his cheek was new. I have never seen him look so bad Pale and weak and helpless, Looking at the ground, feeling ashamed Beaten abused and lifeless. Š Matthew P Nicholson 2008

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Kamal Imani Ms. Melanin! (Dark Sisters Tribute Poem) Š2005-11 Black like Alec Wek Exotic like Grace Jones Ethereal like African Ancestral Slave Bones Like Maat on her throne When you was little they used to laugh at your skin tone But I begged their pardons and scooped you up like chocolate ice cream from Baskin Robbins So Im fortunate to have you girl And I love to come into your black world Your black hole of soul To ascend with you to heaven is my ultimate goal I love the way we unfold through life The way in the midst of hell You create a paradise They all said you was mean, but I knew Id fine the nice Brown sugar and jerk spice You my dumplins on my beans and rice For you Ill make that sacrifice Lets chill Lets settle down We dont have to go mainstream we can keep it underground Its up to you You're my heaven I love you Ms. Melanin! You're my buga bu My champion without competition Victorious without an opponent You're the top muse on the catwalk that I come out for my standing ovation too You're the president of my corporation the queen of my projects The sister soldier of sex You're my wifey like next You're my ideal For you Ill keep it real Ill be your baby face cause you got that whip appeal You're my sugarpuss My honeysuckle My gingerspice My hot sauce on those beans and rice You're my first love cause I forgot all the rest You're my lady and my babysister you're the best 37


You're my staunch defender, you always got my back And baby you got back! You taste like beef ribs You taste like beef ribs with hot sauce And you paid the cost to be the boss But well share this throne I love the way you make my shower sing and my bed moan And you don't have to worry I'll never leave you alone You're my best friend to the end I love you! Ms.Melanin Now That’s Heavy! ©06 Kamal Imani The tradition of the dogon tribe in Mali Africa states that… We were visited thousands of years ago by the Nommos. Extra Terra Astral beings that taught us of the star constellation Orion and the stars Sirius a, b and C. Now why is this even important to you? Because the dogons believe that Sirius is where your soul goes after you die. Now aren’t you concerned with your afterlife? Or are you only concerned with the masters life? The preacher or the pastors wife? See the dogons new the existence of these stars Without a telescope or satellite. It took the European until recently to create a satellite so they can see partially What these so-called savages could always see. Now that’s heavy.

One teaspoon of Sirius b is so dense that it weighs 5 tons Sidenote: The earth weighs 6 sex tillion tons while it revolves around the sun. Now that’s heavy. How heavy? Heavier than Shirley from what’s happenin Ruben from Amerikkan Idol, Big Pun and Re Run. Heavier than those chicks from 2 tons of fun Now that’s heavy. I don’t mean to make light of this, but for what it’s worth Sirius is only 8.6 light years from earth. The black man was vibrating on a high frequency having interplanetary conferences with 38


extraterrestrial beings. We were seeing to it that the universe was balanced. Now, we slinging crack, doing Step N Fetch it rap And black on black violence. Now That’s heavy. Glorifiying techs, ghettos and projects, trapping our lovers for sex Breakin Egyptian toranic biblical and koranic laws. Fighting the enemies wars on someone elses shores While on politics economics and education we are mute Heavier than the land that you sittin in was once inhabited by Indians Now that’s heavy.

In Africa we got diamond mines and no diamonds Bling bling In America we got diamonds and no diamond mines Bling bling Now that’s heavy. Soul Survivor Kamal Imani © 2013

A young mans journey through life’s obstacles to God! Street Survival, Life Survival, Real Talk! That’s what this is! You already know! With a fire hip hop beat and real down to earth strong lyrics reminiscent of Chuck D from Public Enemy, in a spoken word cadence, Soul Survivor is about the triumphs of a man grinding and persevering through all of the traps and obstacles that are set before him in life and succeeding! It’s about keeping God first regardless to whom or what! It honors the spirit of determination and winning! By Kamal Imani Download @ cdbaby.com/cd/kamalimani36 kamalimani.bandcamp.com/track/im-a-soul-survivor Lyrics: I’m more than a conqueror I’m a soul survivor You shouldn’t be hearing my voice right now The enemy has been coming for me since I was a child I was let loose into a world of abuse and crack vials Pimps, prostitutes, con men, pranksters 39


Hostile gangsters, best friends ending up dead with lead in they heads They were blood brothers Cause they discovered anothers turf Alcohol, coca colos and blunts Shocking cribs, bullying exploiting punks Running from popo, scaling fences and walls Like the world would never end but most of us would fall Our world was spinning so fast in this land of the lost I remember fat rob saying “Stop the world I wanna get off”. Later on I got a wifey and my child was born Then unemployment and the bills came marching on Causing tension and stress in my rest Now I’m hard pressed to get out of this mess Somebody said try Jesus So I did my best And pressed my way Taking it day by day Through the aches, pains and storms like hurricanes I kept my faith and the sunshine came Through the fire I rose higher And I’m here to let you know. The devils a liar The devil couldn’t take my soul I’m a soul survivor! Stranger in a strange land Trying to be the man that I am But the enemy got a plan to break down my fam So every day I turn the bible pages And get divine light from saints and sages From genesis to revelations So although I deal with this business worlds cubicle nation I’m totally aware of my soul salvation You can’t break me down I’ve been unemployed, underemployed and got back up now The world frowns, but the angels applaud Cause I’m aligned with the king of kings the lord of lords I know you was told that religion is a fraud But a personal relationship with God is the greatest reward. I was supposed to be dead or in jail but I prevailed With Christ I rose higher I’m a soul survivor

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Alter-interactive i-isms mark burrow I

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His thoughtful ntestines Gave him that secondary Sickly feeling, the stomach Vibrating, calling his name. His lungs laughed at him

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His bowel shouted mperatives Placing him in limbo between

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Domesticity and deology. II He’s a manic monomaniac Leaving his home to roam Around French France Attending plays in Paris Heckling the stage, turning

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Himself nside out

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For he s upside down Marching further from family

In transcendental transparency. III

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He has a future: An -future,

Interactive, the interactive him, The possessive ‘I’. In the future he photographs His i-shaped sword with his i-phone, Ties his rewarded red ribbon

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Around t and persecutes

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Those without an -phone.

ii i

He puts the n sm The HE in (h)ego Representing all variables 41


i i As is not-ism; he represents is-ism: His-ism and i-ism I before E except after C Does not exist, i rules every time: I before I except after I, I...I...I...I...I... He downloads the i-mirror APP On his i-phone and gazes at himself, His second i, his second i-self. Of sms, for there s no such thing

He chairs ‘religiofictation’ meetings To ensure all are on board

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With the -mirror APP

i into idea And the i into into.) (He puts the

He scripts scripts using one

i

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Letter ( ), prints t n

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Variable fonts, snorts t through

i Into i. He’s Nicolas Chauvin: In the future, he becomes The i-Chauvin: download His -nose and wires his brain

His APP now, or else!

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James Shearman Sliver me in lies Adorned in paper cut-up tangles, bread with iron water holes, Whole they feed me into my mouth and nostrils, Whole they sliver me in lies and wanton murderous plague, Adorned in ashtray essence and misery, coleslaw envy, Diving school. Dressed in confessional erratic hypnotism, drip my sweat and Lick me up in distress and phantom amorphous rage, Hole out my hole to infinity – diving school has taught you well, Mourn in maximum black tunic, wares and tears and Tares and wears that same old smug expression daily. I look around a red cage of my own crafting and wonder about intricate and delicate subtleties, the feeble hue of frail experience. OD/DS/MOD/DELAY I tried to trip and stumble and collapse at your feet, I tried to greet you with a morning procession of drones, I tried to end my havoc before the fifteen minute mark, And I tried to dress you up in abstraction and make you my desire. I tried to end my stress and strife and exhaustion and it worked, And I tried to caress the sweet sonorous lips of seduction, I tried to speckle the sun in a glimpse of desolate fields, And I tried to deconstruct your mind’s image into crumbling debris. Why do you feel unfinished and open to interpretation when you are mine? Why do you feel unseen and unheard and unknown when your name is right before us? Why do you feel like dying today and living the next, to show your grief in bloodstained legacy that mocks reality and dies continually?

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What-Would-I-Say I have real faces in some ash Make me a status; dawn sky in the underground Saved by the DNA molecule’s inherent ability to be I’m going to acquire an easy life Coffee runs thick in my coffee I own you And so began everything I do So glad I have already ceased to follow me; I have found my calling Happy Hell O God I have decided to opt out Azures and azures and azures and when? Green Working Men’s Club. To live in the breast milk of the ills of those hangovers; where the Boards of the wind, and Pastiche, have become woe – Through me You’re not me, if I’m content in describing this Come get screwed metaphorically at The deadset of the global community of readers to seek out a triple six inch valley through the middle of my behind they are free.’ Goethe Rainbow conceiver, stone space probe builder I’ve never been happy or something.

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jacob sackett ESSERE O ESSERE

“Chaos: In Practice” They gave me The Light Yet another hallucinogenic spirit guide To generate the divine within Revelation supplements And Transcendence vitamins Taken three times a day Doesn’t keep the faces away This is retro-chronal magic Changing the past because I’m seasoned The order of things is in flux You must believe this, accept its potential validity It’s all approximation, it’s all prediction It’s commenced inside the polygon And all these fucking wizards who carry the baby spiders on their backs Turn to dust if they believe the link between magic and mathematics A fractal hoarder locked in Purgatory with a penchant for junk hexes Has extra tiles, spells to defile, and alchemy sets for both sexes

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“People Are Drugs” You’re a highly addictive substance But the first time was still the best Because you put me in a sort of sub-trance As I drank milk of poppy from your breast You’re a highly toxic substance But I keep you here nonetheless And if it was you or any other choice You would still win regardless Outside shivering from the cold and withdraws Watching somebody else get their fix And still I remain until reality thaws And logic and rationale finally clicks Because – People are drugs You have a highly addictive personality I gotta smoke you to know you I have to inject you to interject through this waste of space you call solitude But I have to maintain myself from making your tragic fate the refrain That people are drugs And god’s the dealer

“Summarized” She’s chasing Mandies like a kid out in the rain She dropped them on the ground, searching all around She demands the help of her husband who she does not really love

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I think she gets wet from stressing out Oily and high strung all throughout the day Like a buttered acoustic I don’t want to play She’s never satisfied and she’ll never be Maybe all is wrong with forced simplicity A gas station clerk? That’s not why she went to college Oh wait, she never went to college Pervasively boring all throughout her life How could one be so lucky to have her as their wife? Bald middle-aged businessmen on a Boeing triple seven That’s her idea of getting a little heaven And if her friends desert her, she’ll take it all in vain “It’s just another phase”, “they’re going insane” It’s them, not me It’s them, not me It’s them, not me Summarized Summarized

“Magnificent Sight” I saw the accused tied to a post Silent as wood, standing tall like a tree Through eviscerated eyes, now truly free He said, “The beauty of the world I finally see” As veins exposed to light, let gravity give way The death throes were so violent, the iron-jettison spray Even the bemused were choking back their sick Spectators in the back were covered in the rusty thick

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Looking up like watching an eclipse Vertical magnetism at its best Fate just taking it all in jest We stayed until they burned the rest For hours he stood while they hacked and chopped Like a majestic beast, cognitive of death in a butcher shop It was almost imaginative, we all waited for a sign The lack of divine attention felt like a thoughtless crime Flesh piled in the thick A dissected junkie on a stick Fate just taking it all in jest Abhorrent justice at its best The rains came that night, washed the pieces away Nary escape a disturbing thought, my mind’s own prey But some cold voice inside says to not get carried away Just think of what magnificent sight you saw today

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“Every Wants In A Wild” She documented for me a time A spell I could not decode And every once in a while I begin to feel her corrode Such is life She played the role for a while Of an insufferable concubine And every once in a while I begin to wonder what’s really mine Such is life There is no way to explain No way to explain away living flesh A soul with fake limbs barely attached Lives in a day dream world when the sun is up A nightmare when darkness comes A nightmare during the day rings true Like a body hitting pavement in the middle of the courtyard blues And when the hours begin to slow I can feel parts of me still frozen in time They've sent me letters from 20 years ago, Asking for some kind of sign And there she is again, in the distance Pouring corrosive acid over the mind field Dares me to exercise free will There's no way to explain-

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No way to explain away living flesh And every wants in a wild, and every needs in a sea Combine together finally Now I see, she sees, all this for nothing

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Barker Who Is 10 Feet Tall Now here stands a real man, entrepreneur with cash in hand Always asked me for a song about he, so now I’m finally obliging He’s an archangel who’s seen the face of God And it should be common knowledge, that he’s always right and you’re always wrong And he always told me what I should be, and all this time I should’ve seen He was waiting by a lively tree, set me free Reverend Ricky Barker who is 10 feet tall Doesn’t seem from this world at all Wants to be a witness to the fall Of all the sinners big and small Now this man of God should be given credit where credit is due His devoted mother gave him away young with his siblings, it’s true And I don’t hold it against a man with methods so twisted and unsound Cause after all, I’m one of the little people, so low to the ground Barker who is 10 feet tall Is a philosopher and knows it all Always wanted to be rich And now he’s gone and flipped a switch Barker who is 10 feet tall Is just a victim one and all And says if we just pretend harder Then we too can be martyrs

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Slid Over Heavy - Pixel pussy Heavy - Skin pockets Heavy - Marsupial pouch Heavy - Giant elders There’s that modern rot, the burning dust off the television vents Flesh looks like a boiling ocean in snowy reception events Heavy - Satellite beamed fingers Heavy - Skin gashes Heavy – Sober Men disfigurements Heavy – High Men disagreements The two looked out of the screen, one revealed the blob inside her It just smiled and closed its eyes as another slug slid over Hands of fate smash their faces into each other, lip-locked in blood torn asphyxiation A lot to do with money, less to do with desperation

“Fire Meetings” Have you eaten that can of paper? I’m making you put in the jelly Watergate’s fashion scandal analien probe People standing there, wearing suits made from construction materials But where did time return to?

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Is there a past to the present meats? Calls to memory of a family gathering preparing a royal swine Preservatives for stale meetings Oblivious to the salting, a conference of curing Business suit on fire, suit of iron Marble floors of ejaculate reek of corporate releases You’ve made forever seem easy and very appealing I’ll be the one to put your face on in the final days Oranges are for seasonal tastes, not everyone agrees And of course sport torn fork know beat poetry They keep witty rodents in cages typing on gold typewriters Yet shrunken heads of beatniks, still don’t qualify as art But disproportionate conformist cats in berets draw the hottest ticket Sports town folk know beat poetry

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jimmy andrex Bob Crow refuses to rest in peace. Say ‘No!’ to the grey suit and the limp cheese sandwich. Say ‘Yes!’ to demonisation and cries of greed from the privileged, choking on their quail’s eggs after you’ve ruined their evening. Say ‘No!’ to the trappings, the wide, easy path to the neat workspace, the single permitted 7 x 5 photo and two fifteen minute breaks. Say ‘No!’ to being reasonable, in an unreasonable world.

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Sparklers There is no word for this: Listening to you say the same thing over and over and over and over and over circling the room, chopping out chunks of heart and if not me, then who? There is no word for clearing out the empty nest bedroom, finding the tube of Strawberry Durex Play covered in fluff under your daughter’s bed, like a Pritt stick with the top off. There is no word for not minding; after all, he made her happy until it snapped her like a twig realizing he wasn’t going to be the one, before she glued herself back together. There is no word for this; Although the Greeks had about 20, pondered by sculpted men with porn beards; But they weren’t lashing out at you because I’m sad about him. There is no word for this; Under tutting stares in Farmfoods Her smile is like the Northern Lights, Patiently lugging her Special Boy’s siren deadweight, Her hair snatched back in a second. There is no word for watching someone fade as their life peels off like a wet label, as this feeling drags its clueless club foot up endless stairs, foaming at the mouth. There is no word So I can forget knowing anything. It makes as much sense as his wife’s cancer or controversy in the chip shop queue, or you taking turns pushing each others’ wheelchair. No word. But if I take a deep breath, there it is, like us waving sparklers at a frosty night sky, 55


crackling crazily for a few giddy seconds, burning trails on the back of our eyes.

The love song of the well-paid professional What is it about meetings? I’m conscious of time so I’ll be brief: What is it about meetings? The round and round and round and round of same old same old same old sound of boiling in your own piss that gives you that hiss in your ears, that ends with you wondering how you’d break the legs of that dog on the bus if it attacked you, because it could, you know; and you know it would, given your febrile state and the fact that it’s a 7 stone woman and a 12 stone rottweiler. I’m conscious of time, so… Throw a pointless, witless argument into the heady mix; slightly defeats the object, but more healthy than a Twix: Fun Size, it says on the wrapper in Arabic. Still, better than the tea with just a hint of Harpic. The same old same old round and round dead debate, like the dying sound of a Hoover winding down The same old arguments predictable as this rhyme we’re straying into middle class self-pity 56


and I’m conscious of time, so… The next time someone uses the word “deep” as a meaningless prefix, unless I can learn to sleep with my eyes open, I’m stuffed; and if they ask me to “drill down deeper” into a 10 page 10 point spreadsheet or attend a workshop with no benches or use a toolkit with no tools Or. If. They. Read. Through. Every. Single. Word. On. Their. 30. Page. Powerpoint. Presentation. Before spending an hour in explanation, then I’ll drill deep down into their soggy skulls in pathetic rage like Michael Douglas in Falling Down, go on a baffled rampage, tear up their agendas, spray the room with bullet points, throw out all their handouts, crush their rich tea biscuits in their face; not exactly Scarface, I know, But I’m conscious of time, so… Any other business?

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tom kwei Kusadasi In the squinting distance, windmills spin. Behind them the sun taunts their stalks. This is a heat. This is a heat that hides in thighs, settles in eyelids. Branched out from the balcony below me, a carpet dries defeated on the white tiles. Spiders too scared to move slowly burn in the thick felt. This is a heat that nudges you awake, that rests a palm on your mouth and waits. Up above I watch the pool as the winds begin. Indentations skim like fingerprints. Tiny tongues lap the submerged ladder rungs. This is a heat that makes my skin itch from the inside.

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You Remind Me Of The High Street Now I mean this politely, but you remind me of the high street. The end is nigh street. The streets all affected by the same disorder of same shops different order, constantly marauded by hordes of hoarders. A land of twats dressed for Natwest. I will collectively box the next group with a collection box, angry because certain shops have gone yet here I remain. I mean did people just get bored of Borders? I’m on the border, was just a virgin emerging when they closed the Megastore but I debated what a war was worth, when I discovered the end of Woolworths. So that’s why you remind me of the high street. You remind me of those shops and places that are no longer open, that now reside only in your mind but a part of you is still hoping, that they return the same way and that nothing is broken, but it’s all half memories like first sentences spoken. Walking around towns now I don’t look. It seems that Cafod and his Oxfamily have moved in, but I don’t want their charity, maybe just less familiarity. So when I spit the abnormality of an abandoned Woolworths, I question if my clamoring for pic’n’mix had threw me into hysterics. But it’s really there, right there I realize that it it’s worth double of you. I bath briefly in the red glow coming down from the dusty W. There are 3 ‘o’s in Woolworths and I can’t help but say ooo! I walk closer and closer till I’m almost reunited. The signs scream trespassing but I practically feel invited, until I find that the doors are bolted and the locks are tightened. As close as I can be then to the inside I begin to peer inside and it all grows clearer inside. The place that I remembered had vanished away; acres of toys and games now equated to a trashed alleyway. The checkouts checked out but the rest was a riot, a tip. Not the shop I was so fond of remembering. It was sad to see but what dawned on me was that things change when out of your grasp. So everything is going away. I can continue rhyming about storefronts or just say, we’re only on this craprock for a snap shot, hoping not to go out holding down caps lock. So don’t let the past become a padlock.

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The Start! The Start! The Start! The Start! Isn’t that the best part? When no conversation ends the same, where there’s no blame, no time for that! Barely time for smiles between kisses shared sat out on a beach, a field, even a bus shelter, because nothing’s ever felt quiet like how you felt her. The Start! The Start! Isn’t that the best part? where she leaks gloriously into your day, into what you say, into what you feel, how you see art. The Start! Into how you hear, into how you whisper, how you shout. The Start! The Start! How to fill that chasm that breaks when you’re apart? That rends your heart, out into the hollow chambers of the sea. Away from her is a blur, a struggle, a life without focus. But one hug, one kiss and clarity is reborn, you’re no longer hopeless. The Start! The Start! Isn’t that the best part?

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'A Straight Circle' Title: Made By Chelsea Somedays I wake up. And I feel like, I'd just love to commit collateral murder on those self absorbed, self obsessed fake bake socialites. How easily would they jump into frame under a rain of shrapnel and depleted uranium instead of champagne like Mum. At least there would be no consequences behind those gated community fences. Justice is as a bust is for our babes, but suckle on the truth beneath your own skin. Don't look within, don't turn on the flashlights, don't stop going all night. Don't stretch the truth is too tight Justice is as a bust is for our fallen, like a whore house called stalling for time. Like land mines. Littered across a cultural desert, like a deserted scene so keen to be remembered in history. Time moves so fast these days; But not for some. Not for one. So they use it to recreate themselves. In their own image. A true mirage.

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zach rodis Bathtub Drip Drip Eyelids closed A rubber duck floats above a nipple Tiled floor covered in faded pink towels I learn over the bath We are losing gravity Come on Come up for air Come up for air I need to see you hyperventilate Shiver Your eyes would widen causing a miniature tsunami in the tub I am above the surface Not quite immersed Poised Talking Demanding you to elevate Voice lost underneath Come on You can do it Come up for air Come up for air Come up for air Come up for air

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Want to be in the next issue?Email Submissions week coming last week of may

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thejunkyardprocession  

issue 3 featuring art and poetry