Page 1


TheJunkyard procession

Issue one

TheJunkyardprocession Contents A quick welcome Joesph Hilton marion burns J D nelson S. Lester Raeven Irata Richard Sutherland StephenJamesSmith Nick Quantrill Nick Tozchek Phill Ross Jim Hugo Yol The fug

TheJunkYardProcession A new city ,new challenges , a new magazine cnntinuing from were silentrevolutionmagazine stopped,hoping to bring yu some of the best up and coming undrgound poets as well as house hold names along with photographers and visual artists .There is no paper version as finaces will not allow it so do read this on line and I hope yu enjoy it ,theres also a link to download some great music and poets ranging in all styles and genres.Thankyou to Acetagg for the frontcover art as well. Enjoy Karl To contribute to future issues email your work to Find us on facebook at sion


Joesph Hilton burns


who fitted these creased sleeves Worn In

before it knew me.


A note in the pocket,

It had been hung out,

blue ink, reminds him to buy

badly bleached and pinned,

the milk and some bacon,

so when I took it

and I imagine him running

from the line, grabbing

with a greaseproof parcel

hold of two corners,

and a bottle of milk.

the breeze whispered and it danced in my arms. Teeth chattered rhythms under wind chilled white.

A Little Accident

ii This is a forgery:

There is sticky orange squash

a fossil of the man

kept in a cupboard with a jar full


of nuts and bolts. I dilute a little

written in a frame, as I pull

in a ridged glass, the water is

three from the pink peonies.

warm, too much, it comes out light yel-

Next door, I can smell pewter


and Imperial Leather. A map soaked in when I rezipped,

Then, the walls are cold, wet

so I splash sinkwater to

when I touch them. I unzip

hide it,

and the flamenco dancer stares;

and end up with something

as I turn her away, her frills fan,


brushing dust on the cistern‘s lid. So when I sink into the Steam rises up whilst I go,

floral pattern

splittering on the seat, dribs

of the big comfy sofa, she

and dropples; ‗be a sweet‘,

asks me:


„Did you have some trouble?‟

The Open Fist

Before smiling, turning


back to watch;

love for a girl

Grandstand on the televi-

who loves you too.

sion drones on: Lupin “Liverpool- 3 Fulham – nil,

Dead fox does not

Sunderland - 1 Everton -

run, does not bite.


Rather, he sleeps

Amy Smiles Shy girl looks like she's embarrassed all of the time.

The Astronomer It's hard to name the stars when all your friends are planets


then when they find my sticking a pin by each,


a yellow label on top

put me on display; Iâ€&#x;m a galaxy

written with a name. Piercing the night.

The Surprise If my eyes start to cataract from staring through the telescope,

He sits. He stays for a cake that will never arrive. His hat is tied around his head with black elastic;

turn to holes in the sky -milky like a moon, with a different face wherever you stand-

thick brown stripes. He sits. He stares at an owner who holds a bone out of his reach. His one eye like a burrow,


a tunnel in his head.

as loud as dust on floorboards. Static socks. She lifts a head

He sits. He sulks. The pink ruff that was tugged

like it were filled with feathers,


scoops me into a moonlit palm;

tickling the fur around his neck. An itch

two hexagons, three circles

he longs to scratch.

and then I'm just small cha ii Pressed down in the cotton wool,

A Final Experiment i Settled in a cool wrinkle under the linen, I hear her,

she takes me out when she forgets where I fell from.


Iii Your daughter lifts me up and drops me in a glass. I fizz,

Shrapnel There is one pound in change in a shoe in my room;

and bobble to the bottom, bub-

orange and silver pieces


in the scuffed leather.

brown on white. If I could have

I tip the heel upwards,

my way,

and it pours like chinkling pop into her hand.

I would not simply dissolve after you have left me for bed;

'come on,' she says, 'we'll buy a bottle.

I would sprout flowers, a bouquet

Cloudy lemonade.'

before I go. But too late. I‘ve disappeared.

Worn In



before it knew me.

It had been hung out,

A note in the pocket,

badly bleached and pinned,

blue ink, reminds him to buy

so when I took it

the milk and some bacon,

from the line, grabbing

and I imagine him running

hold of two corners,

with a greaseproof parcel

the breeze whispered and

and a bottle of milk.

it danced in my arms. Teeth chattered rhythms

A Little Accident

under wind chilled white. There is sticky orange squash ii

kept in a cupboard with a jar full

This is a forgery:

of nuts and bolts. I dilute a little

a fossil of the man

in a ridged glass, the water is

who fitted these creased sleeves



too much, it comes out light yel-

Next door, I can smell pewter


and Imperial Leather. A map soaked in when I rezipped,

Then, the walls are cold, wet

so I splash sinkwater to hide it,

when I touch them. I unzip

and end up with something big-

and the flamenco dancer stares;


as I turn her away, her frills fan, brushing dust on the cistern‘s lid.

So when I sink into the floral pattern

Steam rises up whilst I go,

of the big comfy sofa, she asks

splittering on the seat, dribs


and dropples; ‗be a sweet‘,

‗Did you have some trouble?‘

written in a frame, as I pull

Before smiling, turning back to

three from the pink peonies.



Grandstand on the television drones on: ―Liverpool- 3 Fulham – nil, Sunderland - 1 Everton - 1…‖

J.D Nelson J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words and sound in his subterranean laboratory. More than 1,000 of his bizarre poems and experimental texts have appeared in many small press and underground publications. He is the author of On the Toad (The Red Ceilings Press, 2011, and Red&Deadly,

2011), Roman Meal (Ten Pages Press, 2011), Noise Difficulty Flower (Argotist Ebooks, 2010), and The Frankendelphia Experiment(Tainted Coffee Press, 2010). Visit for more information and links to his published work. His audio experiments (recorded under the name Owl Brain Atlas) are online at J. D. lives in Colorado, USA.


alpha, tr. z. CLONE YOUR OWN THOUGHTS future money spoken into the machine: the impossible sound of itself a good fish for this some trees in boulder is she is ∴ oboe,

// name of magician ___________ (cat gets burgers) truck fiction /// TOAD apple, Wendy‘s for the milk. BROKEN McDONALD‘S BROKEN McDONALD‘S BROKEN McDONALD‘S Frogless Laserkraut


those old rabbit masks might come in handy the frozen bird little frosty we call him the only one I‘ve ever known to bite luncheon owl near/dear — I’m No Angelfish —

& a lÿnÿrd a room at the ramada a mapple, an applemap american chainsaw suddenlÿ

I left my brain in the cow word of this has spread to the antipodes

we are the world we are the chicken

awake with paper

J. D. Nelson

J.ÿellow ÿarn a lanÿard


OLD ATLANTI$ -- - -possible MONSTER /// wearing a robot mask from Osco

Hodge send 40 :.

// AMERICAN CLONE MUDLUNGS // [frog twine]

Owl has eaten.

VINCENT PRICE eating a bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats

―You said it,‖ I said.

past the soft light one evening, familiar trees (HERE) — Zane adv this A&W ____ Prowse

J. D. Nelson

J. D. Nelson (NOTHINGO) ✔ bean sour,


Sandra Lester



THE MEMORY MAP copyright S. Lester The compass is erratic, frantic, unstable; withholding forumulae, stopping tracks: fate neurosis set in years ago. To the east, there are vigorous impressions; west, cryptic primal shadows: north, a hypothermic hallway to lunacy. My personal paradigm, in the south, points to an alternative route. The compass is erratic, frantic, unstable; abreactions loiter in a flaming cul-de-sac!

No way out, except via their dubious fumes. Whatever happened to The Yellow Brick Road? THE NON-CONFORMIST Copyright S. Lester I'm not troubled to a great extent: just enough to write and rant; just enough to make me sound mad; just enough to make everyone seem bad. I'm not disturbed overly you know: just enough to make you think and grow; just enough to bend your mind; just enough to be unkind.


I'm certainly not willing to conform: noth enough to eat early morning worms; not enough to be shown respect; not enough to avoid neglect. I'm not giving in to life at all: not sufficient to stop me, or my "call; not sufficient to drink cider or meths; not sufficient to drive me to death. I'm not troubled too much though: just enough to leave the flow; just enough to despise the Queen; just enought to be totally obscene.


Raeven Irata



Reminiscence in Frost and Stone Frost glistens…memories flicker Here I stand. Why have You brought me here again? And why now? I was here two convoluted nights agohere, yet not here – in a radiant vision of memories mixed with fantasy curdled with unsettling false images. Fragments intertwine in my dreams, confusing me. Arousing me. He is not mine, and never was. Yet he had me once… Here. Here – only frost did not spar-

kle…the dull haze of lamplight reflected off thick cloud – chilly for July. The silence of summer small hours, not the dreary urban dirge of Christmas traffic. My eyes search for a familiar Celtic cross, yet find only staring obelisks and cracked branches. Mud damp and clinging as on that fateful night, yet now congealed with rotting leaves, threatening to engulf my meagre shoes. The green aura of a traffic light casts an eerie sheen through railings onto pointed headstones. Glimpsing a distant silhouette, I dart into the welcoming shadow of motionless trees. Stillness.


Distraction creeps into my enraptured mind and I remember where I was going. Venturing hesitantly back onto the noisy, slippery street, the memories fade.

Crimson ocean wells inside from your face I seek to hide your shadow orbs they strip me bare obliged I am to shun your stare.

Yearning for the One

Your side simply touching mine thus fastened by your magnet sublime a single stirring would rend us asunder yet I merely rest and wonder.

strong enough to keep her captive The sensation overcomes me the need for possession by you to be dragged by seizĂŠd hair to your tenebrous lair Surging from deep within driving me to sin your countenance summons me your tainted slave to be.

I rise to break away; absorb your frown as swiftly you move to pin me down but I am unyielding, and arise‌ to flee those captivating eyes.


Treading the threshold, I hesitantly push the door questioning the purpose such rapture is for yet I yearn to be your fallen slave your devouring presence I crave. Within my chamber, longing flows anew the desire to be taken captive by you… or even by another… as long as I am taken… forth from my own enthralling ardour alas, I am forsaken. Lord, enter my heart to inspire lest I drown too willingly in the mire.

From my plummet to the abyss where intent unfurled in bliss (a noxious kiss neglected to ensue) - salvaged again by You! Are You the matchless one with power to hold me? Who will own this ruptured animation? Epic Fail I have encountered my Heart's DesireAll its yearning, stood before me! In flesh and bone and smiling face and falling hair In laughter and conversation In Ultimate Joy. He beckoned me in and there


was no way back I'd reached my longed-for home There in the bubble of our companionship The world without faded to oblivion And there was no return for me. As ecstasy held my countenance hostage With its unrelenting smile That with my greatest endeavours I couldn't wipe off I knew deep within that tears would attack Eroding ecstasy's weak defencesThe structures holding my visage in a smile Would be crumbled and broken down in an unrelenting tsunami. But the next attack was by Music

Whose mighty kingdom's power I cannot fathom With pulsating bass and soaring soprano My enraptured form was taken captive So I might be vanquished with pleasure As its spirit soared in me. My Heart's Desire approachedBy his presence I was consumed He had stolen my soul in a moment And his vibrations had kidnapped my body. His vestments and hair enticed me His smile now veiled and his eyes pierced me deep within Though my intentions were not to sin,


I was prisoner to my own heart's desire. To his domain I stole Blocking out alarm bells resounding inside Beside myself and lost in my own head I lay down beside him. I reached out my hand, touched his skin so unearthly He drew me into a close embrace And I fooled myself I would stay there forever. His face in the half-light gazing at me I'd entered forbidden territory Yet to be here possessed my being with joy.

As the sun rose and morning beckoned Despair also rose in my heart, blackening out the light For today I would be gone‌ Now the agony of loss has carved a chasm in my heart And I will hasten on although my Heart's Desire has gone For I am not his heart's desiremerely another pretty face. Oh how sin- his and mine- has torn lifelong dreams to destruction I fucked it up in a night of temptation And now it's all an Epic Fail You Kissed Someone Yesterday by Raeven Irata


Part 1: The painful surfacing of buried love and truth You kissed someone yesterday Red was her hair I saw it unfold like a vision untrue The embrace, the disgrace‌it was all out of place After all these years did I really know you? You, the lonely man You, the Presence who causes my spirit to soar On wings of ecstasy untold What a dizzy crash To the reality of our heavy souls. My love for you returned like the migrant bird Back from an adventure to the

sun To be rekindled in fires ablaze Then extinguished by blackened torrents Leading to castles of despair. For a moment your world lay open to me Then in tears shut away behind a door of iron As the fountain of love turned black And alcohol-fuelled woes sunk me to the ground. My feelings laid bare I had not meant to share Now the dreaded truth surfaced Exploded through the blackened lake Your feelings for me would never be


Beyond love for a beloved sister. Part 2: The Failed Rebound You kissed someone yesterday Short was her hair I do not really care But this is not my week. Come Saturday morn my level was lowered Despair and sadness drove me to you For better or worse, your presence draws me The magnet of your eyes I cannot escape As you reduce me to jelly by your stance. I was almost ready to submit to you

Then another came along‌ Stole you away Keeping me safe for a time‌ But I dread what is to come.


Richard Sutherland


Aande (or, A&E) Richard Sutherland CCTV and blue-lit loos, tetanus shots and various flus, toll free taxis from a broken phone, an occasional bloodstain or fragment of bone, vending machine with adjacent health warning, scolding hot coffee to stop you from yawning, more used needles than behind a bike shed... don‘t look now, but that fella‘s dead. ―Take a seat, my love. Shouldn‘t be too long.‖

Medical records left out for all to see, a pot you can‘t hide, in which you must pee, the Wi-Fi‘s gone down and the radio‘s been stolen by a man with concussion and an ankle that‘s swollen, no smoking allowed, yet it lurks in the air, a distinct lack of staff that honestly care, not a grape to be seen, nor a bunch of fresh flowers, the current waiting time is roughly 3 hours. ―Do you want a magazine? There‘s one on knitting somewhere, I think.‖ An advert loop for shops that have gone,


automatic doors that torment everyone, receptionists ignoring everything but each other, two noisy kids (where the hell is their mother?), ‗Danger – High Voltage‘ right near water fountains, trays full of files like huge paper mountains, a tramp with no teeth and a drunk being lairy, but they can‘t compare to the doctor who‘s scary. ―Don‘t worry about the screaming, they‘ll give him an anaesthetic.‖ A complete lack of grammar in every notice, a man walking round, wondering where his coat is,

an incessant beeping… rather that than flatlining, everyone (except me) is constantly whining, not a scrap to be read, nor a painting to view, my new bandage dressing is long overdue, more coppers around than doctors or nurses, surrounding that room full of shouting and curses. ―He'll be with you shortly, he‘s just burning some documents.‖ The sound of thick gel pumped into a palm, a red light starts flashing: ―No cause for alarm!‖, disabled access is strangely not present,


syringes of goo so bright it‘s fluorescent, a row full of gurneys but no paraplegics, a strong smell of bleach and foul analgesics, bins overflowing (I hope not with bombs), crackly voices over cheap intercoms. ―Just a couple more minutes, it can be murder getting blood out from under fingernails.‖ I‘d love to go private, I‘ve heard that it‘s super, you‘re treated like royalty when you pay for Bupa, instead of the sickly lined up in tight rows, elbows in ribs and stamping on toes,

gum on the seat and sick on the floor, hordes of zombies traipsing through the door, waiting for hours for your diagnosis between MMR jabs and senile psychosis… ―Ready for you now, pet. First door on the left. Mind the puddle.‖ But then something clicks (and it‘s not someone‘s jaw), an important fact that I‘d briefly ignored: I suddenly remember that all of it‘s free, and that‘s all I need, NHS is for me!


Stephen James Smith


Anto for Taoiseach I‟m up too bleedin' early. But I shrugged off my daily itch, only to be hindered by my own domestic bitch So to reengineer my acoustic life only to still eat porridge. & live on an. Anti-oxidant. Stress-supplied. Muiltisupplimented life. So get nude, blend some chamomile tea

I‟d say that johns only a dreamer with no religion & crazy philosophy. Attract women & talk, it‟s easier than it seems. Grafton St. was waked on. I saw Jimmy singin‟ Harry Christina at the most expensive free open air concert a free mans experienced. Doorways were pissed on. Ha‟penny was pissed & gone in the head. But he contributed,


he fuckin‟ contributed with the generosity of a widows might! That mans a legend in Dublin in my eyes. To sleep in those doorways & cast back all the living that he had to the treasury of life. It makes me sad, & glad to see life livin‟ in the spirit of a poor man givin‟.

& how he‟s richer than D4 as he puts his fingers up & lets out a roar. & takes out a smoke, & inhales to choke In his last days But he lived his life like a ciggie in the rain never fadin‟ when the pain washed in.

Hunter „cause when I look at him I see. Just how futile that life can be,

You have caught real beauty like a hunter.


It didn‘t notice you coming, I didn‘t notice you coming, but you lured it in, in a trans.

is just the beginning of the chase, & not the end of your life!

So feminine with your grace. & So feline in pace, upon catching your prey.

Denzel Washington


I‘ve got Denzel Washington to my right, Seamus Heaney in the corner George Best is having a scoop Al Capone and his mob to my left. My mother in days gone by,

at your merci. Nothing left to do but pray. That being caught,


& a Dutch version of the present. Louis Armstrong & Ray Charles have lost their color. Denzel smiled at me, & gave me a nod of recognition. That coke head chief is looking smug. & I feel like dancing. Please tell me where I am, OH there‘s Mr. Miagi.

Kissed your soft shoulder & then on to the neck Where you told me to Stop! As it made you smile & twirl & flutter As I caught you in a moment Spinning


Making a brand new start of it But I knew the moment The moment, the moment that we had Would be gone Just a year on The results are in we‘re not compatible But still had a moment Possibly pro ratable As an intoxicated kiss

Feeling naked Smelling yourself Hitting yourself While your seeking things new This day 365 older I imagine how I once


Caused us to wish Our amicable separation Contained some more happiness But as the fog lifted On my clouded judgment So to come a moment Of hurtful intrigue That passed like we couldn‘t remember.


Nick Quantrill


A Town Called Malice (by Nick Quantrill) Scarborough, 1981, hot and sunny, the first place I visited as a Mod on my scooter. A classic Vespa. I saved up the money from my first job as a YTS dogsbody. Took me months and that was after my Mum slipped me some extra. John, Kev, Wayne and me all went up the coast from Hull, whipping in and out of the slow moving bank holiday traffic, eager to get there with Skirlaugh, Bridlington and Reighton all flashing past in a carefree blur, cheering and celebrating when we spotted the clear blue sea in front of us. Best day of my life. It had

been a time of discovery for me. I love the old records by The Kinks and The Small Faces as well as the new ones from The Jam. There was the discovery of girls and sex, or at least trying to get them. I thought I was Jimmy from “Quadrophenia� when I was just a lad from Hull. But it was a way of life, a way for me to feel part of something. Some local lads chased us around the seafront that day, pushing families aside as we tried to get away from them. Ice creams and chips going everywhere. It was a thrill at first, but in a panic, I tripped on the stairs leading to the beach. A couple of them caught up with me and pinned me down to make sure


I didn‟t get away. I wasn‟t sure if it was my screaming I could hear or the day-trippers who witnessed it. The lads beat me black and blue until the police dragged us all away in their van for another kicking. Scarborough, 2011, hot and sunny, the first place I‟m visiting as a grand-dad. Me, a grand-dad. Inside, I still felt like the kid who came here on his Vespa all those years ago. This time I was a passenger in my daughter‟s Vauxhall Astra. I still play The Kinks, The Small Faces and The Jam on the car stereo, despite her telling me it‟s old man‟s music. I feel sad that she‟ll never get to expe-

rience being part of something like I have. She‟ll never know the closeness and sense of belonging it gives you. You just don‟t get that kind of thing anymore. Everyone stays in their own houses these days, playing with their computers and phones. It‟s not real life. I still get to see John and Wayne from time to time, though. Kev‟s gone too soon. Specialist pub nights and decent cover bands keep it alive for me. I count out the change in my pockets and pass what I have to my daughter, saying she should put it towards treating the young one to an ice-cream. We walk down the sea front, lost in the crowd of people doing the same. We pass the


spot where I was attacked all those years ago. A lot has changed because of that day. But you have to look forwards. Mod had been the making of me but it had also been my downfall. I look back at the spot and then at the young one. Life goes on. It was hardly the scene of a battle like Clacton or Brighton in 1964, but when all youâ€&#x;ve got to your name is an old Vespa scooter and a criminal record, it might as well have been.


A smattering of polite apLosing My Religion (by

plause. A sinister looking

Nick Quantrill)

bloke in on a mobility scooter continues to just

I bring things to a cres-

stare at me, his eyes never

cendo. Sixty years old, but

leaving mine. The teenag-

I can still do it, banging

ers stood around eating

the boards behind me to

their McDonalds take the

make my point. I shout

piss. One of them throws

loud and proud. „Let Him

a piece of burger at me. I

into your life, my friends.

step down from the po-

Open your hearts to Him

dium. And then he rushes

and I promise you, He

me. He prods me in the

will love you back.â€&#x;







man and my growing au-






shouts. „Where was your fucking




I found Him because of

needed him?‟


The man stinks. Wild hair

years ago. Prison. There

and eyes. The teenagers

was nothing in this city

laugh at him. Another lo-

then. Not much more

cal nutter.


I try to calm him down.

The woman had no com-

„Let Him in to your life,

passion, no interest in a

friend.‟ Another piece of


burger hits me. „You have

Keith couldn‟t find any

to trust Him‟ I shout to the

work. We both had kids to



Thatcher‟s fault.





feed, so what choice did

of the city. We knew they

we have? We turned to

stored the money on site,

crime. Armed robbery. In

ready for a weekly collec-

and out quickly and no-

tion on a Friday afternoon.

body gets hurt. That was

We didnâ€&#x;t know how to

the plan. We invested in a

hot-wire a car, so we

shotgun. They were sur-

made up some fake num-

prisingly easy to get hold

ber-plates and stuck them

of if you knew the right

on Keithâ€&#x;s red Cortina. It

people. Or the wrong

was common enough and

people. We watched and

it would fool people. I

learned the routines. We

was more nervous than

eventually chose a bank in

Keith on the day. We

a small village just outside

made a pact. The car was


left with the engine run-

notes. She started to cry,

ning and we both ran into

but she did as she was

the bank, balaclavas in


place. Keith held the gun.

wouldn‟t shut up, told us

We tossed for roles. He

he‟d served his country

shouted at the single cus-

against the Nazis so we

tomer in the place. An old

would have freedom, told

man. He shouted back at

us about serving in the

us, told us he‟d served in

dense jungles of the Pacif-

the War. I told him to shut

ic. Keith told him to shut

his mouth and handed a

up. He wouldn‟t. Keith

bag to the scared young

pulled the trigger. And

woman at the cashier‟s

you don‟t walk away from

till. Told her to fill it with

that. We both went to





prison for a long time. It

He turns to face me. More

was for the best, because


that was when He found

now. I swallow. Start to


sweat. „If







For a moment, I think he‟s




going to spit in my face.



He pushes me backwards,

wouldn‟t be sleeping in a

into my boards. „Fuck off,

shop doorway, would I?


My family would still be

„Give Him a chance‟ I

talking to me.‟ He stepped

shout at his back. „Open

closer, lowered his voice.

your heart to Him.‟

„There‟s so much hate for



me. Can‟t you and your


fucking God understand

He took a step back and


looked me up and down.

„You‟ve got to let Him in-

Hate in his eyes. „Good

to your life. It‟s the only

job for you I was the one

way, friend. The only way

holding the gun, then,

to move forward.‟

wasn‟t it?‟

He stared at me. „Do you really believe that?‟

I nodded. „I do.‟


„What if you can‟t live with your mistakes?‟ „There‟s always a way. He forgives.‟

thejunkyardprocession Nowhere Man (by Nick Quantrill) dam flight

No one should have to stand at Humberside Airport‟s arrivals gate, name board in hand, waiting for Mr Van Der Kerkhof to arrive. Not at five in the morning. Groups of youngsters barge past me, shouting to each other at the top of their voices, excited. I can spot the cheap package holiday crews a mile off. I don‟t understand it. If you work for months in an office or factory, why not enjoy your time away a bit more wisely? My brother tells me everyone‟s entitled to a break. An escape. Maybe he‟s right. He‟s all the family I‟ve got left. The television screen tells me the Amster-

has arrived on time. I get ready, hold the board up. A constant stream of travellers emerge. The same mix I see every month. Regional airports aren‟t big on unpredictability. Returning holidaymakers, sporting the effects of too much sun and cheap alcohol drag bags of duty free behind them. Bored looking businessmen hurry towards the exit. They all check their mobiles as they go. The airport never sleeps. People think I‟m stupid, a joke, and when I‟m stood here like this, I sometimes think they might have a point. They call me names because they think I‟m different to them. I don‟t go out drinking with them. I don‟t


go to the rugby with them. They don‟t know me, but they‟ve made their minds about me. I‟m an easy target – a kind of nowhere man. All I am to them is an odd job man at a fish auction in a city I‟ve never left. A joke. I see Mr Van Der Kerkhof walking towards me. Early sixties, not a hair on his head, Healthy looking. Tanned, like he‟s just been on a nice holiday. He‟s smiling. I continue to hold my board out. It‟s one of his rules. „Morning‟ I say to him. I‟m allowed to lower the board now he‟s stood with me. „Good morning‟ he says. „Another month has gone. Time flies.‟

I nod, thinking it‟s not passing quickly enough for my liking. „How was your flight?‟ „It was very satisfactory.‟ „That‟s good‟ I say. We work our way through the same pleasantries as last time. „How is the market this morning?‟ „Plenty of haddock and halibut expected in‟ I tell him, as we start to walk towards the airport‟s car-park. „Maybe some frozen stock, too.‟ He shakes his head. „That will not do.‟ He smiles. „Let me see what else they have.‟ The boss lends me his car for this job. It‟s meant to impress. I take Mr Van Der Kerkhof‟s overnight bag from him, place it in the boot. His


briefcase stays with him. Mr Van Der Kerkhof is well known at the fish auction. He flies in from Amsterdam once a month, his briefcase full of money. Like clockwork. Everyone knows when he‟s due. It seems stupid. The fish auction is computerised these days and you can bid from the comfort of your own desk, but Mr Van Der Kerkhof likes to see what he‟s buying. It all seems a bit over the top to me, but his family have been doing it for years. He probably likes the sort of celebrity status that it gives him about the place. I open the door and he gets into the back of the car. The whole point of me collecting him from the airport is to act as

his chauffeur. It‟s what we do. I pull out of the airport car park, head towards Hull. It‟s a quick drive back to the motorway, then over The Humber Bridge and into the city‟s docks. Plenty of time yet before the day starts properly. I see a blue car closing in on us in my rear-view mirror. Its headlights flash repeatedly as it gets closer. There‟s no one else on the road. I glance at Mr Van Der Kerkhof in the back. He‟s seen it, too. He‟s as on edge as I am. The blue car overtakes me, cutting back across my path, forcing me to swerve sharply into a lay by. The blue car slams on its breaks, comes to a stop. I have to do the same. I breathe


deeply. Everyone knows he‟s got the money on him. It‟s not a secret. Nothing happens for a few seconds. A man gets out of the blue car, cap pulled down over his face. I feel sick, swallow the bile in my mouth down. Focus. This is happening for real. He pulls open the door next to Mr Van Der Kerkhof, leans into the car. Holds his hand out. „Briefcase‟ he says. Nobody speaks for a moment. I take charge. „Just give it to him‟ I say. The man takes it. „Combination?‟ Mr Van Der Kerkhof reads the numbers out. The man puts it on the roof of the car. I hear the briefcase pops open.

The man‟s hand is out again. „Mobiles.‟ We both pass them over. The man produces a knife, punctures both of the front tyres. Mr Van Der Kerkhof sits still, his eyes closed, shaking. I close my eyes for a second, too. I‟ve given the fish auction thirty years, man and boy; bring the boxes in, sweep up the shit, pick up Mr Van Der Kerkhof from the airport. It never ends and it‟s come down to this. The man puts the knife back in his pocket, readies to leave. I swallow again, my breathing returning to something like normal. I know I won‟t have to collect Mr Van Der Kerkhof from the airport ever again. Everyone‟s entitled to


a break, I think. An escape. The man starts to walk back to the blue car. He winks at me. I wink back. My brother.


Nick Tozchek


THIS CITY This city eats, this city eats, this city eats itself I said This city eats, this city eats, this city eats itself Shovels down its ancient stone, Dines on human flesh and bone, Steals from mates it‟s always known: Laptop, TV, mobile phone. Neighbourhood‟s a no-go zone. “Gotcha!” screams your sick ringtone.

This city eats, this city eats, this city eats itself I said This city eats, this city eats, this city eats itself Come the king without a crown, City crumbles, tumbles down, One-time wonder turned to clown, Painted grin to growing frown, Business now begins to drown, Cut-backs kill this crippled town. This city eats, this city eats, this city eats itself I said This city eats, this city eats, this city eats itself


Swallows everything it‟s got, Cash is hot, compassion‟s not, Trashes every vacant lot, Tears all down for building plot, Stands back, lets its history rot, Shoots up, shits up, should be shot.

Skewered through its urban soul.

This city eats, this city eats, this city eats itself I said This city eats, this city eats, this city eats itself

No defence, a naked goal, cannibal with begging bowl Pays the price out on parole Digs ‟n‟ drags through drug, debt, dole Turned to meat ‟n‟ eaten whole Skewered through its urban soul.

No defence, a naked goal, cannibal with begging bowl Pays the price out on parole Digs ‟n‟ drags through drug, debt, dole Turned to meat ‟n‟ eaten whole

/continues… This city eats, this city eats, this city eats itself I said This city eats, this city eats, this city eats itself

This city eats, this city eats, this city eats itself I said


This city eats, this city eats, this city eats itself Bites its brickwork, chews concrete, Bones of buildings stripped of meat, Drags dead rain straight up main street Shops shut down, troops in retreat All that‟s new lies incomplete Assets gone, there‟s no receipt. This city eats, this city eats, this city eats itself I said This city eats, this city eats, this city eats itself GIMME SOMETHING

Where did you get your bloated gut? Between the pub and Pizza Hut. And yeah-but, yeah-but, yeahbut-but, Oh, shoot! They‟re shut. you do your nut. Your wacky baccy meets Big Mac Where shit sandwich hits heart attack. You smack the kids and sell „em smack On theme park rides to Hell‟n‟back. Every shocking shit‟s gone shopping, Copping, dropping, chopping, popping. Gimme something just for free, mate.


Gimme something just for me, mate. Buying, selling, bidding, swapping, Banking, thanking, wambam-bopping. Gimme something just for free, mate. Gimme something just for me, mate. Left with wreck it, lost the coal, man. England‟s missed another goal, man. Pit‟s gone. Nothing fills that hole, man. Northern soulman‟s now just doleman. We‟re not people, just jobseekers, Got no prospects, burnt-out speakers

Turning up in jeans and sneakers Interviewed by stiffs who freak us. Every shocking shit‟s gone shopping, Copping, dropping, chopping, popping… etc. Money does my bleedin‟ „ead in. I can „ear my brain cells shreddin‟ All the way to Armageddon. Drugs exist for what they deaden. Me, unless I‟m much mistaken, See dese pigs all eatin‟ bacon, Mixing Mockney with Jafakan. T‟ain‟t „ow English should be spaken. Every shocking shit‟s gone shopping,


Copping, dropping, chopping, popping… etc. …continues/ continues… Lager can ‟n‟ stolen phone ‟n‟ Junkies queue for methadone ‟n‟ Gang together, all alone ‟n‟ Skin gone thin on brittle bone ‟n‟ Grown too weak this week to speak ‟n‟ Bare-toothed business, bleached and bleak ‟n‟ Sunken cheeked in freaky chic ‟n‟ Cue the cartel and boutique ‟n‟ Every shocking shit‟s gone shopping, Copping, dropping, chopping, popping… etc.

Fat of land‟ll lean to lard ‟n‟ Burn it off, but end up charred ‟n‟ All that‟s easy turns out hard ‟n‟. Don‟t relax, be on your guard ‟n‟ God bless every bloody debtor, Giver losing to the getter. Spend your rent and sod your letter. Borrowing is always better. Every shocking shit‟s gone shopping, Copping, dropping, chopping, popping. Gimme something just for free, mate. Gimme something just for me, mate. Buying, selling, bidding, swapping,


Banking, thanking, wambam-bopping. Gimme something just for free, mate. Gimme something just for me, mate. QUIET RIOT

While reading Shelley, Wordsworth, Keats We pay for stuff and get receipts And chewing gum and eating sweets We riot in our quiet streets

We riot in our quiet streets Suburban scum, we dumb elitesLob angry emails, texts and tweets While coppers stroll by on their beatsWe riot in our quiet streets With nobody to photo-take And no political earthqua No Arab spring. No windows break While dieting, for Heaven‟s sakWe riot in our quiet streets

While mums are baking birthday cake And bread-fed ducks park on the lake Our home-grown revolution‟s fake So knowing there‟s no life at stake We riot in our quiet streets Though no one gets up from their seats While TV stations screen repeats


But ruled by liars, thieves and cheats We riot in our quiet streets Then tidy up what mess we make So all‟s shipshape when we next wake And those who don‟t take part partake And though the cause now seems opaque We riot in our quiet streets While, out at sea, we‟re losing fleets And daily learn of new defeats Though all we hang are laundered sheets We riot in our quiet streets And when things burn, it‟s by mistake

Black smoke from barbecuing steak We mow the lawn. We hoe. We rake The boredom makes us bellyach We riot in our quiet streets Where, like some shark, the darkness eats And sinks its teeth in human meats So peace won‟t come to these retreats We riot in our quiet streets Where Crimewatch keeps us all awake Its nightmares stories make us shake And rattle us just like a snake


Or vampire with a thirst to slake We riot in our quiet streets Then bag up shit the dog excretes And sit and beg like him for treats We snarling sheep, our barks are bleats We riot in our quiet streets





Thejunkyard procession



Thejunkyard procession




Thejunkyard procession



Jim Hugo


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Can‟t get a job I can‘t get a job, I can‘t get a job. I got no skills, got no ability, I can‘t move, got no agility, No head for heights, no feet for walking, Don‘t like listening, don‘t like talking. I can‘t work in a shop, I can‘t work in a shop, Got a no from netto, I don‘t suit suits, got a snub from subway, the boot from boots A negative text from next, crap from gap got rejection from French connection. I can‘t get a job, I can‘t get a job I can‘t think laterally, I can‘t hit the ground running, I‘m not a self starter, I‘m not cunning, I‘m not a team player, I‘m not proactive I can‘t build rapport or be interactive. I can‘t be a salesman or a bank teller, I even got turned down to be a big issue seller I got no skills, got no ability, I can‘t move, got no agility, 8


No head for heights, no feet for walking, Don‘t like listening, don‘t like talking. But then out of the blue, I got a job Where I don‘t need brains and I don‘t need flair, I don‘t need focus, don‘t have to prepare Don‘t have to show meaning, don‘t have to be deep, I can do this job in my sleep, To call it a job, is a complete misnomer, I could do this stuff in a fucking coma, Don‘t need charm or personality, The job is steeped in triviality, Don‘t need words that make much sense Just need bullshit and pretence,Don‘t need to make out like it‘s real The job is clichéd, dull and stale Yes I‘ve got a job, you‘ve guessed it folks, I‘ve writing scripts for Hollyoaks It Could Be Worse I'm from a ghosttown of sunken trawlers, Where Saturday's fight night for drunken brawlers, 9

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People call us, goat shaggers, scumbags and slags, We've got air pollution because of John Prescott's jags. The crafty cockney sees us all as "Stupid Northern monkeys" Our streets are overflowing with smackheads, tramps and junkies, We've got chunky children who'll be dead before their time, We're the capital City when it comes to violent crime. We've got type 2 diabetes from cooking all our food in grease, We've cornered the market in the morbidly obese, We've got heart disease and cancer, because we've got to have a smoke, And the waiting lists at hospitals have become our own sick joke. I'm from the birthplace of schoolgirl Mums, We've got house re-possessions, we've got ghettos, we've got slums, And there's no crumb of comfort from this social breakdown, I'm living in what experts say is Britain's crappest town. If England were a garden, Hull would be the weeds, We've got schools whose speciality is special needs, I'm from a City full or perverts, where everyone inter breeds, 10


But I always think, it could be worse; At least I'm not from Leeds Olympic Dream The five rings are coming home, Faster ,higher ,stronger. The build up to the Olympics just gets longer and longer and fucking longer, And I don‘t think that watching people running, fighting and shooting while full of drugs, is really all that great Cos I can see that every night on any Hull estate. What‘s my favourite event? Oh I don‘t really know. But I‘d like to have a go at shooting if you can guarantee that the target will be Sebastian fucking Coe. They say that you should win with grace and lose with dignity It‘s not the winning it‘s the taking part; which is just as well for Team GB. The Kenyan‘s win the distance races, the American‘s win the sprints,


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The Australians are the best swimmers, and the only way we get a gold is by spending the last four years inventing some sport that no-one else takes part in like ―Who can be the quickest to eat a packet of mints.― But in the capital next summer, you‘ll get the chance to see athletes from all nations, They‘ll be trapped on a coach on the M25 or stuck in a tube station I‘m told that I‘m a cynic, I‘m a killjoy, I‘m self loathing But I just see a white elephant in skin tight lycra clothing And when the games are over what will be the legacy? A stadium that no-one wants, a swimming pool, a velodrome (whatever that is?) and a 5 billion pound debt, to be paid by you and me. But the Olympic flame is burning bright, it can never be diminished, So run your race in record time, cos I can‘t wait til its fucking finished. Cameron Dave, I hope you don‘t mind me calling you Dave? I‘m sure you won‘t because you‘re a man of the people. Dave, you‘ve got perfect hair, and I know you care, about politics and stuff. But that‘s not enough (because let‘s be honest, if it was enough, Tony Benn would probably have been Prime Minister years ago; he had lovely hair) 12


Dave, I know you went to Eton where they have gay sex, but I‘m sure you didn‘t indulge and, even if you did that‘s ok cos no-one cares about that sort of thing anymore, and anyway it only makes you public school gay, not proper gay. Dave, I think chameleons are lovely creatures and anyway it‘s important to be able to adapt to your environment, it means that you‘re flexible and doesn‘t in anyway indicate that you might be a duplicitous chancer. Dave, I love it when you ride your bike, it‘s like, you‘re saving the World, all on your own. Dave, I know that when you make your speech at the party conference, you won‘t get sweat patches like Tony Blair, or let your mouth go all wonky like Gordon Brown; and I think that good under arm hygiene and control of your facial muscles are essential requirements for a Prime Minister. Dave, I know the mockers say you lack substance, that your policies are weak and ill-conceived and that your success is merely a result of a catalogue of economic and social disasters which you have found yourself handily placed to benefit from; but I don‘t think that should be an issue; not when you dress as smartly as you do.


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Dave, you‘ve been our leader now for over a year so I think people are just going to have to come to terms with the fact; that you‘re a vacuous cunt. New Jerusalem From the cynical outlook of the yuppy greed, to the vacuous face of the new Eton breed From the bulls and bears, and the stocks and shares, from the poisonous glares of the ―we don‘t cares‖ From the brazen gall of the feckless bankers to the established elite who still out rank us From the debt and death and degradation, to the condemnation of this condemnation From the chinless wonders, and the spineless hacks, who‘re either kissing arses or stabbing backs From the sluts and slags that make up the wags, from the bragging flags of the moneybags From the carbon footprint of the chattering classes, to the endless march of the shoeless masses From the talking heads and the newlyweds, from the over fed and the walking dead,



From the metro trendies in the Camden bars, to the London Jews driving German cars, From Dave and Nick with their hair so slick, a prick and dick with a five card trick. From the media moguls and the oligarchs, to the business barons and the industry sharks From the nameless shame of the blameless game, their claim to fame, is that we‘re all the sameThey will not cease from mental fight nor shall their cheque books sleep in their hand til they have put a Tesco Express on every piece of vacant land. There is no need for council homes nor is there thought for the homeless plight when they can build a retail park on every empty greenfield site Give them their stash of stolen swag Give them their lucre in kickbacks Give them their bungs, in paper bags


Thejunkyard procession

give them their bonuses with tax I‘ll still be here with rebel words. I‘ll still be ranting, mic in hand til we have built equality in England‘s green and pleasant land Letter It was back in the days when people wrote letters, and bought meat from the butchers, and talked to their neighbours, and went to the pub. I met a girl called Louise, in Nineteen Eighty Nine. We had a brief but pleasant relationship. She went to live abroad, but sent me a Christmas card, every year without fail. That was until two years ago, 16


when she informed that, from now on she would be donating to charity in preference to sending me a card. I never hear from her now. But each Christmas, when I observe the lonely gap on my mantel piece that signifies the loss of our small, yet to me, greatly cherished friendship. I can only assume, that she did the right thing. Net Value (Anyone for Elitism?) The ball that falls keeps them all enthralled, The umpire‘s calls are called, A muttered curse and Sue is appalled. Scrawled on a wall in SW19, it says the grass is green, 17

Thejunkyard procession

It‘s greener than green, it‘s a green and pleasant land, for the fortunate few in the centre court stand. Where the band still plays and the map‘s still red, where the privileged are born and bred; to be honoured, served and given head. For the dead cert and the top seed, Victory is guaranteed, Because victors are a special breed who slice and smash until they succeed. Outside the cowed and the non-endowed, shelter under a thunder cloud, As caps are doffed and heads are bowed. Aloud, the home-grown refugees, cry someone give us new balls please, A new model army, a fresh new face; to give us a winner and serve up an ace. Then the ball boy trips and the crowd go delirious; They‘re majestic, audacious, imperious. But their world like their game, to me is mysterious; The All England Club? You cannot be serious! 18


Camden Junky She didn‘t know her Father, but she never used it as an excuse. She had a catalogue of step Dads and while none were violent, her childhood was filled with emotional and mental abuse, which she never forgot. She grew up in Camden. but not the bit where the middle classes pretend they‘re cool. She never drank in the bars with the skinny indie kids Or in the lock with the jacket and jeans trendies. At 16 she started doing a bit of coke on weekends like everyone else; no big deals and no big deal. There wasn‘t a time when she went from wanting to needing. But one morning she woke up in a strangers house, semi naked, next to a pool of vomit, which was maybe hers or maybe not; and none of this bothered her. When she looked in a mirror, she saw someone else: which meant she had no-one to care about. She didn‘t try to get off drugs because she didn‘t want to. 19

Thejunkyard procession

She didn‘t ask for help, blame other people or create a scene. She died last week in a flat near Kings Cross; it was three days before anyone found her body. There were no floral tributes, no crowd at her home, no face book messages. Nobody bothered to pretend they cared; nobody noticed. There was one line in the local paper and they spelt her name wrong

R. M. Francis 20


We are not the dead. We are not the dead; just waiting. Now you know what we 21

Thejunkyard procession

are, as you dream in the shores that weigh down the love of the living, living in the head of desires. You always follow the way. Through all the truth that moves is the forbidden thought that is never enough. We are not dead. Babylon screams as it is strangled by god. Begging to tear a hole into the depths of tears in our mind – wings fly but you only follow the way. Through the door we sing the beatings of forgotten. We are not dead. Rapture in sentiment – nothing is all, and eternal. Wait – we are not dead; just waiting. We rust as the rain falls. And drums take us into climax like thunder. The same old day goes by, and the rain walks the same route you follow. I send an echo through the loveless. I send obscure echoes – and the rain falls. 22


But we soak secretly. We pray in alienation on the dowdy streets, in white sheets. You should know that this will never wash, only rain. We will only try to lead you the right way – but it will never work – because the rain falls alone and sends an echo through reflections of secret words. Can.t we dance between the rain drops? And it repeats and repeats, and time goes on, and on, and still we try and still we repeat the same mistakes and notice no difference each time, and never change and never reach the temple we crave. Breakfast on holiday – a change from the day to day, the same each year. It is supposed to be impossible, stony and lunacy. But this insufferable waste 23

Thejunkyard procession

only crowds over the fucking parasites that are our minutes. You are not beautiful, you do not feel, you only breathe. You travel, you dream. Your home, however, is in the cage that it is your beating heart. Who would attempt to see more, try harder, reach the top notes of the scale? For the last time I.ll tell you – when you stop bleeding, when the wand is stopped at you – you will stand for nothing. And the sun sets – and rises – a new day. We wake to the sound of our favourite song, alone. But we leave for the burden of the street. Walls break to reveal no one. As we walk in the morning and pick up where the day has left off – we slowly listen to our favourite song and die a little more. We are alone as things crash and excite. We clear the dust from attic objects like old 24


letters, and tears flow. Picking up the past. Nostalgic scars are the only things that hold us in orbit and make us hope to carry on. Ghosts are toasted, what is it you want to change? One last dance to our favourite song. You crave sun, you crave love, you crave tears and rest and the above. He sends the wolves of the devotionless. And we fall. In the sun, as a party of all in one – is anything enough to prove that your dreams are not lost? Give us barrenless time, and peace – this will prove the release of the all in one. Nothing will ever be enough to prove or loose. We know but we are always held under the sound of trains, blinded by the heat, and so we never put into action that which we have learned. We are paper 25

Thejunkyard procession

scraps of poetry written by bullshit, romantic bed-wetter.s. Clear divisions are here because we are not getting over the heat and the broken solemnity. Try a little harder – no point. We are within the slap back, the free-flow, the undercurrent – pulling backwards. Love is life? Life is but a dream! We are only alive, still. We are the machinists – we work, we have to – and when we are alive we are rulers, no one survives. We are the machinists. It lets us down, but death is now a dream – vanity has made us ridiculous. Screws loosen, rust is the inevitable collapse. When we die, our graves will cover with moss and weeds – and that is just as well. It.s elemental. The Cry Something started; a sound or a demon with smoking eyes. I had been breaking silence with awful pictures. Then we had problems when we touched.



A little girl was waiting and crying, yearning for something. She was afraid waiting and crying, deep within her own mood-lit room. The cries were wicked and sad like a ha-ha. The tears were a dance. The sigh, an orchestration. This is the sound that broke with smoking eyes. We wandered about whilst this electric smoke was billowing from the pale silent room. We sat down listening to this blue lifting that leaked across our path. Every chance to catch the killer sounds, looking in every direction - watching the constant crash. Jasmine and vanilla press feet down and build the nights in distant hotels, where they then stop the chatter chat-chat. Katalack, sounds the smoking eyed demon.


Thejunkyard procession

Sometimes she was nowhere and lonely, leaving everything. Pulling lifelines on her braided hair. Like a brand that must be scratched off, needing to scream out to be with someone, to sit at the heroes. table. But she tore at her pigtails and sounded cries from her window.

We were trying to build a night of fantastic, loving assaults, but something started. A sound or a demon with smoking eyes. Now our touches are soiled. Suddenly it stopped and a demon became a floating yawn. A repetition of low humming.



The junkyardprocession



Ghost of the east Something holds me beyond love, desperation ,Something distant, unstable,Something close,closer than you know invisible,something saint worthy to be alongside,somethings unrequired host,Something burns inside this non exsistant hearts cremated cindersThat lurk to taste burnt,somethings choose to slam open doors,somethings hang in the throws of tomorrow.somethings keep you awake from dreaming sweet,something keeps you trn beyond all you seekSomething almost lurks of fear,smething of the darknesscomes cleaerer,as you see the edge you step nearer, somthing numbs the

The junkyardprocession

pain,pounding inside the god forsaken headSomething haunts the echoes,dispised something gathers negativity to shield your eyes. Breeding Emotion Something holds me, beyond love, desperation Distant, Something unstable closer closer than you know, Something‘s are not worthy to be alongside Something‘s unrequited host Something burns inside these nonexistent hearts cremated cinders, That lurk to taste burnt. Something‘s choose to slam, slam open doors Something‘s hang in the throes of tomorrow Something keeps you awake From dreaming sweet Something keeps you torn beyond all that you seek Something almost smells of fear, Something of the darkness comes clearer As you see the edge you step near Something numbs the pain Pounding Pounding Inside the godforsaken head


Something haunts the echoes Despised Gather something to shield your eyes

3 Can‘t see the wind has blown, can‘t see incidents overgrown Can‘t see the door opening, Life reaching its norm Can‘t help still feeling torn Can‘t be ground down furthermore, Can‘t see the time to repair Can‘t see yesterday as today Can‘t walk out the blur Can‘t see beauty in positivity Can‘t step outside the view what can‘t be seen Can‘t keep breathing inhaling on this slow burning stylized revolved anguish of death. Don‘t love what is dead, Don‘t love the noise that exists when silence is above around the mind Don‘t love smiling falsely,

The junkyardprocession

Dont love laughing as there‘s no parts to laugh Don‘t love to be awake Don‘t love to be asleep Tears come as one has to weep Don‘t love this juxtaposition mind Don‘t love the moods one does find Don‘t love these placebo pills Don‘t love the fact of expressions time wiped Don‘t have the energy to rebuild there is no mechanism Made of alloy or steel Don‘t love this disfunctionalism of happy, sad, manic, and high There‘s no appeal In the dreams there‘s no plain sailing In the stagnant waters that keep breeding New Platos of depths to swim or float All mundane self abused your own blame Could be placed anywhere Calling calling Last time In this deranged mind There is no colour to swim glow in Life‘s pendulum Swings again and again


One sided In this state anything happens Forgetting straightaway numbness Emptiness, selfishness does not play nicely

This sweet sweet taste makes the lips burn, This sweet sweet taste is near complete Perfection almost learnt This sweet taste stirs new wonderful feelings raw with emotion Never drying out leaving you aching for more Burnt fluctuation flutters not for the better This sweet sweet aroma Only has its sweet,sweet Addictive taste That leaves you wanting more Hungry hunger hungry Unsatisfiable hungry hunger For a quick fix Long fix

The junkyardprocession

This sweet sweet addictive addict Compels you to stay Hungry until the craving leaves you hungry no more Hungry hunger


The fug

The junkyardprocession



1. Stare like scary people do. At someone you fancy. Make it obvious. Stare in a dirty way. Or ways. 2. Target. Make a target. Make a special someone the target of you. Someone you barely know and aren't likely to get. Or even get to know. Think target. Imagine the sound of an arrow penetrating it. Your arrow. Doof. 3. Be bravery.

The junkyardprocession

4. Chat up using lines and expect a pleasant response. Or use intimidation to solicit whatever pleasantries you desire. 5. Try not to run out of things to say, or do, with your mouth. 6. Flow or conversate the flow so that you remain flowing at all times in conversation. You know, like fluids. Body fluids. Flow like body fluids.


7. Move closer and make eye contact using your eyeballs and movement. 8. Use everything at your disposable. 9. If things don't go swell, if you don't swell, or he or she or nobody swells, get used to a heavy heart. And always remember, it’s a life. 10. In fact, it’s a what a life it is. Indeed.

The junkyardprocession

IN A BAR CALLED "BAR" The Atlantic Ocean is splitting its stitches on the sea wall. Salt wind rusting the streetlights and redundant bicycles chained with rusty chains to rusting railings. I'm leaning on a plastic table in a bar called "Bar". A half drunk clot of skin and bone wrapped around a half drunk bottle of beer. Bright blue, pictureless walls. The reek of urinals. A string-thin cat in the doorway is chewing on the head of a fish. STATISTICS


It's rife. And it's spreading. It's spreading rife. It's all around. Take a look. Around. At you and all the things around you. And take a look at the statistics. Just take a look at the incredible and surprising and incredibly surprising statistics. Not surprisingly. No wonder it's rife. No wonder it's spreading. What with all the statistics. Furthermore. Something like between 2.22 percent and 92.2 percent of furthermore goes unreported by someone or somebody somewhere. Somehow. It's so unkind. Fucking apparently. According to sta-

The junkyardprocession

tistics. It's spreading. And it's furthermore. Rife.

THE TALKY TALK WOMAN 1: He, like, rang me. WOMAN 2: Up? WOMAN 1: Yes. Right up. Really. I was like, "Hello, how are you?� And he was like..... WOMAN 2: .....right up there. In there. WOMAN 1: Yes. didn't


say much. So I said, "Hey, you rang me right up, right. You want to get right up there don't you? You want to get right in there? You got to put the spade work in first. You got to get digging. You got to do some talking if you want to get up there. In there. You got to talk to me". WOMAN 2: That's right. Righty right, in fact. He's got to talk the talk. The talky talk. WOMAN 1: Yes, yes, the talky talk. So, I said, "Tell me something nice". And he said, "Like what?� So I said, "I don't know.

The junkyardprocession

Anything. Use your imagination". And he said, "I can't. I haven't got one". Then there was a long silence. Eventually, a million hours later, he said, "I hate imagination. Imagination leads to expectation, leads to high hopes, leads to disappointment, leads to misery, leads to doom, despair and decay". WOMAN 2: Wow. WOMAN 1: Wow, indeed. He is. Very wow. Very..... WOMAN 2: .....up there. In there. Right up, right in......


WOMAN 1: .....knowing and spiritualistical in a ..... WOMAN 2: .....fungal haircut, grinning at road-kill sort of way? WOMAN 1: Righty right you are. WOMAN 2: So when are you meeting him? VIRUS SOMEBODY: I'd love to but it's got a virus. It’s poorly. I had to take it to the doctors. They laughed at me.

The junkyardprocession

SOMEBODY ELSE: Who? The doctors? SOMEBODY: Yes, the doctors. They laughed at me. I told them that this happened and that happened, so I had to do this with it and that with it. And then it started to twinkle and twitch. SOMEBODY ELSE: And they laughed at you? SOMEBODY: Yes. At me. Then they said that they'd have to cut it off.


SOMEBODY ELSE: What did they do? SOMEBODY: They cut it off. SOMEBODY ELSE: What with? SOMEBODY: Something or other. SOMEBODY ELSE: Ouch. SOMEBODY: Apparently, there's a virus gang. And they're going around. And the doctors are trying to

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stop them. Anyway. Oops, I just sat on the cat. SOMEBODY ELSE: Are you off it? SOMEBODY: Yes, I'm off it now. Sorry the cat. I put the television in the wardrobe, as well. I locked it away. I just. I didn't and couldn't and or can't and won't no more watch or bring myself to watch it any more. Eight hours a day just staring at the daytime on the television. Eight hours of it. Daytime. On the television. It's like


they think I don't know it's daytime already. I don't need no television to tell me when it's daytime. Not even in the daytime. long silence SOMEBODY ELSE: It's no wonder there's a virus gang and everybody's poorly.

WRITER’S BLOCK The sky is vast and the stars are busy doing the very violent things that stars do a very long

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way away. And I'm walking back to Coldean across Hollingbury golf course in the middle of the night. I've been drinking. Again. And I'm drunk. Again. And the landscape is a topography of uncompromising silhouettes: clusters of hawthorn, tangled knots of bramble and the tumorous lips of bunkers. I've stopped walking and I'm leaning on a golf hole flag pole. I think everything is going to be ok. I'm crystallising, in my little head, the idea that I must be on my way home. Now then, I did say to myself a couple of months ago that I wasn't going to write about al-


cohol or sex ever again, but, fuck it, I'm drunk and I'm holding on to a golf hole flag pole; urinating into a golf hole on Hollingbury golf course in the middle of the night. And I’m wondering what exactly, else, exactly, does a person write about when or if, yes, if, exactly? In my sublime condition. What else does a person write about if, when a person is not writing, a person is drinking and if, when a person is not drinking, a person is writing? And when a person is not drinking, or writing, or writing and drinking, a person is thinking

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about sex. "Write about what you know": that’s what they say. I know I don't know much about many things, but I do know about drinking. And sex. And just how much I get the drinking and just how much I don’t get the sex. Shaking the last drip of urine off the end of my cock. Letting go of the golf hole flag pole. Straightening my back. Seeking a new direction. I get the very feeling that I've been here before. The silence of the very violent stars being very violent a very long way away is the silence of a coma. Putting it back in my trousers. Pulling up the zip. In


a landscape that has no recognizable features humans are instinctively inclined to walk in circles, even though they think they're walking in a straight line. Lost in the snow. In the desert. Out at sea. Roaming the Hollingbury golf course in the middle of the night. I’ve somehow found myself standing knee-deep in a patch of nettles.


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Crutches Don‘t know why But There were loads Of people hobbling


About on crutches today Some of the people on crutches where together ,they looked like junkies And were arguing with each other Later One of the group Without crutches Was being thrown out of whsmith Maybe he will get his crutches later tonight A day on crutches Slipping Limping One way to get through The recession I guess Has it started yet Did you bring the crutches Or do we have to limp all fucking day

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Has it started yet Did you bring the crutches Or do we have to limp all fucking day Again Plastic replacement Plastic replacement Can only afford armpit only one Thopugh and the otherone is flooding leaking badky Pointing guns taking down tall buildings or putting them up picking up rubbishor putting it downfor That matterstacking shelves or setting ffire to cars Open sore cracked mouth lung full of ground Biscuits with that?crawling round the tubes of a birds luing Just to see how it fliesrust arms in summer pavementgrey later dead watching daytime tv Pointing guns tearing down tall buildings stacking Shelves watching daytinme guns Today I thopughti saw A plastic bag stuck


In a tree I was surprised to realize it was a bird Clubcard points for a shopping trolley full of mud cencus Invasive Sixth floor surgery Non eye segmented Peering this questionis intentionally blankcenus look inside My cupboards Remotely no visitors In sections abc or d Or behind the bleach If you have finished try not to stealanything On the way out And don‘t slam the fucking door I can do that myself do not come back and ask me for the name of person five

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the very first issue featuring art by ace tagg photography by phil ross and much more