People was for history

By cris cheek.

The ghosts, barricaded, with murderers
Come planned, like . . . cider under arrest
That clever dick refused to play by any drift
Agreed rules. Poised in the bugged costumes
Of gestalt the answerphone powdered
Personal destiny. It was all they couldn’t do
To hang on to the cheapest street . . gesture
And flay their neighbors raw, after the pot

Luck repartee subsided. Nobody took the guns
Back home. Nobody said . . philosophy was
Chummy. Nobody illuminated the mud harbor.
Wit and generosity were formally abandoned,
Behind the bike shed stench of rotting wood
Into which new year woodpeckers . . drilled.

Sonnet 101

By Sophie Robinson.

why is everybody always writing
about fucking like me the more writing
to be done the less time to do the
necessary fucking for poetry

which is just as well when “at a bar” or
side by side alone & almost having
sex but in the end we change our minds ‘cos
work is early/harsh work makes you nervous

lines up the days & besides you don’t love
each other so much today as yesterday
& that dwindle’s dampened the itch to do
anything but write some stupid sonnet

frigid at the kitchen table no damp
itch to speak of no great love to leap off