LEST WE FORGET Lovers lost to bombs, tanks, cannon fire and guns Earth covering the wounds where bitter hearts’ blood runs Salt whitened bodies hurled from broken ships ‘The Missing’ whispered tenderly on families’ lips Whose hopeless words bring no relief or peace Except in dreamless sleep or death they cease. Forgotten now, the fractured
Busker In this brick-hard cold you wonder how he presses cheese-slice strings down sure, how his steel-tipped fingers pluck enchanted sound and gift it to strangers like you. From a safe distance, you drop spare cash hear its tuneless tinkle while, far behind, notes of grace and his sideways smile follow you.
The Hipster…from Beth McDonough. The Hipster O, give me the firesides of farting old fuckers, whose crumpet kicks off with cocoa and jam. Eighty? He’s mine! I’ll slot in just fine — take me home. The Doric for socks? I don’t give a toss, but I see that they’re thick, and stuffed into boots, which
a warning to lovers don’t say your lover’s name aloud if you do people will hear in your voice the taste of their body the scent of their sweat the heat of your bodies meeting they will hear in your voice the bite of your fingers into flesh the sound of your name cried out