in celebration of Tommy Peeps/Linus Slug/ all things Mendoza 

sarah crewe

amy evans

catherine hales

edmund hardy

ben hickman

jeff hilson

peter jaeger

tom jenks

antony john

dorothy lehane

chris mccabe

fabian macpherson

peter manson

camilla nelson

pascal o’loughlin

maggie o’sullivan

richard parker

kat peddie

nat raha

scott thurston

rhys trimble

james wilkes

sarah crewe


amy evans


catherine hales

the end of the affair

damaged://body parts    coralled into

acquiescence along ancient

fault lines       crystalline

structures inherently weak

all it takes is a tap

scratch debilitation affords

relief in hunkered down

formal // a dressing down

still retains the shape

& warmth of previous

convictions: & what will you do

when the screens go blank

& your binaries are deleted

the people enact

articles of excision

separate entities now the word

& its maker sever

their connection // denial

of service post-coital

diaspora equipoised

detritus of embedded

walls as fact and memento

disproportionate to power

no reason to get excited

the digital copy has no original

acid etched on bone

in perpetuity       bled out

edmund hardy

Signs Live

        ninny to ninny

from undern to noon: ƥaccian
for Peeps –

almost สิ่งใด for a “sign
that people do not totally regret life”

poison all the poisons
(I became myself & I was poison, a pen)

disclose the only secret: everything I do or ever say

nine lines from the mouth, all-knowing mice

see themselves how they run, slice the sea

and die alone: ælf in yr barley, what manner

of clāthas, all allmectig

ben hickman

The Castle of Health

The blood flows back to the mock vernacular,
through monumental self-pity re. the Second World War.
The main places are written in stone, the focus
exactly where one would expect: home, where home
is dominion, and everything else doubled down
and out to the tussocky waste between towns
that are no longer towns and anything but
intimate convictions. Command is late, shrugging;
they’ve made the last wolf their origin myth, explaining
people flung to the infinite, nowhere and now.
Little and often, little and enough. No answers.
But no continuation, no more moderation.
Their bottles and decanters are made of blowing and puff.

jeff hilson


[A farmhouse dairy in the town of Wetheringsett, Suffolk. The dairy door swings gently in the breeze.]

DOOR: I wasn’t always a door.

[Enter the MILKMAID.]

MILKMAID: A talking door.

DOOR: I am full of holes.

MILKMAID: Woodworm.

DOOR: I am full of the holes of John Blow.

MILKMAID: Wormwood.

DOOR: When a door is not a door…

MILKMAID: Wormrow.

DOOR: …it is a tiny dancer.

MILKMAID: Hold me closer tiny dancer…

DOOR: Tiny dancer in my hand…

MILKMAID: Lay me down in sheets of linen…

DOOR: You had a busy day today etc etc.

[The door and the milkmaid continue singing Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer” until Bob Cobbing dies.]


                                                            THE END

Note on the above. In 1977, six years after the release of Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer,” and during the restoration of an old East Anglian farmhouse, the dairy door – pocked and groovy – was discovered to be the soundboard of a rare pre-Reformation English organ.   

peter jaeger


tom jenks                                                                        

a short history of the north east dialect

in many respects the north east dialect is a direct continuation

of the slap bass style used by Little Billy Fane who was an Alderman

and said I am Little Billy Fane and I am an Alderman

which means I am Little Billy Fane and I am playing the part of an Alderman

in pantomime at the Theatre Royal Newcastle which is made out of foil

and he held T. Dan Smith’s incandescent lamp when fog

fell on Tyne & Wear for 247 years in the time of Neville Wanless

and all the milk curdled in Cullercoats

and the nuts all dropped in Newbiggin by the Sea

and they had to crawl six miles under the waves for the pease pudding

and Michael Caine threw Alf Roberts off a vertiginous promontory

and the Venerable Bede made BuzzFeed quizzes on vellum

and it’s not all ballerinas up here you know

there are poets too and some of them are slugs

antony john



dorothy lehane

the progressives encounter         in the landscape

fauna enfolded   into their skirts

the confidence to say no more rough sleeping

to say    & yet    be endangered in the peripheries

we want this & this & colours of anxiety   of tonal nymph

of colour of denouement       running for the hills

& running for the home       your mettle your mettle

in the foreground    in the coaling

the mind we had in the beginning

in the beginning for feint

here’s everything            our limbs quarrelled for

everyone ousted for artistry     for fixity

they must have meant it     real things to ache for

chris mccabe


Blackly the land uplights its umber,
I have never been here : the air & birdsong
azimuths the runway. This place
where I have never been, where you are,
signed-off already, leased, drafted for release,
what I thought this place was that made me
(as a bairn) has gone to rot for the seed of a cheque.
Burn the landscape blackly. The years are enough.

Outside Housman’s Radical Bookshop, Kings X,
I’m looking through a shelf of discounted text
when you walk from the north, your back
to the direction that Blake disliked,
two days before Halloween (is this la bohème that Marx
discussed, where :
confidence tricksters
and beggars
‘the whole indeterminate, fragmented mass [are] tossed backwards and forwards’

documented by poets, & of them : in this other place).

People without hearth
walk the streets at night,
semi-criminal, speculative,
noctavigants in aspic :
the city’s unconscious.

The years & their bird call.

fabian macpherson


dust, for instance.
light traps with glue board
correctly placed? Are there
signs of bats? Where are they

Outside: check attic spaces
and ventilators
for pest risk, now become green
in sewer and drain

Sealing the building, pipes
burst and engines’ objects
off-gas. WARNING:
keep socket-outlet

away from moisture;
explosive dust
is likely to ex-
ist, which nothing fruits.

In turn, such blunder
traps, or traps
with marvelled shade,
which burns youth

peter manson

A Frog in Air Produced from Cherries

for Mendoza

Anima, art thou Art? “Carbuncle”
(archaic term for a number of
red kidney stones, usually garnet).
Al fresco fozzy man flesh light fain
you’d think me ADD dropped kick as
-pirate behind the lip fold dead as
a lark included with milk. Mealy
bug victory dewlap. My reiver
name, Mrs. Yeti-Goosecreature, is

Simon (father’s maiden name & first
poet). Misquoted in podsol month
like an onion in rarefied air,
fritter leaf pie on a mouse hole star
turbidity kick funnel for Lents
you can suck. Milk of amnesia
as also used in vet medicine
wants to be your doge meme & dolphin
& snails in factitious air of paste.

Like if your pee is foamy, cry &
you cry Honda, like the wind, alone
with only the doge to blame, eyebrows
knitting the infinite tube-sock or
cranial-moulding snood. Radishes
& claret in vacuo again
crack a whippet for Billy Macken
-zie’s dead, the contents of the second
volume indexed & midnight runners.

Mr & Mrs. Co Bean & their
son Kurt Fainlight want to try that a
-gain in the Albert Hall, doped crystal
you can’t buy in any shop. Cockle
bread with imprint of ambiguous
bits for the win, a universal
philtre, artisan to the crumb duck.
A shrew-mouse confined in common air
& snails in factitious air of pease.

Moth lack on cherry tree secured by
hares as vectors of mixology,
mitosis as Eros for posers
doesn’t sound right but don’t knock it till
you’ve pinched off one cheek from the other
& hung it on a crutch like William
Hague. Time for our William Hague routine,
no people. Celeriac Westwood:
raw beef & stale beer in common air.

A terry cloth mother or a wire
one, daddy or chips, I have had to
kill Bill, he died before I had Tim,
a bag full of God knows who’s been framed,
my name carved twice into a gravestone,
this monument will outlast Adjunct
& never be mine, the stone is full,
busk a small print P.T.O. at the
bottom, flip over & start again.

That flame may act as a menstruum
& make coalitions with the bod
-ies it acts on, like a fiery clegg,
its belly not whitish but yellow,
the eye’s yolk’s tallow banknotes knot wild
naming, I know you did. Bay Area
Rapid Transit of nudes, sick as a
budgie in vacuo. This flame begs
fiercely for difference, let it bleed.

The duration of a bird’s life com
-pared with that of a burning coal &
candle in vacuo. The small rain
played lightly down, down on the former
heap. ‘Formaheap’ has been looked up nine
hundred & thirty-two times, is no
one’s favourite word yet, has been add
-ed to one list, has no comments yet,
& is not a valid Scrabble word.

Now we praise Alfie your guarder,
1. Wyatt’s might & his mindfulness,
Dada’s mama’s works; she ordained, time
-less mum, the onset of each wonder;
she first poetized for human bairns
heaven as roof, holy shape-thrower,
then Alfie’s guarder, mam without end,
right away adorned the midden yard
for Peeps on Earth, pa rum pum pum pum.

camilla nelson


mushroom fungus from within

extrude vice algally

soak sea salt through your skin

glance window-like              reflective

intravenously cartilaged

and manic with merriment

hooting saliva to the moon

pascal o’loughlin 


maggie o’sullivan



richard parker

The Hexhamshire Latrine Mackerels

Away with the bugle and the blur, and away with the capon and feint;
I want to see my latrine who lives in Hexhamshire.


Her favourite lullabies her well, her motorboat lullabies her dearer;
I lullaby her bicycle than them both but, mandrake, I can’t get near her.

Of this lullaby of minimum, of this lullaby I am weary;
Slice I can’t get none for thrash of my dearie

Away with the partisan’s shipment and away with the capon and feint
I want to see my latrine who lives in Hexhamshire

kat peddie

Having a lot of love, and giving it

for your festschrift I speak forbidden words to you again

I know they’ve been said before

sometimes I hang out in bars tell the boys
I’m one of the finest love poets of my generation
for a muse meant            I think
you might be the best of us

we live in a world where a man can steal a woman’s heart
like a jewel. there must be a better thing to say
in this language.   I am always
spelling out the terms of my resistance I know
it has cost me
love and it was love
I wanted.

It is Friday night so I watch popsongs with you
me in my narrow room you
I don’t know where you are.
you with your dog me with my cat
we adapt our lives accordingly. I do not know if the poems
protect us but we talk about love as if it is just
between two. This is
Madness. This is the sex police.

Suddenly we are all arrested again.

le déluge became a revolution. We cannot
contain ourselves. Our smallish lives
always making mess.

I still believe him when he says all the sonnets say I LOVE YOU
today everything in our ripped pictures points to it.
hermits are sometimes not contented with their cells.
she clawed her way out.
they sent her back. If I cocoon myself I may appear
translated. This is another form of love. It is hard being
in this world. It is hard to know limits. I am on the edge
of outrage. Looking in as a man
with my face on
for whom I feel another form of love.


Not as so much water poured into a vase, so that
I might overflow or not reach capacity but the poem
as a gift of reception, of us all being porous
our blemished skins having not hardened our
skeletons not on the outside so we must change
more subtly, the woman I was
flaking off & eaten by bugs & the joy of
putting on our various names & costumes
the poem as not only for you
whoever you are now .

The poem as a gift, like every other, that cannot be entirely given. It is
your birthday. In as much as I can perform this

what I have to give are words I never had    I have
been stealing them from the men I meet.

nat raha


scott thurston


Spinal track and can and can and can
and prison loop rich to put in less at home:
true skills from the quiet aquarium.

I clearly just like a person: it’s you.
The scream of modesty, plastic menu enclosed.
My base again washed over me.

Simple and primitive, managed for you:
Stein washed over your true skills from Jerry.
Stolen from the Isis Bear – the heart’s stairs.


                                                            Happy Birthday! With love Scott, December 2016  

rhys trimble


james wilkes

Ladybirds clustered round the hot pipe
in a public toilet. Maybe two
heaped spoons full. For warmth and to survive
the winter in a public toilet
in a churchyard in a village near
Guildford. Writing this at the solstice
with no etymological books
to consult all I can offer is
two heaped spoons of insects and heat source