Ben

So it was me and you. In the bath tub. Downstairs with Star Trek VHS. Us with Enid Blyton books lined up. Us skidding down church centre halls on our knees. Us playing footy on the village green and booting it into the graveyard. The one where you now reside. Us cross streaming in the bog. Us cracking up over Uncle Barry’s elongated stories round the dining table. Us on Fleetwood promenade. Us on the Nintendo 64. Us under grandpa and grandmas dining table. Us on the bus, me in front of you both listening to deftones. Us in the canteen pretending we didn’t know one another. Us on the bus home and walking over the cobblestone path at Ditton Place. Us in our bedrooms reading the same books but not talking. Us walking to the bus stop, me a tad behind you. Us at different universities. Studying the same prose. Us drinking together the first time and collapsing the nuclear family. Us falling over car bonnets. Us drinking in a gay bar and fighting cos I’m an extrovert and you’re an introvert. Us in the lounge after you quit uni. Us us us. Us talking but not really talking. Us in Cornwall when I heard through the door mum was leaving Dad. Us in that room. Us crying. You not drinking, me drinking, you not crying, me crying. Us back home. Us drinking. Us breaking apart. Us in rehab. Us not in rehab. Us always in rehab. Us us us. Us emailing. Us texting. Us clicking again. Us laughing. Us squealing. Us connecting. Us phoning. Us connecting. Us reading the same books. Us talking about them. You dying. Me crying. Me burying you. Me begging God to lift you up like Lazarus.

The End


Horizon

Peeling back the fruit of sky 

I rise again in glory 

Dawn cracking vermillion breath 

Holy Spirit descend upon me

Inspire, transcend, glorify 

Radiate my soul before I expire 

May the pavement mirror 

All the sights I’ve been fortunate 

enough to see. Force my torso upward

and witness your promise.

Sustenance: eternity.


Nothing New From Inside My Cell.

Each day has its blessings

and its woes

Which is why in times

like these we count 

the blessings more

We look back and act

like we were happier then

But in truth were prisoners

of the multiple outcomes

we’d wish would dissolve

into simplicity.

We can’t chose to opt out 

of free will.

And home doesn’t exist here;

No place to lay your head without

an act of faith to keep you beating

the same dull drum

there’s nothing

 new under the sun. 


Jon a writer from Maidstone in Kent. His first book Longing For More was published by Wordsmithery in 2018. The Death of Marlon Brando chapbook was published by Analog Submission in 2019.

He is inspired by the writings of Fante and Bukowski. Regardless, he thinks the Russians are by far the best. He was named as a top 8 poet to look out for from gigwise.com. He thinks he was born in the wrong country. 

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