Poetry Hallway - Limpit Smike Sounds Off

So, friends, what's another year, to someone who's lost everything that he owns? You might well ask. But here comes 2018, ready to put a further boot in whilst we shiver and shake in the cold room. This chilly extractor fan blast following that heavy, low-hanging, fart of a year doesn't really lend itself to reflection - we just want to pack up our genitals and run. Long-time collaborator and excremental badger Limpit Smike is going further than most, as he's decided to emigrate. He's getting in his retaliation first. What could go wrong?

An old Concorde, courtesy
of Andy for MoMoJaJa.

One Widdled From A Great Height by Limpit Smike


One day, I shall come back.
In my Rolls-Royce.
Yes, one sorry (really not sorry) day,
I shall return, from… Australia, say;
California – no – South Africa;
The champagne tastes so much sweeter down there.
The peasants shall raise their mud-streaked faces
And gasp at my lavish gold bootlaces;
As I gaze mocking at the old places.
They shall cry: “Limpit, take me when you go!”
And I, imperious, shall sneer a “No.”
My Rolls-Royce fits only me and my beau;
He enters more snugly than they could know.

Poetry Hallway - Ring All The Bells

Dear reader, let me ask you some questions in an old-fashioned style: Don't you long for change? No, really, don't you yearn for it? Deep in your bones? Also, how did they make your eyes so pretty? Where did you get that thong? Can I get one too? What time is love? How soon is never? And why are you backing away? Here in the Poetry Hallway, we salivate at the knees of change.





Ring All The Bells by Andy Brain

On the day when I leave this dump behind
A dead weight evaporates and I'm free
Free of all the hideous history
Free of the "that'll do" mentality
Free of the tight bands constricting my chest
Free of the stillness that fails to bring rest
On the day when the last link is severed
Ring all the bells on the way, bang them hard!
On the day when I, exhausted, can sigh:
"Enough, you stinky town, bog off and die!"
And may that day bring strength to all our hearts
The leaving of the town of dead old farts.
We'll meet in better places, raise a brow
At how we ever let it drag us down
At how we ever stuck around so long
That happy day when all of us are gone.

Next time: a frozen wonderland of your finest verses on the dark season.

Poetry Hallway - Having A Trip To The Bank

Any change, guv'nor? At Poetry Hallway we are skint. Strapped. Scooped out. Brassic. We're borrowing a neighbour's internet, hand-cranking a tiny solar torch for light, and coming up with recipes incorporating whatever remains in the cupboard. Pasta, rice and noodle surprise, whoopee! - the surprise being whatever tiny sauce sachets we've filched on our travels along the high street earlier. Hunter-gatherers. Apply here. Please.

Things are so bad we're even thinking of renting out one end of the Hallway to amorous swingers in need of a quick bunk-up. So long as they don't mind sharing with a team of starving poets, and using a pile of old towels and junk manuscripts as a mattress, it could be a winner!

Sadly we're not the only ones with holes in our socks and our guts due to the holes in our funds (especially as we were counting on our latest promised payment from git-faced Limpit, that is until we actually read his latest poem):

Having A Trip To The Bank - by Limpit Smike

They turned me down, those naughty clowns,

They turned me down again;

My fine request for extra funds -

Allow me to explain.

My poet’s life has wheres and whys,

And often just “how much?!”;

But lavishness becomes me, so

I strive to keep in touch.

My bank has clean facilities,

And clean advances too;

But when I can advance no more,

They leave me in the stew.

They have no wit, those naughty twits;

They have no poet’s ear;

What squirt of life flows through their loins?

Quite none at all I fear.

How will I make to penetrate

Those hard, unyielding men?

Am I the Smike forever cursed

To rant and swear and moan?

Insinuate, or sit and wait

Until my verse takes flight?

Or use my lover’s deepness

And thrust with all my might?

A love that swells in all my parts

Would take them by surprise;

And surely soon, my overdraft

Would be quite energised.

Their deepest vaults would sweat and strain

As I thrust strong and tough;

If they would only give me some

I’d give back quite a stuff!

Poetry Hallway - Summer Speziale

Hot? It's hot as hell on a heatsink! Well, mainly on the tube, where it's always 15 degrees warmer than everywhere else. But still. My underwear has melted! Here are some steamy verses by Beware!'s team of cracked poets. Bask in their haze. Socks off.

Summer Haiku by Andy Brain

Tyrants of summer

Hang heavy with payloads primed;

Trichomes! Take cover!

Puffball detonates.

Sun-arise, early in the morning.
(Courtesy: MoMoJaJa page on Redbubble.)

Plane tree sheds on sight of sun.

Pollen penetrates.

Filmy teary eyes -

"Don't rub or you'll make it worse";

Mucus wells inside.

Outdoors fun denied,

Retreat til the pills kick in.

Sit tight; purify.

Massive Sound System by Dicko Twonk

Arse-Hat is in East Hill
Revving round Cruiser's Creek;
Street soul, but bad brain connection
Pearl cobwebs; silk goat,
Many such in the valley, but only one here.
The "song" plays in the open
Through 300W of raw power, and,
Most importantly, does not please just Arse-Hat,
But penetrates our skulls, our private hells,
And so on.
Bass thumps in sternums rouse neighbours;
We hope and pray for a short circuit.

At noon, the sun burns my resolve,
I have to sleep in the nude.
The balcony is home to bees
In hotel of twigs and board;
Poppy fields round the back,
Tempting arcadia amidst unemployment.
The Magic Cup attracts summer louts.
Will it validate our idiocy? Phat chance.
Summer dreams? Foreign streams and dry eyes.

Sunhat by Archibald Oulipo

Come we to the sunhat, to the sunhat we will come, 
For the benches are full of posers and the armpits full of liquidity, 
And the crumpet is on the oboe a-bullock of her newsagent, 
And lust is burning diaries in my true lover’s britches; 
She sucks beneath the white throat a-plaiting of her half-life, 
And I will to my true lunch with a fond wench retreat; 
I will look upon her failing, I will in her bee retard, 
And lay my aching weariness upon her lovely butt. 

The cloud of clerics are creeping on the open blueberry of May, 
The merry behest is gargling the pollen thrushes all clean, 
And the chamberlain it is bruised on its grizzly mossy newsagent 
In the white throb butter where I will lecture upon my lover’s brick; 
I’ll lecture upon her brick and I’ll wick in my earthworm 
That I cannot get a witch to sleep for thrill of my decanter; 
I hustle at my meditation and I daily spurt away 
Like the helmet, round, that is broken 'neath the heel of the dean.

(Middle 8 of some repute, played on squeezebox, snare and lute)

Come we to the sunbonnet, to the sunbonnet we will come, 
For the wooers are full of blushes and the heirlooms full of blowpipe, 
And the cruet is on the objection a-bullet of her neuter, 
And lullaby is burning dictates in my true lover’s breeze; 
She spurts beneath the white throb a-plaiting of her hairpiece, 
And I will to my true lube with a fond researcher repeat; 
I will look upon her factory, I will in her bedposts result, 
And spray my alkaline horniness upon her lovely breeze. 

The split-skin-a-squealer is choking on the open blowpipe of May, 
The mouldy beggar is trampling the pinky thrones all deaf, 
And the chalet it is brothel, by its grinning mossy network 
In the white throat bust-up where I will leash upon my lover’s breeze; 
I’ll leash upon her breeze and I’ll wholesale in her earpiece 
That I cannot get the wisdom of sleep for thrash of my debt; 
I hurl at my medic and I daily fade away 
Like the heirloom rotunda that is broken in the hectare of the deaf.

Pretty pretty flowers.
(Courtesy: MoMoJaJa page on Redbubble.)

How to do a Summer Holiday by Bobby Robert

Get new credit from the banks,

Overspend right to the max,

Fly abroad and fart your thanks,

Don't come back til statute barred.

Poetry Hallway - Sunday Sonnet

What do you do with your weekends, human? Do you hide from the world and nurse your bruises? Beware! prefers the outward bound approach. Stride on. Get some thin air through those thickly-stuffed nostrils. Tufts of moss in the turn-ups, freshly pressed faeces on the stout shoes. Shoo! Get out of my restaurant. Goodfellas American Pizzas, made in Ireland. Christ. It's all lies.



Tonight's poetic gem heart is a sad indictment of modern Britain. How does anybody get anything done when we're all so ruddy cynical and depressed?

Sunday, bloody Sunday (Andy Brain).

Sunday Sonnet by Andy Brain

A weekend, solo, yawning with options.

I ponder protests. Projects. Games. Girls. Guilt.

Some respite from the rain, though now too late
for our recycling bins, infusing slow.
On sodden Sundays such as this, a roast
restores good faith; and crumble sets the seal.
No such succour, sadly. Sit-ups rendered

pointless by crisps, ice-cream, packet crap. Still,

with purring Hoover under my command,
I prance about this sty, chase flies, chase flies.
Catch myself in the mirror. Don't like it.
No muscle on this frame; pale, flaky, twigs
and overspilling head. Tired teeth retreat.
A weekend, solo, empty and soulless.



"Prozac-ah! It's a good life." - Mark E Smith

Poetry Hallway - Harvest Festival

If there's one thing that characterises rural England in Autumn, it's the timeless sight of sweaty, burly locals stalking the fields, scything away at anything and everything that moves. The remains are occasionally interred in unmarked graves, but more likely cooked up into tasty dishes to be served up during the traditional harvest celebrations. With this in mind, Beware! tasked its resident poets to whittle down some suitable verses on the subject of autumn. These are the pitiful responses we received.

Wiccan harvest queen. (Andy Brain)

Kerbside Aspiration by Andy Brain

Islington harvest?
Premature mortality.
Every breath you take.

They get everywhere.
Soot soup ferments in the lungs.
Great work, this. Medals?

Cold now on a slab.
Malignant neoplasm.
Airway sabotage.

Diesel: Death's plan B.
"Make something better" ad spot -
Too good to be true.

Particulate trap.
Pulmonary pinpricking.
Pomp. Promises. Phlegm.

Culpable smooth suits.
Statistics swallowed, suppressed.
Countless needless deaths.

Years that should have been;
Lifetimes just miles on the clock.
Empty still the dock.


One in October by Archibald Oulipo

1

Soft mist and propagation;

Other God-given goods too.

He created the earth, yet

he will destroy the wine and

lotus-thatched women's teams;

Apple retorts, doubtless mossed

Summer fruits, ornamental

Oyster fat and forecast oil.

Organization of tools; 

Other promises installed.

Flowers for Maya; the day 

may not be able to stop

a summer full and hanging.

2

Sometimes, this feeling is right for you?

Sometimes, look elsewhere, other time-zones.

Results obtained are of negligence

to the hair-soft spiritual life;

Sierra ship stats, sure, or have a nap.

Groom-calm the prices your way; they say

Interest no more holds the whole country;

Always clean, always - burn the excess,

particularly the upsetting;

Patients' destination has cedar: 

A missed call will remain ever missed.

3

It started in the spring? In fact, what? 

Because music - narrow corridor,
Wide orange vista of light - marries

for him though, dead flowers, rats, horseflies,

The game went slightly pink, ragged, dry.

Infected mosquitoes' pain and song -

Willow Stream, live and dead, air and light,

New Year installation already?

The Hajj makes even Frasier dance;

Now craft regret with red breast pulsing;

Twitter and soft collected volumes.

Just Rewards for Hard Workers by Limpit Smike

Laying back or sprawling forward,
Upon my precious country sword,
The hard, bold land I've seen betimes,
On photos whilst in richer climes.
Those less fortunate than myself,
Those without the gifts of verse.
They surely have it so much worse.
They scratch a living from the land.
Britons, can we not understand?

What of the farmer, does he care?
Of his riches does he share?
No. No. No.
Daft and wrong, daft and wrong.
Force those workers to sell their bodies?
Sell them like whores for mere pennies?
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Proud and strong, proud and strong.

If I could employ them all I would.
I would shelter them inside my hood.
I would scrub their nails to cleanse from dirt.
I would mop their brows to ease their hurt.

Own the land, own the man.
Cherish the land, cherish the man.

It is my duty to share in my good fortune,
So many forthright thoughts I must importune,
Must press and push to enter into their minds,
And make sure nothing bad is left in the behinds.

How to Do a Harvest by Bobby Robert

Sneak into the farmer's field,

Drop your drawers and drop your yield,

Wait til the crime is revealed,

Send a selfie shitty smirk.

Poetry Hallway - Poverty Knocker

Five pounds please! Tonight's Poetry Hallway is falling apart and we can't get it fixed unless you pay. I said we can't get it fixed unless you pay.

Well?

I'm waiting...

LIMPIT: Ahem.

Oh have it your own way. Keep your coat on. It's fair to say that poetic stalwart, Limpit Smike, has been stockpiling his ideas recently -

LIMPIT: Is it time for one of mine now?

Yes, in a moment, we'll be -

LIMPIT: Because I notice you print all of... Croyland's poems, and none of mine.

Well that's not quite true, we had one of yours just a few -

LIMPIT: I'd like to say something now.

OK that's fine. Here's one about the poor.

LIMPIT: No, not the poor - poverty. Which is spelt almost the same as poetry. As a poet I can spot these things.

Poverty Knocker by Limpit Smike

It clambers round the house

Scratches up the door

Smears up all the walls

Throws things on the floor

It's called poverty

And it wants its way

It's called poverty

I must shoo it away

It ruins all the food

Cuts off all the gas

Farts in every room

Cancels all the plans

It's called poverty

Makes monkeys out of men

Sick and thick with fleas

I must not be like them

It wears out all the threads

Sells the lovely stuff

Leaving only bread

Makes you just a scruff

Back off poverty!
 Stick your long nose right out
Lavish becomes me
I will not be a lout

I protect all my pounds

I work hard on my wealth

Money has the power

Of and by itself

I will not succumb

To cheap and dirty ways

My King Yacht will come

And I shall sail away

Poetry Hallway - Croyland Otter's Relationship With The Land

Before Beware! The Zine went live at the end of 2014, we conducted a good deal of research to determine how we should best approach our more-artistic features. Our poll showed that our audience was less interested in 'good poetry' from celebrity poets, and wanted more people drawn from the local population. Some populations have yielded a better-quality poet than others, as frequently demonstrated by our dismal Fenland rhymist, Croyland Otter.

After our roundup of his 'Ode To Richard III', Croyland felt that Beware! failed to convey the level of respect for his poetic abilities that he had perhaps come to expect from the expert panel at The International Society Of Poets. Indeed, the Richard III Society's Canadian office were more impressed than we were and, encouraged by this, we were compelled to bring to your attention this wordy wonder, which is a touching and heartfelt overview of Croyland's relationship with the land, and his frustration with wildlife protection laws.

Canada's Richard III Society: in love with Croyland. It must be true - they said as much on Twitter.

According to his accompanying telegram, Croyland entered this particular poem into a contest run at the WWT Welney Centre, achieving the level of 'commended'. As usual, Beware!'s Poetry Hallway staff ran a brief check and it seems the Croyland was actually disqualified from the contest and banned from any further involvement in Wildfowl & Wetlands Trust events. Oh well. We suspect another complaint from Croyland will soon land on Poetry Hallway's doormat.

The Sublime Setting Sun Which Licks My Fields

When ball of gold so round and hot,

Escapes the daytime like a shot;

It makes me think of things I have,

Things I'm lucky that I've got.

Like ditches, dykes and slimy holes,

And frogs and toads and beastly moles,

Or all those birds which fly above,

Which I cook to death and eat in rolls.

And then the people from the police,

Say I must obey, desist and cease,

From clobbering all those yummy birds,

Like swans and wrens and hawks and geese.

Croyland Otter

October 2014