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

The Twitwich Effluence - Rail

If you should find yourself travelling towards the town of Twitwich... don't. If you should find yourselves within its borders... too late. Whenever you arrive, though, rest assured that Twitwich Town Council will be grappling with the issues of the day, in the Town Hall they used to own and are now renting back.

Twitwich Effluence - short form #02 (written/illustrated by Andy Brain)

The Twitwich Effluence - Leave

Welcome to Twitwich. This noted market town has had many favourable mentions in the national press, for its drive, ambition, its retail potential, its steely reaction to a town-wide arson epidemic, its upbeat response to syringes in the park and turds in the pond, and its extreme focus on maintaining existing business links in the face of an entire lack of opportunities, skills or intelligence. Twitwich Town Council is the jewel in the crown, the joule in the engine, the Jul in the calendar. Working hard for you, one twelfth of the year.

Twitwich Effluence - short form #01 (written/illustrated by Andy Brain)

Nase & Abel - Digital Gods, part 3

Abel begins proceedings with Anextiomarus but... language barriers.

naseandabel-shortformat#8-page03 (written and illustrated by Gareth Monger)

Nase & Abel - Digital Gods, part 2

Abel transports Nase to the Datascapes of Anextiomarus with a view to getting Nase's data backed up. Seemingly Abel likes to take precautions.

naseandabel-shortformat#8-page02 (written and illustrated by Gareth Monger)

Nase & Abel - Digital Gods, part 1

naseandabel-shortformat#8-page01 (written and illustrated by Gareth Monger)

Nase & Abel - The Shakespeare-Only Speakers' Forum

The Shakespeare-only Speakers' Forum is a lexi-quagmire for poor Nase to navigate. As ever, Abel, the post-with-the-most, is on hand to lend guidance...

naseandabel-shortformat#7-page01 (written and illustrated by Gareth Monger)

Notes

This eight-frame strip is actually eight postcards which were dispatched to a Nase & Abel reader over the course of a two-week tonsilectomy-recovery period.

Nase & Abel - Transportation Safety Board of Canada: Air

Random code results in predictable confusion. Luckily, Abel is on hand to force sense out of the situation.

naseandabel-shortformat#6-page01 (written and illustrated by Gareth Monger)

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.

Nase & Abel - Things to Come