Six Poems
The chief inspector leans back in his chair
and picks his teeth with a matchstick.
The dead aren’t missing much, he muses.
My right arm hangs dead at my side.
Perhaps I’m bleeding from somewhere as well.
His men, spread out across the plateau,
rap smartly on the doors of empty apartments.
I only escape because they let me.
By Howie Good.
Three Poems
grabbed the bulk of a sweetshop
barely able to fit in my back pocket
brought this sweetshop
back through our kitchen window
to the kids all smiley like
an eternity in respite
They hauled it all down
their eyes all stalks
tongue hangin’ in spite
a good thirty seconds
a fuckin’ lifetime in
respite
By Alan Kelly.