poetry published

Babel Towers Notice Board – my gothic post-modern poems published.

A cool UK online journal run by two cool humans, Richard Capener (foundind editor) and Chole Proctor (assistant editor.) You can watch our YouTube conversation about their work and views.

Read the journal and submit, I dare you. It’s taste is for the avant-garde in all its guts and glory. I changed the formatting of the poems to right aligned here for the heck of it…’tis the little things that give me joy!

Tractor Ned Eats Rainclouds

Oh dear. Tragedy, bun? The 128
bus is stuck
underneath a bridge
across from a graveyard party
scene, it
demands cocktails of spud liquor,
grab the brush to
paint the caves. Large, tastefully decorated room.
Paper chains strung across ceiling.
She feels like the odd
one out somehow, commence
feeding procedures, yummy.
This spatula’s MINE, playdough for dinner again….
it heats the room but it is linked with the
central system and demands
toddlers tears. M’AM. M’AM?
It’s the new and for some reason accepted way of
governing goats, throw it out there
to the media, figure out if
the tree in someone’s yard is a
chestnut (no, chinquapin).
Prowling around trying to hear a
man’s voice across the
street behind me: It’s somebody’s
birthday. Didn’t you and I
have the same taste?

Where I Come From?

Just how this Sile na Gig ended up
in the
sea wall all a’fluster, say yes to
reassure him. Do you need more money?
I don’t know, sure it’s always that choking
desert in the throat that gets ya
deeper into the fence.
Christmas is taken seriously here,
stirring for her life.
Decisions decisions …. do I wake
the big fella or not, just
stop doing your interview on The
Late Late as you change
the toddler, walk these streets
alone at night in neon
skates with wheels that light up
souls. What? She? No matter – is
from youtube history, invent a new
nursery rhyme, please.
10 PEOPLE (old, young, hip, blimpish)
If propaganda walls aren’t
transparent on their advice, they could be
accused of hiding facts everyone
second guessing what might happen.
Ok, I’m very much expecting no
one to do this, but if you fancied it,
I’d be honoured! My magical
toothbrush will do just fine.
Laughter. Loud talk. Heavy smoke.

By Michelle Moloney King

Artist. Poetish.