West End Vignette

She looks at the man at the bar. It is a skeptical look, though slightly roused to suspicion. She is almost at the point of pondering, she is almost at the point of asking to herself and to others, why am I here? Why are these people taking an interest in me? She is thinking of the relationship that she has with herself, her sister, who she can trust, and a guy - a real character - who is a man on the make and she likes that about him.

"If I say yes, then there is an expectation that this could come to something." She shrugs. "I'm tired."

"Are you likely to be in the biz ness of making this attempt to make something of your life."

He was persistent, he had no, (or very few) options left; it had been quite a time. Forever.

"Are you saying that I am not making something of my life?"

Now he knew that he was in trouble. He had taken a chance flirtation to the point of no return.
She looked at him, in a way which, if he hadn't said such a silly thing, he might have mistaken for interest.

"I'm glad that I brought my umbrella, even if it is a cheap one." He watched her, fumbled fumbled.

"How much did you pay for it?"

'Nothing, it came with the Standard."

"Hmmm...." Her eyes to the ceiling?

He couldn't quite tell, did he look up at the ceiling? He felt as if he was starting to imagine what she was thinking and was she thinking what he was thinking. Was he thinking anything worth thinking, that was the problem, the thinking.

Her gaze was now like a spotlight on him. She smiled and she smiled in such a way as to name him: Oliver. Here he was Oliver. How had he arrived? Would he call her a cab? Would he offer her his cab, the cab she would call for him?

"My name is..."

"Oliver?"

She asked.

That was enough for him. He was off, head down.... He walked into the night air, put up his brolly, then for a second, thought better of it. It was up down all the way home, but he kept on going, not drunk but a little tipsy; he mumbled a little, he thought he saw a fading movie star in the corner lighting a cigarette. At home he realized who it was, red shocking hair, tied back with a ribbon, it was her: some thin old bit of rough from a Reality tv show.

By John Stiles

Poem from Jon McFarlow

3 times sectioned
by Jon McFarlow


Mobile

In the future
folk sent back into the past
have ended up in Bedlam.

As a means of communication
they took mobile phones back
in time with them.

The locals thought them bananas
and had them sectioned.


Thinker

If one of the walls in your lounge
exploded
& a friend you hadn’t seen in months
appeared from the rubble & smoke
with a mobile phone in one hand
& a lump of coal in the other
screaming
I’ve come from the future, no time for questions
You have to come with me
Would you go?


Mobile

In the future
folk sent back into the past
have ended up in Bedlam.

At stool so long her skin grew around the seat

As a means of communication
they took mobile phones back
in time with them.

A decade of nuptials ended when he dissed The Boss

The locals thought them bananas
and had them sectioned.

Jon McFarlow: born in 1980.
Favourite memory: Finding a cat in a hat. No, really!
Motto is: "Mad is bad. Bad is good"
(from Kingdom Come by J G Ballard)

Tonight

Some recent publications with writings, scribblings and so on related to poetry featuring a few Canadian so and so's in here n here n here..

17th Century Garb....?
London Magazine features a few folk

Poem by Kim Morrissey

ONE YEAR ON

The reading-corner you made me
is still there

bright red table, red chairs
picture railings, dove-grey stairs

still lit by west light

There are no sounds
in the house I remember

no one calling no one called
no one there

the cedar of the floor still smells sweet

as the light from the window
turns to dark



Kim Morrissey is a well-known Canadian poet and playwright from Saskatchewan. She was recently published in the International compendium Atlas and was interviewed in CV2. She lives in London.