Mutants

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Princess Anne loves genetic crops, she’s inbred-proof it really works, there’s other experiments in mutation displaying success beyond expectation: Trump and Putin re-mixed the truth, and now the States is democratic proof that all it takes is a misogynist’s grab to be Putin’s pussy; sat there on his lap. This isle, set adrift by Farage’s...


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The Reader

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

A slight detour on the way home to find my maybe-Quaker silence, there, behind the shelved volumes, in the near-silent reading room, under zero gravity conditions – just an old man’s licked turn of an immaculate newspaper, upon which he then comments, so entering an amplified communion with his just-arrived lady friend: ‘Shall we abandon...


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Numbered

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

He lived 3,500 weeks, on both sides,
and in that time 3,500 died.


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The Piano

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

I lifted the hinged lid of our upright piano to find the centrifugal of her studied song, to listen to the hammers’ strikes, soft and loud, in her found piece on well-rehearsed keys: but all I could sense was what I breathed in, back with the same smell of my grandfather’s home, sat again in...


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The Last Man in Europe

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

I see Eric Blair, upright, thin, his bottom lip fag-lowered, stiffly at his carried Remington, posed at the high round keys, which he knew too well, the sound of a-e-i-o-u, those strikes at very-necessary English vowels, on fret-ish presses, in haste, to complete The Novel – over coughs, those near-death rattled expulsions, then later to another...


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She Walked Out

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Touch lightly his then bared back,
so harden his limp-loose skin
..


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Derek Walcott, 1930-2017

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

'Rhyme remains the parenthesis of palms,'
possibly misquoted, by myself, not the man..


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The Flood

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Evangelina Chamorro Díaz
climbed, primal, from the flood,
risen from muckled timbers,
smothered in Creation's mud
...


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Eppur si muove

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

“And yet it moves” was his response to the given freedom after arguing with God about the spin of the ‘great light’ sun – his telescopic facts which the church unspun. Still their untruths shine, ever since Day Four: theology blocks heliocentric thought. Mike Bell Poetry Mike Bell aims to write 10,000 poems, stick them...


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The Funts

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

The foul-mouthed family held court in the bar, tossing “f#cking” and “c#nt” in their expletive spars: Sharp threats of a knifing, came too easy, too quick, that night of hard curses got me peeved, thinking this, I may have to frequent a family-free pub: A more friendly local, With no fucking cunts. Mike Bell Poetry...


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