Today’s choice
Previous poems
Luigi Coppola
Prometheus Burns Down The Last Bar Of The Pub Crawl
Out of ten bars, by the fifth, half of us had flickered
out and by this ninth one, it ended up just him
and me. A matchstick balanced on a stool, he sat
trench-coated and ember-tense. Salt from peanuts
stung his scolded fingers. The beer lip that frothed
every twenty seconds was steamed away by his
singed tongue or calcined palm or cauterised
sleeve. The reflection in mirrors behind bottles
refracted through cremated breaths. We talked
of many things: the warmth of hearths in heaven,
the snort of mulled wine, the smouldering hog
slipping off the bone, the shine of smithied gold
around necks of beautiful Gods. And all the other
stuff too that was given away or taken away or
lost. He stared through the cigarette smoke that
congealed in the heavy air, at the rolling, grilling
hot dogs from parts unknown and the flameless,
oil-clogged heater simmering like a plague
in the corner. We had had enough; besides, he had
somewhere to be. As we left, he sparked his fingers
at the edge of the soaked bar – kindling for a pyre –
amongst the heated laughter, stinging smog and
spilled paraffin. In the absolute alleyway, circled
by the fighting, puking comatose, I plucked
up the courage to ask that one burning question:
‘Can I see it?’ He smiled without looking up
from the half-empty glass (that he accidentally
stole and was destined to be fully empty and
balanced on rubble for eternity). He opened up
his coat and there it was: an eagle, bright and on
fire, with coal-dust eyes and charred beak pecking
under his grey ribs and the torn pink skin curling
inwards like cindered leaves – his blood-doused liver
exposed to the elements, bleeding for forgiveness.
Luigi Coppola – www.linktr.ee/PoetryPreacher – poetry, music, rum & coke. Featured at Glastonbury Festival, Tate Modern, Greenwich Theatre, Koestler Arts, Cutty Sark, Southbank Centre’s New Poets Collective, Poetry Archive Worldview winner, Bridport shortlist, Ledbury & National longlist, Lost Souls & Farrago Slam Champion, music as ‘The Only Emperor’, debut from Even God Gets Distracted Sometimes is out with Broken Sleep Books.
Anne Symons
She was only a little woman
five feet nothing in nylon stockings.
‘If I stood sideways they’d mark me absent.’
Ben
When she said ‘could’, it was clearly in italics
and when she said ‘one day’, the creak of glaciers
shuddered around its edges.
Dragana Lazici
the days are long but the years are short.
seconds are tiny kitchen knives in my back.
i stopped reading Dickinson, her voice is a sad parrot.
Abigail Ottley
Faces, unless they come swimming up close. are a blur of piggy-pink and ice-
cream. In the street, she doesn’t know, cannot be certain when to smile, when to
look away
Maggie Mackay
The teacher is an old spindly man. Grim, out of a Grimm’s tale. Scarecrow hair, thinning. Unsmiling.
Natasha Gauthier
The tawny clutch appeared
on high-heeled evenings only,
slept in a nest of white tissue.
Romy Morreo
She only speaks to me these days
through groaning floorboards in the night
and slammed doors.
Emma Simon
No-one has seen a ghost while breast-feeding
despite the unearthly hours, the half-light
mad sing-song routines of rocking a child
back to sleep.
Kushal Poddar
The furniture covered in once
transparent now foggy sheets
craft the room a morgue, and we
identity the bodies