Skip to main content

The Incident by Chloë Clarke

After the incident, it will not seem like a crime
has occurred. There will only be silence;
no noise, no police cars.
You will inspect the crime scene for signs of a break in;
for shattered glass, a broken door.
But you will find nothing.

 You will wonder what to do, who you should call;
whether you should call someone at all.

 But you won’t
call anyone,
tell anyone.

 Instead, you will try to remove any trace of the crime:
shower your body, scrub your skin raw,
wipe away tears you never got to cry.

 Then hang yourself out to dry.

 ---

 Chloë Clarke is a spoken word and performance artist who found herself in the poetry world after becoming Worcestershire’s Young Poet Laureate in 2014-2016. Chloë has been commended in the Foyles Young Poet of the Year award and has been published by Forward Poetry in ‘Simply Love – A Collection of Poetry. She has performed at the MAC Birmingham and headlined Worcestershire Litfest, while also running her own Open Mic night.  

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Home by Jessa Forest

Home scratches at her shingles with tree branch fingers, pulls the air conditioning unit close to her grimy aluminum siding, and keens an empty song of mourning. We found her wandering the tornado snarled wild three months ago, starved and lonely. She doesn’t know how to take care of herself, you see? We fed her shards of dining room tables, kindling for the fireplace, and cast iron bathtubs clawed feet first. She was slow to recover so we gutted her plumbing, ripped out her nerves, and rewired the electricity. She let the water in every time it rained so we put a new roof on her and let her out for regular walks around the wolf pen. Let her mingle with the vultures, I said, let her feel useful and clean up the dead but no one wanted to listen. We found rot an mold in her corners, infused her insulation with antibiotics, and quarantined her for two weeks while she belched ladderback chairs, sofa cushions, wind chimes, and broken bookcases. She still has her bad days. After feeding time
91 comments
Read more

Smoking and Swearing by Ian Manson

He’s stood outside, he’s on his break. He’s unsure whether to be smoking or swearing. He decides on both. Inhale. Fuuuck! Inhale. Fuuuck! A person, a visitor, or a patient. Heading to the hospital, sees his scrubs and scowls. “ It’s not very professional for a nurse to be smoking and swearing. ” But he doesn’t care. He’s already done his good deed for the morning and by midnight he’ll have done a dozen more. Yesterday was a paltry four. Tomorrow’s shift will be five or two or maybe eight, and another night of finishing late. Inhale. Fuuuck! He breathes a cloud of smoke. Watches it swirling, ascending, a spirit en-route to heaven. The person’s saintly sanctimony means nothing to him. Because he’s on his break. And he’s smoking, and he’s swearing. --- Originally from Scotland, Ian has lived and worked in Worcestershire for the last 11 years. He can normally be found performing his poetry and prose at events on the Worcester spoken word scene
28 comments
Read more

The Pink Roll Top Bath is £995 and Says Sold. I Want to Know who has Bought it. by Wendy Allen

I grasp a piece of invisible text from Delta of Venus and bite so hard juice runs down to where I'm smooth inside. I am falling over the edge in anticipation of your mouth.  My lips curve like the rim of the roll top bath,  they smile, then say,  fuck me over the side. Open mouthed, soft inside, I swell, clitoral bulbs freeze framed in slow, they grow - lento.  I’m an Attenborough nature programme, my clitoris evolves from want.  Don’t stop - you make me summer. --- Wendy Allen has been published in Atrium, Re-Side, Brunel Writer and Northern Gravy. She has a Legitimate Snack coming out shorty from Broken Sleep and is about to start an MA in Creative Writing at Oxford Brookes.
1 comment
Read more