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A Magazine for Sheffield

11 Years On The Mic

Your framed photos line the mantelpiece,
there's that holiday, a countryside walk,
birthday cheers, standing next to your sister,
together with the grandchildren.

I see you everywhere, I close my eyes, I have
to accept the facts, use the past tense, every room
in this house reflects back memories. I cut roses from your garden,
taking a moment, a piece of you, doing my best to be close to you,
I can't get near.

I try, I can't reach you, I can't get us home,
I will always be your child, be part of you but our words
no longer touch, you can't hear my voice
and I am losing yours.

Ros Ayres


I refuse to enter
the East Yorkshire Arts Centre
after someone who works there
said my poems were shit.
Not for all the tea in China
would I degrade myself and enter
the East Yorkshire Arts Centre
after someone who works there
said I was semi-illiterate.
No. I will never ever enter
the East Yorkshire Arts Centre
after someone who works there
said I was many things but not a poet.
I know she's not been well
since her husband ran off with a slag
but taking it out on me
and my wonderful poetry
isn't going to make me give him back.

Dean Wilson


The bonnet is a shield protecting you from the modern sickness; its lines are the supreme creation of an era.
The headlights are the meticulous eyes of the first robot looking into the future from the past.
The exhaust is a sardonic goodbye.
The boot is the old suitcase in which you keep a well thumbed copy of your escape fantasy.
The bumper is a cut throat razor that has never been opened; the threat of it alone is enough.
The chrome trim is Connery as Bond, skiing down the volcanic slopes of a villain’s lair.
The FM radio is a telegram, agreeing with your disappointment at the state of things.
The antenna is a 1955 Gibson Super 400 archtop.
The fuel tank is a single malt in your father’s stomach.
The door handles are rabbit holes leading to adventure.
The angles are your first crush or notes in a perfect chord.
The doors are your boyhood self as batman.
The windows are a private screening of your favourite film.
The indicators are a civil ‘excuse me’ in a theme-pub brawl.
The odometer is the best anecdote you’ve ever heard.
The speedometer is a beckoning index finger.
The ignition is a toe dipped in the sea.
The spark-plug is a popping cork.
The hubcaps are rose-tinted mirrors.
The engine is a cheering crowd or the blind leap between lust and love.
The horses that power it are more mythical than bestial; they chain smoke Malboroughs and take long lunches whenever they like.
The hydraulics are a boy showing off to his big brother.
The dashboard is the face of a benevolent alien god.
The steering wheel is a tossed coin that always lands in your favour.
The passenger’s seat is an invitation.
The driver’s seat is a time machine.
The day is an unwritten to do list.
The sunset is your sat nav.
The accelerator is your favourite song.
The road is a Choose Your Own Adventure book.
The rear view mirror is filled with things that can wait.
Ahead of you there is nothing, or everything, whichever you prefer.

Byron Vincent


Next article in issue 116

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