Fraser Horn- 'The Finest Food- Frozen'

I had a horse when I was young

I rode her through the fields all day.

She'd lick me with her cardboard tongue

Then whinny, gallop, jump, and neigh.

Her hooves stomped all the field mice,

She was murderous when she ate

But little did I know she would meet a worsened fate.

My childish horse is burger meat.

I rode her as a treat

And yet, if I'm honest,

I would have eaten her myself given half the chance.

I got horse-hungry sometimes when I was fully famished.

She would have filled me nicely but instead she was ravished

By a meat processing plant. She hated cows

But now shares a small plate with one. My only friend

Of childhood has met a bitter end.

If, that is, she was not cooked right.

If roasted true she could be a delight,

I'm told the beast is healthier than beef.

It must be something in their diet

Which can spur jockeys to riot

That those animals, with such fine teeth,

No more shall race:

It's such a waste

Of talent. Yet no more

Shall Clover pace the fields

As underfoot the grass, he yields,

And trembles at her power.

Instead, cloven-hoofed Clover is raced along a treadmill

Without her agency intact.

Instead, Clover has been removed of will:

Nostrils deflared, those eyes could kill,

Her organs stretching out your meal.

Now that's a fact that could make you boke

If you feel

That I have taken this joke

Too far. But the last one past the post

Can't make the boast

To be anything but food to us now.

Esmond Sage

Former function rooms converted into Wetherspoons
Round the corner from arcade games good for a wager or two
We sit round the lagers
That sit on the table
I listen as best I'm able to
The limestone clay rubble that tumbles from all the mouths on this night-out
The lumpy grey speech that hides shards of glass
It's claggy consistency kept together by the splutter from the hacked up guffaws that they offer each other
I gots the Hometown Blues.

Their arms begin to dangle and their clean gym-swollen shoulders hang forward as they think up brick-walled banter to fill their emptying glasses to the brim.
As every horse trots out the stables the gents look up to make inspection and set the par for this week's meat to dribble over
Clocking numbers out of ten in sideways glances as through curling lips and tightened cheeks they share their conquered concubines from foreign lands.
I gots the Hometown Blues.

Hometown will take me from cradle to grave
As my guts wither a little more inside
 Every moment I spend in time with these guys, my friends.

Rory Kelly- 'All About The Chickens'

We've all been there, now and then
We need to let down our hair, sniff a pen
Try meditation if we're really feeling zen
But we get overzealous
And the neighbours become jealous
And he comes over to tell us
To 'keep the noise down!' or, in this case, devour us whole
And things get out of control
Cos he's acting like a tool and the marker takes its toll
And tables overturn so easily now-a-days
And, since the word can burn, well, suddenly there's a blaze
And all the words he churns, you can't hear him through the haze
And you start to think 'wouldn't it be better, if this poor old sod was dead?'
Yes, because nobody would miss him, no, no tears would be shed
It would be an act of mercy, just like smothering him in bed
....
and I swear this is all about the chickens

So you take him and you beat him, yes, you beat him black and blue-
And cos you never really liked him, you chop him into two
And then you feed him through the lawnmower, which you know he stole from you

I swear this is all about the chickens

So, we're beating and we're grinding, yes, we're really having fun
But then we start to see the light of early morning sun
And people will be waking up and seeing what we've done
So, you take your cue to exit, and leg it out of town
Check into a motel and dye your hair light brown
And you're reading out some poetry, seeing all the faces
And you realised you haven't killed anyone for ages and ages and ages
So, if anyone would like to see me, after the show tonight
Meet me in the alley, out back, out of sight,
And if you do, I swear you will be alright

After all, this was all about the chickens

http://devils-inkpots.blogspot.co.uk/p/writing.html

Rosie Brown

Life is full of surprises.
When you think it is all settled down something can fly out of nowhere and explode the bliss like a yo-yo on fire sending you out of balance, off key and tumbling wildly into the unknown. Where is the meaning in the words of a dead man post suicide? Where is the hope in a breakup of a family or an abortion of an unborn child? None of the thoughts, debates, actions or counter calls can make me believe that there is always a right or wrong, reason or rhyme to the disinterested parlayances of mesmeric folk all taken up with their own mantle of time and place and correct mind. Men with bibles or law books or well thumbed science textbooks are all the same when it comes down to the zealots brain. They preach and shout and spread their thought disease to those who want to think alone in compassion of humility for the inability of knowledge built into the human condition. We are crawling children in this world, knocking our heads against multiple brick walls and shouting, thinking, feeling, louder, righter than the one who came before - reaction or reform. We are all are born unformed and slowly are cast into the mold of our multitudinous teachings, preaching, memories and education. We know so little and yet stand so strong on our hind legs. We know the truth, speak the word, understand this messed up platform filled world. We are starlight and atoms, beauty and hope yet we crush each other in the bubble of antiquitous hate we spew each others way... sad moments of wrinkled devotion blinded by faith, fill up this world like a marker of height. We have crushed so far, built up our civilizations only to break them down and rebuild in the form of some other hero's ego boost and GOD.... didn't all the leaders in history have such small dicks to need this many monuments in their name. Egoic manifestations of insecure over indulgence in ideology, ritual and faith. Where have all the good men gone and where are the women in this?

Poppy Dillon

1)
I have tried all my life for honesty
When to talk
When to listen
When to love
When to hide
Equipped with every tool necessary
Pen to pad
Laryngeal vibration and lip pulsations
I want to give you a present
I'll hand words to businessmen and prostitutes and buskers
And newsagent workers
Wrapped up in chocolate bars
Like a cotton farmer holding out twentysomething years of harvest
2)
But wait
When I close my eyes I can see hovering lights which shudder and
swayfasterthanIcancomprehendasmypupilsquiverlikeuntrainedballetdancersindesperation
Deprived of mental stimulation
If I sat blindfolded in a room of white noise for long enough
My brain would start feeding itself through hallucinations
I is not autonomous
I is not present in its skin
It thinks
It thinks
Through conceptualisations
Constrained
Its mental trails are pre-ordained
And even its lips
That can follow a complex choreography designed by its
Partner tongue
Follow a phonetic handbook
A categorical vocabulary engrained and laid down by country scarred and bloodied by its history
Even if it were possible for us to crack our skulls
And merge our brains into one every time we hold our foreheads together in silence
Semantic domains forged individually are blind
And could never know the swamp they're wading through to reach each other
The truth is we all speak a different kind of language
3)
Through practicing the silent meditation of respiration
I can now close my eyes without thinking I'm alone
Instead of grasping with blindfingers
I retract them into my hands
That have been giving birth to galaxies behind my back
Mind is planetary
Removed from tectonic personality
It is no longer necessary to understand anyone entirely
It is no longer necessary to scratch ourselves until we bleed repentance for all our
Faults in expression
I want to give you a present
Wrapped in-security in-stability
Something to keep away nighttime fears of drafts blowing
Endless blank pages through nervous typewriters
Hold a finger out to a baby for it to crush into dust with all the weight of its newness and uncertainty
4)
Life is kind of like something between a fraction with the denominator zero and the square root of minus one

http://oliviapoppydillon.wordpress.com/ 

About Us

The Living Room Collective is a group of like-minded individuals dedicated to sharing their words, music and art with each other and the world at large.

A monthly event with people gathering to share in person is the ignition to the blog, with the works shared over an evening event in Edinburgh but contributors are welcome from across the Globe.

Submissions of poetry, prose, artwork, recordings, political rants on YouTube and all manner of creative endeavors which can be virtually manifested on a blog... to vimmy.pop@gmail.com for consideration.

Peace and Words.