The Pub Poets

The Pub Poets are a duo who have little in common apart from an incessant adoration for Joss Whedon and the monthly open mic evening that they host in Chamber's Wine bar, upstairs in The Old Town Hall, Poulton-le-Fylde. Ashley Lister is a prolific writer of erotic fiction, having written more than two dozen full length erotic novels and over a hundred short stories. Aside from regularly blogging about writing erotica, Ashley also teaches creative writing. He has hosted a creative writing workshop at Eroticon, the annual conference for sex bloggers and erotica writers and has presented a weekly internet radio show for poets on Fylde Coast Community Radio. Ashley lives in Lancashire. Lisa Bower is an author of fiction for both children and young adults. She runs a writing and performance group "Scribble and Shout" at the local college. Her first teen fantasy novel is currently being written, deleted and rewritten arduously. In the meantime, you will see her first published short story "The First Snowflake" come to life in a series of artworks around Liverpool City Centre from late November this year at The Snowflake Trail, in coordination with Open Culture Merseyside and BID Liverpool. To email Ash or Lisa, email [email protected] and Lisa will probably get back to you first because her phone is permanently glued to her hand! www.facebook.com/pubpoets

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A poem for Patrick, written by Momma Bird

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The Story of Me by Lucy McKenzie

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Downstairs - by Lisa Bower

the rhythmic thud, thud, thud of the headboard accompanied of course by the lack lustre moans of your alcoholic, skeletal lover insisting on keeping me away from an elusive, unattained sleep. i hunger for rest for peace and tranquil slumber without your rancid audio description describing sexual activities unwelcome in my aural area, but clearly not in your oral area. succeeded now by cries of harder, faster, deeper, pervading my waking moments through paper thin walls and enhanced sound courtesy of your open window - despite mine being necessarily closed on this stagnant summers eve, when some of us would like to breathe without your humping grinding our ear drums. wait. it’s quiet. is that it? the long awaited climax meaning all is done and finally… shit no… hang on… from passionate throes to belting row in less than a minute. what’s ruined the mood? what could disrupt the committed athletics, bun baking, horizontal tangoing, the rumpy pumpy - or who? who is Debbie? that name is apparently not attached to the bleached, boned half breed you’ve been screwing! well she’s got you sussed now mate. you’re fucked - and not in the biblical sense! as the row peaks and crescendos, the noise no longer creeping along my nerves, wishing for a better view, Jeremy Kyle to ring the bell. easing open the bedside draw reveals a reliable, argument shunning Energiser companion, who’ll answer to any name, cheerful in the knowledge that as he is booted to the sofa, I’ll be lulled into deep, satisfying sleep.

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Skeletor

the rhythmic thud, thud, thud

of the headboard accompanied

of course

by the lack lustre moans

of your alcoholic, skeletal lover

insisting on keeping me away

from an elusive, unattained sleep.

i hunger for rest

for peace and tranquil slumber

without your rancid audio description

describing sexual activities unwelcome

in my aural area,

but clearly not in your oral area.

succeeded now by cries of harder,

faster, deeper,

pervading my waking moments

through paper thin walls

and enhanced sound

courtesy of your open window -

despite mine being necessarily closed

on this stagnant summers eve,

when some of us would like to breathe

without your humping grinding our ear drums.

wait.

it’s quiet.

is that it? the long awaited climax

meaning all is done and finally…

shit no…

hang on…

from passionate throes to belting row

in less than a minute.

what’s ruined the mood?

what could disrupt the committed athletics,

bun baking, horizontal tangoing,

the rumpy pumpy -

or who?

who is Debbie?

that name is apparently not attached

to the bleached, boned half breed

you’ve been screwing!

well she’s got you sussed now mate.

you’re fucked -

and not in the biblical sense!

as the row peaks and crescendos,

the noise no longer creeping along my nerves,

wishing for a better view,

Jeremy Kyle to ring the bell.

easing open the bedside draw

reveals a reliable,

argument shunning

Energiser companion,

who’ll answer to any name,

cheerful in the knowledge

that as he is booted to the sofa,

I’ll be lulled into deep, satisfying

sleep.

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Repression-by Lisa Bower

I was brought up ‘properly’

by a mum who wanted me to be

educated, successful,

as well as a pretty good house wife

but most of all you had to know how to

BEHAVE

she taught me all the rules

including the ones she never follows

(she’s a scouse woman and could kill

fifty with a lash of her tongue!)

From there I developed a habit,

a trait,

an annoyance,

the fine art of suppression.

You know,

Where you push the feelings so far down

it’s like they aren’t really there -

except for the insipid anger

seeping through each breath, glance or movement,

the invisible neon warning sign flashing over your head

ignored it screams TAKE COVER - INCOMING, INCOMING

You know,

Where your preferred reactions play out in high definition

Dolby Surround sound vibrating internally

(JD from Scrubs but with more venom)

No? Is this just me?

When you’re driving along,

minding your own,

and an idiot pushes a pram into the road in front of the car

without looking left or right

like any sane person would.

CUT TO BRAIN CAM

You’re hanging out of the window

Flipped bird standing proud and screaming

“Babies in push chairs aren’t invincible to moving vehicles

You cretinous thief of air!”

CUT BACK

you raise your hand

apologising for a crime you did not commit

and drive past.

It’s none of your business

Move on,

Stiff upper lip.

You’re English.

You’re having a chat in the pub being chilled

When you say the wrong name of a town

Re-telling someone else story

and as they correct you

they laugh just a little too much

at your simple mistake.

You realise they’ve been lying in wait

For you to do something that makes them feel superior.

CUT TO BRAIN CAM

You take a cheap silver fork from the pot

sat innocuously in the middle of the table

and shove it so far up his nose

you hear it clank at the back of his echoing

hollow skull.

“Correct me now, Motherfucker!”

CUT BACK

With a thin lipped smile,

you ignore the rudeness of his interference

and with barely a flicker of rage

which is now steaming through the causeways of your soul,

continue the story unabashed.

Move on,

Stiff upper lip.

You’re English.

You’re having a chat with a friend.

A long needed catch up, cathartic,

When they laugh and say how they hear

your relationship is going well

because your partner is compliant.

CUT TO BRAIN CAM

Just as the injustice of such crap

leaves your heart pounding

So too it leaves their head pounding

Under the weight of your hand

On the bar top.

Multiple times.

Punctuating the staccato rhythm as you say

“Don’t talk about what you don’t know, You underwhelming hussy!"

CUT BACK

You laugh.

It echoes empty along with the words

“Yeah, I wish!”

Move on.

Stiff upper lip.

You’re English.

So to avoid the summer from hell

I’ll isolate myself from arseholes and morons,

become anti-social in my alcoholism

hidden from fuckwittage and fury

to prevent this repressive nonsense

from becoming a repeated story.

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Sarah Lawson - “Adventures in Juicy-Thighed Women Wearing Leggings as Pants”

“Because curves are on the lunch menu. Because sometimes my body wants to relax and exhale and not be held in.”

Performing during prelims at the 2015 Women of the World Poetry Slam. Subscribe to Button on YouTube!

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Every shape and size is on the menu! Great poem.

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Steven Green looks at 38 year old films...

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Qualia

a piece of flash fiction by Lisa Bower

Leigh.

The cool evening breeze caressed her naked body as she lay on the mattress in front of the open balcony windows, a sheet loosely wrapped around her torso.  After the sticky heat of the afternoon, the heat which had driven them indoors, she was glad of the slight chill.

Watching him walk across the apartment, his broad shoulders still glistening from the shower he’d taken, she suppressed a grin that was fighting to appear.  She was terrified to say anything, terrified to move.  If the silence was broken it might shatter the living dream she seemed to have crossed into.

She had loved him for months, hung on to every word he said, every move he made.  She had enjoyed the deep intonations of his voice like a patron of the philharmonic enjoys the crashing introduction of a Beethoven symphony.  She had watched his moods, wishing that as they sank, she could take his hand and give comfort and that as they rose she could celebrate alongside him.

When he had suggested they go back to his, her heart had flipped.  As their lips touched, her light headedness nearly floored her.  As she melted into the embrace all she could think of was that he was really hers.  Finally.  At last.

Matthew.

It had been really humid earlier and the bar wasn’t showing the footy.  She had been there, looking at him with her usual doe eyes.  Looking at the empty beer glasses in front of him, he decided she probably wouldn’t be that bad, she had nice tits after all, so he called a taxi and took her back to his.

After they had shagged, he jumped in the shower to give her time to go.  

She didn’t.

She was still there when he got out.

Fuck.

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Those Who Are About to Graduate - We Salute You

Ashley Lister

So, now you’re a graduate – let’s give you three cheers You’ve completed your studies without stabbing your peers You have studied three years to earn this degree And yet still you can’t use an apostrophe.

You have earned this award – we can see at a glance You deserve it for dealing with Student Finance. You’re now saddled with debt from exorbitant fees And still you can’t use those apostrophes.

Your literature dissertation could not have been easier: Thank fuck for York notes! God bless Wikipedia! You’ve read Wuthering Heights and John Donne’s ‘The Flea’ Yet still you can’t use an apostrophe.

You now manage your work like the rest of us do You can write a whole paper on the night when it’s due. You’ve spent weeks before deadlines on a diet of coffee But still you can’t use that apostrophe.

With that said, we salute you. Good job. Well done you. You worked hard. You learnt lots. Let’s give credit where due. Enjoy your achievement, education’s the key. And one day, spare a thought for the apostrophe.

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Jim Hobson tells us about what he and his lady do every year... (?!)

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This Sunday

One week early, one hour later, one would surely want at eight a feeling that you'd had some fun and if you come you will have done. Six thirty, cheaper parking too (something else we've done for you!) so come along if you are wise - experience the no bell prize. -Steven Green

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Our next event! 

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The Pub Poets

The home of the Pub Poets' Vlog and video content. We hold open mic nights every month at The Old Town Hall, Poulton-le-Fylde. See our Vlog for details. The ...

If you haven’t checked out our YouTube channel, do it now!

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To have great poets, there must be great audiences.

Walt Whitman

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Some of our lovely poets!