Mercenary [writing task nine]

The public must be blind if they think

you're actually rats with wings.

I wasn't aware you had sharp jagged buck teeth

that you ate cheese with, and a thin long tail.

In fact you're nothing like a man or a mouse
instead it was your bold uncle-Tom plans
that stopped the real mice; Jerry.
And still people give you the cold shoulder and a boot,
some thanks to get for taking codes afar,
the risk being gunned down, a suicide mission. it's not cryptic,
its all to follow in your peaceful family's Dove footsteps.
You are reserves, mercenaries, abundant in Trafalgar Square,
left to carry obesity and bird flu, not messages and notes.
I guess if you wanted you could race abroad,
but why bother? you're fattened up on the people's scraps
and deserve the easy life,
and to not get moaned at for being another British Vermin
protected by the government
and getting fat on free hand outs.

Fleur [writing task eight]

Fleur Pillager
keep to herself, live quiet
killing men off
dressed like a man
in a leather thong

Heart of an owl
she could see at night
and went out, hunting
by day her silence and wide grin
made us frightened.

Simply Red [writing task seven]

What is the difference between a Tuesday then
and a Tuesday now? The years
The chalk pastel light, lowlighting the dark sugar-paper scene.
Tuesdays were for the bright lights
streetlights, shop signs, dance floor strobelights
Text-me-when-you're-home-safe, good night.
Now the only safety is a relaxed grasp
on the three-quarters empty tumbler glass,
almost set into the bar. A relic,
a monument at the same place with the same seat,
5:30 'til last orders, his after work retreat.
You'd think as years went by
he'd be on first name terms with the barman,
instead, the silhouette of his slumped face on his hand and arm
has engraved his person into the bar, I guess
Nothing had the chance to be good,
Nothing ever could.

The only re-occurrence, similarity to those wonder days,
the ponder, the memory of that Tuesday night,
she mimicked his two step and flailing arms, smiling, giggling.
"My name is Amy" she shouted at him, over the music.
The only interest he'd ever had or would have.
The only time she replied to him.
11 digit number, he saw her put it in her phone.
Since then, the numb silence, the trumpet's tone,
somber, the realization: he's damned to be alone.
Propped up by the bar, his features poorly illuminated,
The speaker's sound wavers around his shade
I'll keep holding on.

Spatula [writing task six]

I'm numb, neither hot or cold to the touch.
Rough but not rough round the edges,
80-grit sandpaper, you know, for smoothing.
i'm not quite a fork but i'm not a spoon either,
delivery is not exactly my forte.
Deep trenches bore into me, burnt for sticking around too long,
my other half is smooth to hold, the shiny Ying to my black Yang.but
It's solid, i'm like jail bars or radiator ridges,
without the clank of running your hand over them.
But i'm almost as hot as one gets, sometimes.
my blade has teeth, ironically they were knocked in,
but i'm not so sure how. Really i'm just about fit for purpose,
I just about make the scrape,
but really, although i'm worse for wear
I help others see the flip side,
and on my day, can make each side burn equally.

True Wonder [writing task five]

Don't forget to eat your        
or you won't be able to see in the dark.
Don't you find it ironic
that it's there I spend my life. A spark
a speck of ember surrounded by the night
and yet, it is instead my weedy topper
that makes me stick out like a sore thumb,
but i'm not throbbing, i'm not bruised,
I just grow around and dig deeper.
weathered, chipped away by my surrounds,
notches, curves, bends, but i'm not weakened.
I just keep burrowing, like a rabbit
more like "what's down Doc?"
"Something to grow for and live for", I reply,
Because it sure as hell seems better beneath the surface.

Carol [writing task four]

So tell me about your relationship with your parents...

Satanists! both of them.
Hell-pointing pentagrams and down-facing crosses!
Father; a man of precision, of logic opposing failure,
how could he give in to the fall?
Nor can I comprehend, a Satanic nurse mother,
how is she to heal and fix the broken?
Oh that's right, she can't.

When caring for my sister,
would a healer further murder her own daughter?
How could she? Give her own child up to the devil?
Scold her skin away, nailed taut to the lines,
sprawled out like a star, five points. oh, like a pentagram.
I wonder if our father in heaven heard
her screams as she begged his name for mercy,
but I guess it was out of his control,
mother was on the dark side now,
and cindered flesh smells nothing like cookies.
She told me I could do nothing but embrace,
the sacrifice, the dark magic inside.

The only dark within are scars, brandings
like a bull awaiting slaughter, to be murdered like the other daughter.
Poison seeping wounds bleeding and tissue burning
set alight by numerous ritual, of
times and gtimes over my body charcoal,
burnt 'til I was dark black.
It hurt to flush and rid myself
and only through my other therapists
I could come to terms with this.

Carol, I'm sorry, but the other therapists were wrong, none of what you said is true.
None of it actually happened.

JB [writing task three]

I'm so bored
I quit, I'm done, it bores me
I am so bored.
Hashtag my next tweet:
It's time to call it a day.
I wonder how many screaming tweens
will reply, how many haters are gonna hate?
but who cares? I've got another Lambo,
How many have they got?
Where shall I go next, lets go to another
historical monument and graffiti the guestbook,
Just for the lolz.
I'm so bored.
I am so bored.
I know, lets go start a fight with some paparazzi,
you know, if they get "too close".
I might ring up Usher, see if he wants another party.
I wonder if some cocaine or weed would give me a buzz.
I'm so bored.
I am so bored

Ronnie P [writing task two]

Amber to green, but never amber,
You've always been 'go' and never stop.

Green-fingered, clever, but never caught red-handed
cultivating your money tree made our lifestyle bloom.

And yet, work hard, play hard - enjoy life while you can
you harvest your garden for me.

Where I come from [writing task one]

I come from mud and screwdrivers and hammers,
and Matchbox cars, lego and pencil crayons on a rainy day.
I come from quiet isolation and the struggle to fit in,
I come from mornings on Miss Lewis' lap, sobbing.
I come from seeking company in Little Oli, Matt and Big 'arry at breaktime,
I come from going home for dinner,
with treacle sponge and Nan; the smiling cook.
I come from the ally behind my house
and summer holidays; bikes football and party rings.
I come from 13 years of blood sweat and being sick from exhaustion
due to technically physical sessions at the Dojo.
I come from the compliments and reassuring back-pats, expectations
and the fear, the pressure of living up to each one.
I come from the risks and doubt asserted
and the crushing threat of failure.
I come from thoughts, decisions and revisions;
what is, was or could be.

But that being said;
"Experience comes from bad judgement,
Good judgement comes from bad experience."