Norman's Dream by Esther Betts


Inspired by Norman Mailer's An American Dream

I married her for her dad
Throw up over the mezzanine
Sick of my false reality
Got hooks, and hooks, and hooks in my flesh
Placed there by her snide commentary
It’s my fault
Imprisoned by my ego
In love with what I hate
Oh I hate her, I hate her, I hate her so much
But I love what she does to my standing
Come over to mine darling
Pink feather fluff and violet leather stuff
See her on the bed and she starts
A timely attack on my time of need
I saw the door open in my mind
Slap her on the face
She’s up charging at me head first
Catch her in a headlock then crack
And crack, and crack, and crack, and crack
The door has opened and I walk through

In the places where there are no witnesses
I steal orgasms off of my mistresses

Lie to the police and dash
Late night bar smell of dry whiskey
Stripper slash singer and mobsters
Unfriendly, so unfriendly
Dream of hitting them with my artillery
Pocket knife of my mind come to me now
Imaginatively unfold in my palm
And stab, and stab, and stab, and stab
Blood and cum flying onto the table

Into the night where my ego is destroyed
And the walls are down and nothing can stop me
Now the wife is dead I can be who I am
A rampaging, evil violent man

Esther Betts is an aspiring writer/poet based in Bristol, her work is interested in exploring the darker sides of people's minds.


Silence Sits Better by Roberta Francis


Sometimes I can’t see it coming, but It's still there.
It tugs my hand on the street and watches.
It’s a silence. A grating glance from
A Caliban that cuts the sun in two
And covers me in shadow.

This time outside the Wetherspoon's
The monsters looked past my fluidity to the
Little man with the silver beard,
Carrying a folded paperback and
Wearing  sandals.
His companion is taller, and they look so out of place
In this, murky, dark, London Street.
There’s a line of coats,
Ten stiff green bottles snorting about the weather,
The football and another cancelled bus.
Their top-dog, a haystack of a man, hugs his leather coat
And the word queer slips from his lips.
The man with the silver beard looks scared and I am too.
It could all ignite in a second.
Discretely I stare at the haystack and his long drooping moustache.
It sparkles under the moonlight now the Sun has gone
I wish I could tear it from his lips
But sometimes silence sits better.

Roberta Francis is a graduate of the MA in Creative Writing at the Open University.  She is a spoken word poet/novelist and is currently finishing her first novel. She has been published in the York Literary Review, Spontaneous Poetics, Off The Coast, and Spoken Word Anti-Hate Anthology.