Do Paranoid Androids Dream of Electric Dicks?


Louise M. Hart

A week ago…


I don’t know what I do

Or don’t think

My thoughts are peasants


In a hollow pit of consciousness


By agents of truth


My eyes burn like cigarettes

Concealing my tears

Like smokescreens

Before ideas


From indiscrete tongues


My pain is as bespoken

As my heart

Bleeding shamefully

Into a world of words

That should remain


And hidden

Like the existence

Of alternate universes


My big mouth



And like Morrissey

On an amphetamine trip

To writer’s hell

Reading reviews of his latest book

I am swallowed by solid earth

And realise that I am still ill


The hospital is no longer

A movie trailer

Blade Runner is terminated

Like reels of my celestial self

Today the Sound of Melancholia

And music

Is screened throughout

My self-projected realm


One day, “I’ll be back”

In my delusory spacecraft

Gathering crazy diamonds

Of insight

Beneath my silly poet’s hat


But for now…

Whiskers on kittens


Until I hurt

So much

I laugh


Never fear pain. Claim it and then, let go. Write a poem, paint a picture. Creativity sooths the soul and changes the world.



And the Words Go On

And the Words Go On


Louise M. Hart

Welcome to my relapse

It takes the form of a serpent

Vomiting vowels and consonants

From a mouth it does not trust

Which sizzle in its throat

Like acid from a burning gut

Words that should be cast out

Like Eve’s rotten apple

To vanish into trampled earth

Like vile obstructive dust


I cough up narratives like phlegm

My toxic tongue vibrates with boredom

Licking gasping cracks

Where hearts should lie

A rimming echo of the mind

That cannot control it

Servant to thought’s self-destructive thrusts


Why does my mind beckon torment?

When all around there are none

Torment is my only friend

Constant companion in all weathers

For whilst fairer faces look away

Afraid that perceiving might lead to wrinkles

Subjectivity must always have its say


Thus, I shall never again rent my soul

It is better to exist alone

Than be every woman to no one every day




Louise M. Hart


Whilst I was drowning

She waved

“…you’re breaking my heart

You’re shaking my confidence



The birds on the breeze

Didn’t whisper my name

But the birds in the bar

Tweeted, “A pint please,


And I answered them

With indiscreet wheezes of

“Yesss, please”


(Help me!)


I swallowed greedily

Licking windows

And clits



For whilst I was drowning

She was charming

The baby dyke

Whose fringe

Swept me off my feet

Like gold dust

From her plump eyelashes


She was a whole number

To my oddness


Whilst I was drowning

She waved

Right out to sea

Until it took her

As I had not-

She who had washed

Her hands of me

Many years before


…and me


…always remembering

The lingering scent of her fingers

On shifting sands

Of my receding memory strands

And pubic hair

Viewed furtively on demand


20 years on

She drowned

Whilst I wobbled


On land

Dry and firm


She had drowned

Whilst I was waving


My Heart is Warm

By Louise M.Hart




Spread your wounding comfort blanket

Upon the form that carries my heart

Perpetually in tatters


Because only love matters

And it gathers none


I am a malfunction

A cogitative


Soul shattered

Aborted foetus

That should never have been


My heart is warm

But my body like ice

Repels touch

And drip drips

Fleshy troubles

Beneath cold showered obscenity



Launch party

It was a pleasure to read at the launch of edition 9 of Hand Job Zine.


The 23rd October marked the launch of Hand Job Zine issue 9.

The night consisted, mainly, of readings, beers, more readings, beers, punk band, beers, lock in, beers.

It all kicked off when the Hand Job crew rolled into the venue at 5pm, about 2 hours too early. We sat there with no idea what the night ahead would be offering. Nerves and doubt laid heavy on our minds. We didn’t have a clue if anyone was even going to come! How wrong we were.

Not only did we want to put on a night of spoken word, we wanted to make it fun. Similarly to our rebellion against the boring mainstream magazines, we wanted a night which held two fat fingers up to the monotony of poetry nights in the city. Let’s be honest, these things can be shit. You sit there staring with a lack of concentration and…

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Ghost town youth by Louise Hart

I am not a silent poet

Coventry, 1982
This town is drowning in cries of
“I don’t give a fuck”
And tears of Special Brew
Me and my Punjabi best friend
Dodge skinheads
And form a 2 tone union
Where brown and white make solid gold
For untouchables like she and I
Belong not to the hostile streets
But to temples in the sky

In 1982, our ghost town is bang en trend
The cultural epicentre
Of a cultureless dead end
Whose National Front anthem
God Save the Queen
And those adorning uniform Dr Marten boots
Who possess bare heads that sweat and sheen

A rousing anthem
That reverberates on housing estates
Throughout this middle land
Where Bob Marley imitators
Smoke hash
And sit languidly on the fence
Whoring their disillusioned, but knowing arses
Like the outcasts
Who haunt our city’s brutal underpasses

I am merely 13 years old
But my mouth already tastes

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9/11, Red Wine spilt on a Cream Carpet by Louise M. Hart

Thanks to Reuben Woolley for publishing this.

I am not a silent poet

Red wine spilt on a cream carpet

I gulp hot air

And her eyes empty sex

Like the contents

Of the Y fronts

I do not wear


I stand small and rough

At the seams

A shivering jelly of psychosis

Wearing my favourite pulling pants

And release my trousers

To my thought’s ankles

Then undress her

Until she becomes

The exposition of truth

A malignant cancer

To my vaginal lust


She is a retired prostitute

Married to an illegal immigrant

Her upper lip strains

For a bite of validation

Beneath the faintest whisper

Of whiskers

And suddenly I am lost

Between the pregnant pauses

Of my breathy wheezes

Of assumed desire


I do not want to go to hell

I have always been afraid of fire


I throw myself at her feet

And she leaves me there


The TV screen displays

Images of death


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