Launch party


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

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
Country
Whose National Front anthem
Screams
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

Whilst

The TV screen displays

Images of death

Unnatural…

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