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1 day ago

Feral. P.Rimmer.

This poem snaps and snarls,
Salivates behind caged bars,
This poem eats meat pies,
Drinks beer straight from the bottle,
This poem belches and farts,
This poem has no art,
Has no grace or flair,
This poem would tear you ear to ear,
It is a vicious thing,
A wild thing untamed,
It has to be chained and tethered,
It is visceral raw,
This poem spits in my eye,
This poem taunts,
You are a liar, a braggart,
An artless carpetbagger,
An empty vessel,
It has fire in it eyes,
This poem dares me to fight,
I take a pen to paper,
And throw it a bloodied bone,
I'll give it its due,
While deciding whether this mongrel thing,
Lives or dies,
I am the one.
The one that decides,
Whether this feral thing,
Lives or dies.

2 days ago
Poetry Live! Presents Peter Rimmer and Sean Mcgavin!

Also...introducing The Cowboy Gangstas, come along and hear this exiting twist on Poetry, Karz Gordox (aka Kara Gordon) on Blues guitar!!! James Rimmer percussion!!! Myself providing words and passion!

Peter Rimmer is a tradesman who believes in craftsmanship, he tries to bring this philosophy to his poetry. Peter first dabbled in spoken word in the 1980's where for a time he was a regular contributor to Poetry Live at the infamous Globe Tavern. He took a prolonged sabbatical from both reading and writing while he grew and raised his children. After his input in this sphere was no longer required he rediscovered his love of spoken word and came back to Poetry Live at it's present venue, The Thirsty Dog. Peter was a writer participant in Genevieve McClean's FLOCK in August of 2016, in 2017 he was a performer in The Kerouac Effect where he was paired with the Blues man M.W.Selwood, then again in 2017 where he was paired with the Blues shredder Kara Gordon. Tonight he will do an extended set touching on issues and emotions that appeal to him, and hopefully you,the audience.

Sean Mcgavin is from Ohio in the United States, he is a multi-instrumentalist musician and writer although guitar is his primary instrument. He has jammed and performed with a variety of bands in many stiles but his most active one was a folk band. He will be playing a mix of bluesy, folksy covers and some original songs.

4 days ago

6 days ago


Daphne-Anne Freeke 13-March- 2018

I sit beneath the pine tree
Cool shade forward a way
Till the burnished bed of needles
Lets the sunshine hold its sway

The cloak of crunchy needles
Make a bed just out of reach
I stretch bronzed bare feet towards it
To feel the sun’s raw heat

The scent beneath the pine tree
Brings memories to mind
Of snow, and strong pine freshness
Of yuletide and Christmas time

The crunchy bed of needles
Says summer, running free
Cousins, dogs and tree huts
Open air … completely free

The pine tree brings two worlds to me
Both flavoured in a different way
Of hope and anticipation
Of seasons new each day

I would love to climb its branches
But its limbs look too high somehow
I don’t scale quite so nimbly
I’ll settle for sitting right now

But my mind will wander to summers
Endless sun and carefree ways
My memories will suffice for now
My mind filled with summer haze

©Daphne-Anne Freeke

1 week ago

Colloquial. P.Rimmer.

Lemon sun,
Pours itself across the land,
Mellifluous gold syrup,
Coating trees,
That dance in the morning breeze.

1 week ago

Here's a rework of a recent poem, I have reworked it to perform with shredding blues guitar accompaniment on Wednesday night for The Kerouac Effect, one of three.

Turn to stone. P.Rimmer.

These eyes,
These eyes are burnt coals,
Ashes, a glowing core,
Burns the soul blackened,
It hurts to look upon this world,
It hurts to look too closely,
There is no sense,
There is no sense,
In this nonsense,
These eyes have no wish to see,
These eyes have no wish to look upon,
This solipsistic bubble,
That deems itself humanity.

These eyes burn to see,
The misery,
The misery visited upon man,
By man,
These eyes bleed tears of ash,
These eyes bleed,
At this misery,
The right to bear arms,
The right of might to decide what is right,
Hypocrisy knows no shame,
These eyes bleed,
These eyes flame,
Adam holds a child's broken body and weeps,
As red blood leaks to seed the earth,
With the bitter fruit of hatred,
The unquenchable thirst that is vengeance,
These eyes,
These eyes weep,
Blood and shame,
These eyes,
These eyes look away,
So much to bear,
Too much to bear,
Look away,
Before this heart breaks,
Or sadder still,
More tragically,
This heart,
This heart turns to stone.

1 week ago

The Imp of God

The Imp of God
'Arise my love and follow me
for your winter is over...'
said the Imp of God to me.

His eyes are the blue of the North Sea
his skin is like to the tips of the white waves
Norse Eros, cup bearer of Borealis,
the Holy Bard of the longhouse,
where he hangs his harp
His mouth sweet as honey-dew
corners curling into smiles, laughing to the heaven
eyes which see the beauty of all things
hands which form things of beauty.

The corners of that mouth
which learned to kiss quite young
with a certain precocity, as if Eros had
taken him under his Wings and said
'Stick with me, boy, and I will show you
what I can do with this bow and these arrows'
Eros, who moulded this beautiful Imp of God
who's beauty spoke to many others of God
who spoke of God from the sheets and pillows
of amorous encounters,

A beautiful Norse vision, a ravishing boy
appeared in my mind's eye - how could I know that my
imaginary friend of childhood whom I named 'Charles'
was the Love of my lives?
He who hails from the lands of snow, of whipping Arctic wind,
The Cupbearer of Borealis,
had changed his Pole
to tumble in the sand and spinifex of Southern lands
of fern root, and Pounamu....

The beautiful Imp of God
arrived at my request ...'But God...' ,
did I protest 'Are You sure?
Can't you take back Your Imp?'
'Too late' says God 'For in your scribblings you have created Man'

To my portfolio of drawings I turn...
for Eros has been my Guide, each line, each curve of
the Imp of God
who sinuously materialises from the waters
of Consciousness -
is he my creation?

Beautiful Imp of God
your hands are like the lilies of the field
your skin beneath your shirt, like
ambrosia transmogrified to flesh.

You spoke with me of God
in that afternoon sun of Autumn, on that hill
on which, long ago, I knew would see me with my

You spoke to me of God
amidst sheets and pillows
between cups of rose tea
rose Light through the pink glass cups
while you
followed the promptings of your private god
Eros, with his arrows ... which have barbs
still embedded in my heart.

Beautiful Imp of God
we spoke of God in all places
and in all things...
transformed mere couplings into
Holy Instances...

I did not need to learn from scripture
nor the learned sage
to see the face of God in yours
handsome, wicked, beautiful
Imp Of God.

Copyright 2008

1 week ago

A Memory of Cold. P.Rimmer.

A memory of cold,
Comes unbidden, unwelcome,
Bites goose flesh,
Puckered skin,
Walks razor edged,
Upon my spine,
Gnaws on the marrow in my bones,
With teeth of ice.
Summer has waned and winter is in the eyes of the wind,
Even on this warm steamed day,
I feel it's breath at my back,
As certain as death,
As welcome as the reaper.

This season is ripe,
Ready for harvest,
Winters lean fallow,
Waits a maw toothed,
Ready to devour this fecund seasonal luxury,
The cycle will turn,
And turn again,
As sure as death,
As welcome as the grave,
A memory of cold,
And already I mourn summer.

1 week ago

CHANDELIERS by Sonya Young

In your city of crystal chandeliers
Living in a mansion of self-murder
Where all of the rooms were filled
with midnight..... A kind of inky
Sapphire gloom
While you were dreaming on your
Silky sheets, all of your nightmares
Were hidden away in the China Cabinet
And only brought out on
special occasions....
Everything, including yourself
Was so beautiful....on the outside...
Refracted light from your expensive
Chandeliers shimmered and glistened
and made you think your life was exquisite
But the whole time doubts had been
whispering to you and death was so
Tantalising, tempting and teasing...
Such tiny bulbs lent their shine
And lustre to your surroundings
But life had made your insides scream
So long and hard that your heart cracked
And all of your own light got out...
You didn't know that you were enough
Just as you were...
You didn't realise that the bullies
Were even more broken than you!
You swallowed staples for your supper
In the hope they could heal your torn heart
You clutched tightly to a bunch of keys
That had not unlocked much of anything
For a number of years....
You looked for solace in bottles of
Sparkling wine...writing smudged
Suicide notes all the while...
Many times you tried to ask for help
But of course it was so rude to speak
When your mouth was filled with death
Sweetheart, you were special and so loved
But somehow you forgot
You forgot, and eventfully made
Your glamorous lip-stick exit
So now the Chandeliers kept on shining
But it was too late for you....




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