Linnet Phoenix is a poet who currently resides in North Somerset, England. She has been writing poetry for years. Her work has previously been published in several places online and in print, including: Impspired Magazine, Poetica Review, Fearless, New Verse News, Rusty Truck, Rye Whiskey Review, Punk Noir, Opens Skies, Heroin Love Songs and others. Her first poetry chapbook ‘Rusty Stars’ is published by Between Shadows Press. Her first full collection ‘Urban Mustang’ will be published by Impspired summer 2021. She has work coming up in Rust Belt Review, Gasconade Review and in Cultural Weekly in December 2021. She also enjoys horse-riding in rainstorms.

Old Fashioned

for Robbie Taylor

I remember when moist 
was still considered as an adjective 
for soil conditions or baby sponges,
not a word so connected to crotch 
it's became more reviled 
than 'see you next Tuesday' 
and sick was code for vomit.

When CIS was an acronym 
for Customer Information System 
not something I became without 
prior knowledge or consent 
for the born bestowed privilege 
of being a heterosexual human.

Rainbows were the illustration colours
of children's delights like Rainbow Bright,
Starburst sweets and the Noah's Ark 
dove of peace rainbow scene 
on New Living bible covers, 
not the sole preserve of LGBT flags 
hiding new sectarian in-fighting. 

Computer discs were called floppy 
even when they were hard, 
cassette tapes procreated 
in car glove boxes, 
windows wound down not loaded up, 
an apple was Granny Smith or Golden 
Delicious, not a cult high price tag label 
of designer limited lifespan.

Skulls were seen in He-Man 
painted grey, biology books 
and homemade Halloween party 
outfits chalk drawn by mothers 
who had never seen them sold 
in crystal studded techincolor.
The devil's music was heavy metal 
not the love child of hardcore Punk 
and Emo called Screamo. 
Emo-tional was still descriptive 
not a facelift for new age Goths.

A hipster might refer to gunslinger's 
apparel in a non Tarantino Western
where the good guy kisses the girl, 
not grown men without socks in winter 
wearing a wardrobe worth more to them 
than their girlfriend, paying high-end barbers 
to tend their tribble chin beard child.

A sci-fi films or series were family favourites 
where Kirk got to kiss the green alien girl 
and Spock's eyebrows still held respect, 
they didn't need an 18 plus rating 
and a trigger warning for delicate minds
that Sandra Bullock's near naked butt 
may make a floating appearance.

Whiter Bones

These vultures do not care
for our words 
for our silences 
for our dreams 
for our obsessions
for our addictions. 

They are waiting for flesh
to pick the whiter bones 
of this story clean.
To find nourishment in blood.
To eat our wasted hearts. 

We are living contradictions
always yearning for greener grass.
Where the abandoned ivory
of our last love fed the soil,
we see spring flowers
and think this one will last.

When They Ask

...and when they ask me 
what he was to my existence.
I will reach out my hands
cupped and catch the atoms 
out our shared air.
I will place blood into their arteries
a richer red than poppies.
A lungful of life's breath in harmony,
as the egrets fly home
past the ever western sunset.