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.
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.
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.