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, Gasconade Review, Rust Belt Review and others. Her first poetry chapbook ‘Rusty Stars’ & collection ‘Urban Mustang’ were published in 2021. She has work coming up in Raw Art Review, Rat’s Ass Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, Cajun Mutt Press and in Cultural Weekly in December 2021. She also enjoys horse-riding in rainstorms.
A Hill To Die On
Yes Mr Hill, of course While I appreciate your view is higher by far than my 5' 1" stature, I must reiterate that I'm attempting to answer you goddamn question. Yes, Mr Hill, of course the customer is always right except when he is wrong and calling me a jobsworth, doing a tick-box exercise without using common sense. Yes, Mr Hill, of course, sit your arse back down on that pedestal of virtue and listen to my words, for I will not waste them on your sorry self again. Yes, Mr Hill, of course, you now feel a little feeble like the doldrums stole a gas bag of wind expired; by all means, write letters to parliament! You might get a reply before you die.
Of Guns & Prayer
So I asked my father how many guns do you own now? He starts to count using his fingers. The two air rifles that don't require a firearms license. The two shotguns that needed only a shotgun one. The four others that his firearms license now covers. The higher power air rifle and the holy mother of shot guns. The godfather of rifles. Plus the one that has a micro-bore barrel, with tiny bullets that explode taking a vast exit. I laugh and say a friend said my poetry is like that. Then I asked what do you use them all for? "Shooting vermin" I guess this makes sense, for when God is too busy.
Fewer Like This
Anxiety only took a nap then woke with claws unsheathed. So tired of this circus the high-wire before the fallen face. No love heart, blue thumb hitch-hiking a mental truck to some place else. Just light the carousel, watch my horses burn.