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.