Amongst the various articles written this week about Hull deservedly being named UK City of Culture for 2017 were some muddle headed ones by journos who clearly have not a clue about the contemporary poetry scene in Hull. So to make it easy for them to correct their failing and to celebrate this fantastic news with our poetry comrades from Hull we are offering our Burning Eye Hull Triology for a very special £17. This includes
Day and Night in the Damaged Goods Factory by Mike Watts
A Woman With A VIew by Catherine Scott
Advanced Magic For Beginners by Joe Hakim
All in one neat package, posted Royal Mail first class to any address in the UK. (Sorry not available anywhere else). It would normally set you back £28.99 so you will save £11.99 which is 40%.
Here are some poems to whet your appetite:
The taste of things,
I’ll miss when I’m dead;
The freshly baked bread,
I’ll miss them too;
Tarmac as it’s
The drift of
I’ll miss seeing
The world and all
Its shapes and colours;
‒ My girlfriend peeing.
Never to feel
The back of a head
As it bobs
Up and down,
The flesh inside
A dressing gown,
A cool breeze,
The trickle of sweat,
Whisky as it hits
The throat ‒
As much as thunder
And the slap
Of doggy delights me,
Through my ears
I can tell you
Now for nothing,
I won’t miss.
THAT FUCKING COCKEREL
I’m going to kill that fucking cockerel if he wakes me up again
Every summer morning he’s up at 4.00 a.m.
He’s done this to me too many times when I’m relaxed and sleeping sound
So I’m sure you understand that of his flesh I want my pound
That cockerel’s gonna DIE!
This morning he had a lie-in – today it was 4.02
Then cock-a-doodle fucking do, cock-a-doodle fucking do
I’m going to knock that cocky loud mouth right off his fucking perch
And I don’t care if he leaves his chickens in the fucking lurch
That cockerel’s gonna DIE!
I’m going to find out where he fucking lives and then I will I surprise him
‘Cos he’ll never hear a fucking thing as I manoeuvre in behind him
I’m gonna strangle that fucking bird just as he starts a cryin’
Cock-a-doodle fucking do, cock-a-doodle fucking doooooooooooooooo
Well the murder was successful and today I got my sleep
‘Cos from that fucking cockerel there was not a fucking peep
And when the farmer comes a calling I will keep my face dead pan
Because tonight for tea we’re having cock-a-doodle coq au vin.
THE FINE ART OF BEING A MISERABLE BASTARD
A couple of years ago, some bright
spark came up with the idea of plastering
quotes from Larkin’s poems inside
the blood-clot red buses that rush around
Hull. It was some sort of back-handed
attempt to pay tribute to his legacy. It’s
Tuesday morning, and I’m off into
town to try and convince someone
that I’m worth every penny. To my
left sits a boy with enough attitude to
crush any phonies into dust. He’s trying
to block out the racket of his mam as she
struggles to get her other bain to calm
down and sit back in her pram. Above us,
a sour faced Phil looks down and frowns.
“Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.”
printed next to his head in a speech-
bubble. I’m hungry and still recovering
from waking up, but for some reason the
thought of the old fucker spinning in his
grave cheers me up. Well, it does for a bit.