Piscean Fantasy – a poem of 7 letter words by Tim King

Vatican  scandal
Jungian  imagery
Piscean  fantasy…

Octopus  gliding  through  aquatic  forests
Inkjets  conceal  mystery  gardens
Mermaid  nursery, wherein  fantail  sisters
Worship  obscure  ancient  halibut  Matilda

Merfolk  rituals  confirm
Matilda  primary, initial  mermaid
Flatter  halibut  protest
Breasty  Matilda  idiotic  fantasy
Genetic  anomaly
Maximum: fifteen  percent  genuine  halibut
Perhaps: fifteen  percent  pollack
Minimum: seventy  percent  sensual  singing  hominid
Similar  Britney, Beyoncé, Whitney  Houston,
Madonna, Madonna, Madonna
(Halibut  algebra  weirdly  precise)

Octopus  ignores  jealous  protest
Nightly  chooses  willing  partner
Escorts  through  seaweed  avenues
Towards  private  nesting  chamber

Octopus  tickles  mermaid  giggles
Tickles  giggles  embrace

Lightly  rubbing  bubbles  forming
Tickles  giggles  embrace

Rubbing  foaming
Foaming  moaning
Moaning  moaning
Squelch  squelch  squelch

Spasmic  muscles  tighten
Octopus  screams “cheerio  suckers!”
Injects  magical  mergold  protein
Propels  himself  upwards  towards  surface
Mermaid  dynasty  assured

Admission by Tim King

I set out to murder a child of ten
I was desperate for admission to the World of Men
So I led me to the door of the pervert’s den
And I left me there to fend for myself


Now, in partial mitigation of the things the pervert did
I should mention he was just fifteen, so technically a kid
And when his misdeeds came to light he ran away and hid
He took the blame, I felt the shame and shut the lid. Enough!
Let’s return now to the stripling at the door


I can only let you enter if you promise not to tell
Said the pervert to the child, who piped, “I think that’s just as well
‘Cos if my Dad found out that I was here he’d knock us both to Hell
And with that the monster in the pervert’s pants began to swell
The child had access…

…and it thrilled him to discover such an organ could exist
The thing was longer than his forearms
Even thicker than his wrists
He held it to his soft pink cheeks
He rubbed and licked and kissed it
And afterwards they shared a Danish porn mag and a biscuit
Then the child walked home
And smiling
On that day – day one – of oh so many

I TRIED REALLY HARD TO KILL HIM but, of course, this child survived
Whereas the adult he so nearly was
Absolutely died
That day

Not immediately, admittedly, but slowly over time
Through adolescent bed-wetting, drink, drugs, petty crime
Through academic failure born of fractured concentration
A penchant for pornography (despite some reservations)
And as he stumbled into working life the gradual realisation
He had a textbook case of premature sexualisation
It defined him and consumed him
From that day – day one – of oh so very very many

The young boy and the nearly man
I dearly love them both
But I have to let them go
They are impediments to growth
And they seriously need to…

Leave me be now
Just leave me be.

The First Cut is the Deepest by Tim King

I remember feeling a comforting glow
When I first heard your name on the radio
And thinking; ‘How fantastic it must be
To live in a land where the presidency
Is held by a man with such an optimistic moniker…
Goodluck Jonathan, proud leader of Nigeria
What a disappointment you’ve become


Goodluck Jonathan says, “Hard luck Gillian
If you had been born a boy we’d let you keep your willy on
But as it is your sheets are streaked with crimson and vermilion
You’re bound to be a good girl now…


In a country where an organisation
Calling itself ‘Western Education is Forbidden’
Can kidnap, hide and hold to ransom
Two hundred schoolgirls
With apparent impunity
Two thousand girls of pre-school age
Are forced to endure so-called female circumcision  – more accurately, clitoral excision –
Every day.
That’s roughly four every three minutes


The Nigerian government refuses to outlaw this practice
Supporters stating openly, “It keeps women in their place
Justifying themselves with reference to religion and tradition
Concocting ethical confusion to keep liberals at bay
But this is not a matter of relative freedoms
It’s naked, tribal, patriarchal oppression
And it’s wrong wrong wrong


Female Genital Mutilation
May well be the local custom
But it sure as Hell ain’t culture
It’s the ritual desecration
Of everything a girl must be
To feel her love authentically
And not the bitter irony
Of specious sensitivity
This ultimate misogyny
Really has to


Imaginary Mansion by Tim King

I live in a house full of unexplored rooms
Doors I’m scared to open
Because, as a child,
I once or twice glimpsed adult fears:

Festering in puddles at the base of stairs
Hanging in thick membranes
Over cold metal windows
Seeping through the mortar lines
Separating brick from brick
And pissing on the twisted embers
Of ill-made wormwood fires

Though I live in a house much larger than yours
The stench is unbelievable
I occupy less space