Bio (auto)

Jim Bennett is a writer who was born and lives in Liverpool in the UK. He teaches Creative writing at the University of Liverpool. Jim has had several books of poems published plus a number of books for children and technical books.

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Jim Bennett and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Dogs

The dog's at it again
pumping at a pillow
ecstatic eyes glazed
staring off to some dog heaven
he does it to my leg too
and anyone else's
that he takes a fancy too
a loving little dog
watching him
reminds me
of a guy I used to know
a fuck em and leave em guy
Billy was his name
managed to get into the pants
of more women than my
randy dog's had legs,
even counting chair legs
and table legs
and the odd cushion too.
That reminds me
Billy always called his women
dogs.
He also jerked off
more than I ever thought possible
I'm just off for a quick one
he'd say making a hand movement
that left you in no doubt
what he was off to do.
never saw him do it
didn't know him that well
just heard him say he was.

Last I heard of Billy
he was dead
murdered by some woman
who claimed he couldn't get it up
she said he got violent
when she laughed
and she had to protect herself
I saw she got off with it

she was probably a dog

I never saw the dog wank either
just hump things like they do

maybe paws get in the way

At Night

at night the sounds of her body
keep me awake
it is like a factory on night shift
things being moved round
ready for the day
stomach rumbling
gas
grunting
groaning
moaning
and then

the talking starts
the names
I listen for mine
but never hear it

that doesn't mean much
I tell myself
it doesn't mean much
it means nothing

but still the mumbled litany
of unsaintly names
the history of her life and lays
wanks my anger
till I move close
and wake her for sex

later she sleeps again
and is silent
her dreams fucked
to death

Walk

I like to walk
along the ragged arse streets
between the tumble down walls
along the rubble rubbish strewn streets
on dog splattered pavements
walk, just that,
without a destination.

Walk in an endless topography
on labyrinthine paths
digging into shops and houses,
other peoples lives
with my eyes.
Sucking in their life
like a baby on a teat.

Bend-backed laboured lives
anonymous lives,
I stalk stories and poems
but always end up

writing about

myself.

Lisa-Helene Donovan
lhdonovan@earthlink.net

Bio (auto)

Seven years ago I left my five siblings and happily married parents in Oak Forest, Illinois, for the adventures of life in the tv/film industry of Los Angeles and have never been disappointed.


The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Lisa-Helene Donovan and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Asteroidea

A starfish
dreamt of being caught
caressed and fondled
watched while doing
private things
like feeding

A man
went hunting
for a prize
under the wild sea
diving deep
into cloudy water

But the ocean
hid its treasures
fought the diver
stole his knife
and froze his resolution

So the lovely jewel
clung to its lonely reef
one more eternity

After Weeks of Waiting Anxiously

July 27, 1971

A July Fourth baby,
everyone said,
how wonderful.
Except that it wasn't.

Three weeks later
in a sweltering
sweating month of
swollen feet and

sullen afternoons waiting
parked and bulbuous
like the VW bug sitting
in the driveway,

begging to be driven
from boredom
through red lights
foot leaded by adrenaline

racing through chaotic
streets silenced by
the automatic glass door.
Watching the lights

flipping by as the hard
gurney sails through
long white corridors
to swinging doors

where They kiss and
He goes to watch
the five o'clock news
while waiting. She lies

staring at the ceiling
counting tiles between
contractions and hoping
not to get to a hundred,

not to be sent home
empty-handed again.
Forty-six, forty seven
Hello, doctor,

it might be time.
I think I'm ready
After waiting so long
no time to think

He is watching but not
seeing Nixon present
Maimie with Ike's dollar
and the bald head

is like a baby's
and this one will be
OK, has to be OK
it's taken long enough

That doctor finally
comes and takes her to
delivery and She only has
to push a few times

before I cry
because it was much
quieter inside Her;
already I miss

the cord which
bypassed my broken
stomach valve and
linked me to Her

heart which beats
finally in relief
against mine
blinking in wonder.