It’s cold outside… fancy a poem about an affair?

Another unsatisfying sex session with Miss Lynsey Rose.

Aftermath

I knew it would be the end if we did it.
I imagined how it would be.
I pictured it like a bad film
The door slamming behind you
Me throwing myself on the crumpled bed
I even knew what I’€™d think:
€œWe€™’re damned€.
I compiled a play-list of music to sob to
All the hard stuff,
From weepy as hell
to unbridled anger.
I was really going to
relish it.
I was really looking forward to it.
As it was
It didn€’™t work out like that.
We did it on the couch
At lunchtime.
It took us 15 minutes to get home
And back
So time was against us.
Plus the conversation about
Shall we/ shan’€™t we?
took a few minutes more.
But we basically already had.
It wasn€’™t ideal
I wasn’€™t wearing my seamless knickers,
Or my decent skirt.
Afterwards,
the first thing you said was,
€˜We must never do that again.€™
Charming.
You looked shell-shocked.
And we couldn’€™t find the condom-wrapper
to hide.
I had to drive us back to work
And guilty songs came on the radio
One you knew
And one I knew.
I tried to keep your head together
When I just wanted to
Sellotape my own mind up.
This wasn’€™t how I planned it.
Back in the office
Emailing about the aftermath
Knowing it would
never happen again
I wished for one more chance
To fuck up in style.

 

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Neapolitan afternoons…

Here’s a poem from the lovely Lynsey Rose. Lynsey’s novel will be released through the Green Press very soon! If you want to hear Lynsey’s voice (well, you never know) and you like Big Brother, why not check out her podcast? (We can’t be serious poets and novelists all the time).

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The duck egg sky

The sky is marshmallow blue,
yellow, pink
I want to peel it
like a sticker
wipe it like a board.

The sky is
a duck egg
an angel cake
an eye-shadow trio

An easel
a blanket
or a mistake.

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Why, hello there!

We’ve been away for a little while, fighting Brent council who are trying to knock down the Mothership, Willesden Green Library, and after that we had a little lie down and a cry. But we’re back for the long haul with a poem from resident rapscallion Lynsey Rose. You can also read Lynsey’s rather excitable TV blog Exitainment here as well as her poetry blog Extol. We won’t feature any from Extol here, though, because we like to give you something a little different here at the Green Press. Now stop mucking about, Lynsey, writing is a serious business… the floor’s yours.

London

In the city
post five-thirty

good-looking
young men in suits

loosen their ties and
their legs

In bars named after
chemical elements

where the drinks
cost a tenner a go.

And girls with
super-short skirts

and hair cut by
Japanese boys

in space age salons
with fish tanks for walls

buy high heels in
Covent Garden boutiques.

In Brent
my sliver of town

where a
one bedroom flat

costs the same as
a cottage in the country

diversity equals
an angry white face

and an angry black face
waiting for a bus.

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A deep, slow breath

Today we’ve got a poem from Lynsey Rose, the voice behind the entertainment blog Exitainment. It’s a meditation on memory, loss, and carrying on. Continue below the jump to read Prize

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Pulp Net readings at Costa Coffee

Green Press all-stars Lane Ashfeldt, Bilal Ghafoor and Lynsey Rose joined Nicholas Hogg for an evening of readings, repartee and good times at the Pulp Net Story Cafe with readings from Punk Fiction, Show Me The Sky and What We Were Thinking Just Before The End. Photos after the break. Continue reading

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