Poem. Katie Lewington.

no, this is for a living
this is an appreciated form of writing
call it poetry and it
will have people saying no, no I don’t read poetry
but in a different guise it’s a meme, a share
and soul comforting like a hand held

college kids, I’m writing
published in a few zines

you’ll give it up, you don’t know your limits,  you only think you do and one day, going through the archives
laughing with your children
oh yeah mummy used to write poetry, experimenting as if it may be your sexuality, drugs, drink

ever tried to sniff or drink a poem?

poetry because that’s quaint and cute
I was writing about my feelings, ain’t that something
look, this is a poem about your dad
oh no, don’t look that’s rude
ha, I forgot I wrote that

and not a long term solution for paying the mortgage, filling the car with petrol,  bills,  clothes,
the cost of living

I’ll eat my rejection slips and sew them into clothes or else join a nudist camp
this is for a living
I didn’t fuck up my life, become a drop out, discover Ginsberg and give poetry my all to be a hobby that might be spoken of in my eulogy.

K.L 2016  ©


Short Story.Mushrooms. Katie Lewington.

The lights illuminate the tunnel that confronts me as I step from the bus, of which the door flips shut and I am alone, to walk this corridor and as I do my thoughts turn to food.
We hit turbulence, my heart jumps to my throat and I instinctively reach for a handle to ride it out on but I have picked up a cable instead and it shocks the palm of my hand with its insatiable energy.
‘I do bloody hate you’ I address, not only the cable, but this whole stinking situation.
I raise my hand to swipe the door pad and I hear Lucas before I see him.
‘Uh, what is this?’
I spin around, walking backwards into the room. Lucas stands in the frame of the door. He is pointing to the heart shaped tattoos dotting my knuckles.
‘It’s nothing ’ I use my non accused hand to pick the chunks of chicken from his stir fry, leaning over the stove, digging my fingers into the soy sauce and sifting through the vegetables.
‘Well, to me it doesn’t appear to be nothing’ He strides towards me, lightening speed and I can’t avoid it. He picks up my hand, his fingers to my pulse and I snatch it from him.
‘Where have you been. It has been two days. You have this tattoo and a bruise-‘
Bruise? Oh the shut eye.
‘Forget it’ I snap. Two years of sharing with Lucas my secrets, dreams and hopes now dropping away and leaving me with the truth. I had gone to be with my dad and Lucas couldn’t approve. I had felt, busing the way here, my freedom slipping and so I had had the tattoo inked onto my hand.
I feel the thump of objects on my sleeve and my eyes fly up. Lucas is picking up mushrooms, mud still clung to them. Mud which sticks to my chest and shoulders as he pelts me with them.
I turn away, take my knitting to the bed, crumple up, knees to chest and head to knees.
He has scattered the mushrooms, is selecting the saucepan that they resided in and, with my ears ringing, he smacks it on the door frame fracturing the metal handle and twisting his wrist.
‘I’ve had enough’ he shouts.
‘Tough’ I say. ‘We’re on this flight until we reach the planet we’re assigned to’

K.L 2016 (C)


Poem. Me. Katie Lewington.

Who is a broken person anyway
somebody you wouldn’t bet on to win? 

well, that’s me
you wouldn’t notice me
not ever
I don’t make myself loud enough or clear

Is it attention or validation we crave and is it that we get the two confused? 

Broken, I don’t like that
I’m not broken,  I am
I’m –
shit, I don’t know

You cannot assume from my past that I am broken and therefore a lesser person
anybody that meets me says I look innocent
but my demons chuckle because they are aware of the thoughts I have had

from my past that I am experienced and worn, used like an old shoe
handle carefully
she has nothing to lose

Is this my own paranoia? 

fuck,  I forgot what I was really going to write

that is maddening

Maybe that
I’m an outsider but

I don’t want to be
given me a stripe of head down, it isn’t you they are talking about
why would they

Yeah, you’re beautiful but only to fuck with
your mind isn’t worth enquiring about

It’s obscene,  really
for anybody to be sure of themselves

Perhaps it takes years to be in that position

this was going to be more of a poem
it’s turned into this

though really do we say yes I have had a mental illness,  the same as you have had a broken arm, nose –
breast implants

in recovery,  now? no
I am growing, evolving
that is my recovery
to not stagnate,  to grasp every opportunity

for every one of me
there is a person that has committed suicide
that is not with us
can not be

the demons are silent while they eat, scrape the plate clean
but they wish to claim more victims

mustn’t let them

I guess I am looking for somebody to tell me otherwise.

K.L 2016  ©

Guest Post: Andrew Joyce. Danny’s girlfriend.

My name is Andrew Joyce and I write books for a living. Katie has been kind enough to allow me a little space on her blog to promote my new novel RESOLUTION: Huck Finn’s Greatest Adventure. I think it’s a good book, but what do I know? Anyway, I’m kinda shy about tooting my own horn. So I think I’ll turn things over to my dog. He always has an attitude and usually does not speak highly of me. But please understand that we co-exist as the old Soviet Union and the United States once co-existed. We tolerate each other. So without further ado, here’s Danny the Dog.

Hello, all you dog lovers out there. It’s me, Danny the Dog. Andrew took me away from sitting in the shade of a beautiful old oak tree and chewing on a nice piece of rawhide. It seems he needs me to help him out here. For a person that works with words for a living, he has very little to say in real life. He wants me to tout his book for him, but I don’t think I will. Instead, I think I’ll tell you about my new girlfriend. Her name is Heather. I have many girlfriends, but Heather is my favorite. She lives on a sailboat a couple of slips down from the boat Andrew and I live on.
First of all, I bet you all think Heather is a dog. Well you’re wrong; she’s a human. I know, no one is perfect, except maybe me. But human or not, Heather is cool. We first met a few months ago when she brought her sailboat to the marina for repairs.
The first time I saw her, I was outside on the dock catching a few rays. I like to soak up a little sun in the wintertime (when it’s cool) to lighten my fur. I think it makes me look more attractive. Anyway, she came off her boat and scratched me behind the ear. It was love at first scratch.
I’m sure she feels the same way about me because she is always giving me “cookies” as she calls them. They’re really just dog biscuits, but what the hell. A few years ago, Andrew brought some home and I wouldn’t eat one of them. He eventually ended up having to throw them out. But somehow, from Heather’s hand they are oh-so sweet. She also gave me a water bowl as a present.
Nowadays when I take Andrew for a walk, the first thing that I do is run right up to Heather’s boat with my tail a-waggin’ and I won’t move until she comes out and pats me on the head. Andrew doesn’t like the delay to his walk, but he’s so well trained by now, he’ll stand there until I’m ready to go.
But I’m sad as I write these words. You see, Heather is leaving me. Her boat is repaired and she will be setting sail for the Islands in about a week. I would like to go with her, and she has offered to take me, but I can’t leave Andrew. He would be lost without me. He can’t even find his shoes in the morning without my help. And who would write his books for him? No, I can’t go away with Heather. I will miss her, and out of memory of her, I swear I will never eat another dog biscuit once she is gone.
That’s about it for now. If I hurry, I might be able to get home in time to have dinner with Heather. She’s a much better cook than Andrew.
Oh yeah, I almost forgot—go out and buy Andrew’s new book and make the old guy happy.

This is Andrew again. On behalf of Danny and myself, I would like to thank Katie for having us over. It’s been a real pleasure.




It is 1896 in the Yukon Territory, Canada. The largest gold strike in the annals of human history has just been made; however, word of the discovery will not reach the outside world for another year.
By happenstance, a fifty-nine-year-old Huck Finn and his lady friend, Molly Lee, are on hand, but they are not interested in gold. They have come to that neck of the woods seeking adventure.
Someone should have warned them, “Be careful what you wish for.”
When disaster strikes, they volunteer to save the day by making an arduous six hundred mile journey by dog sled in the depths of a Yukon winter. They race against time, nature, and man. With the temperature hovering around seventy degrees below zero, they must fight every day if they are to live to see the next.
On the frozen trail, they are put upon by murderers, hungry wolves, and hostile Indians, but those adversaries have nothing over the weather. At seventy below, your spit freezes a foot from your face. Your cheeks burn—your skin turns purple and black as it dies from the cold. You are in constant danger of losing fingers and toes to frostbite.
It is into this world that Huck and Molly race.
They cannot stop. They cannot turn back. They can only go on. Lives hang in the balance—including theirs.

Author Bio
Andrew Joyce left high school at seventeen to hitchhike throughout the US, Canada, and Mexico. He wouldn’t return from his journey until decades later when he decided to become a writer. Joyce has written four books, including a two-volume collection of one hundred and forty short stories comprised of his hitching adventures called BEDTIME STORIES FOR GROWN-UPS (as yet unpublished), and his latest novel, RESOLUTION. He now lives aboard a boat in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, with his dog, Danny, where he is busy working on his next book, YELLOW HAIR.

Website   Amazon


Short Story. Death of Innocence. Katie Lewington.

(I’m aware this story has its faults and I’m not sure what they are! Any feedback is welcome :))

He roamed through the woods. He needed to find a shagpad for him and his girlfriend. Their current arrangement was not panning out. Tree branches hung over his face, booing shadows at him and he pushed them aside as he stepped onto leaves and logs, which lay like crocodiles in a swamp at his feet. He stepped over those to only land in a puddle of steaming muck.
The ground began to drop and all around him were whispering trees. He was aware they had secrets and he knew enough to leave them be. He had never much liked these surroundings. His boy Scout days had been numbered after the first camping trip, not that he minded. Bunch of do gooders. He liked the boxing training classes that he took years later. They didn’t teach you to be a sissy but to use your fists.

Barry Innocence had one purpose this afternoon, which caused him to have his blinkers on. He had walked the perimeters of the wood and hadn’t seen any cars in sight. He didn’t want a witness. Not that the wood wasn’t large enough and he doubted death made a noise. He strode into the dense shade of the trees and glanced back, once, at the cottage. Good luck to whoever had to kip there next. He had taken the steps out with him and the rope wound around his arm. He marched on regardless of his fears and tripped on the odd fallen branch. A rabbit darted in front of him and he remembered the rabbit he had caught a few days ago. It hadn’t been bad tasting either. He faced his tree, a solid oak, and, ultimately, his death. He placed down his steps, wedging the metal legs into the soft mud. He tested the noose that he had tied. Thank the Lord for Scouts. He then climbed onto his steps to fix the end of the rope to the arm of the tree that hung gamely. He patted the rough bark, almost sentimentally, and checking his tie was neat, Barry Innocence stuck his head through the noose and knocked away the steps.

He stopped, as if he had been held back by a force field. A man was dangling from a rope. He questioned- was it a dummy, joke?
He stepped forward and then turned back. He didn’t want to be a part of this. He didn’t want to.
He ran past the man, who wore a red suit and yellow tie. Loose straps of hair clung to his scalp. That wasn’t a dummy. He thought he might vomit. The eyes of the man flickered and he pissed himself. He continued to run, right onto the cottage.
The wind collided with his scattered breaths. He clutched the picket fence, scouring his palms and bruising his forehead with smeared sweat. He glanced at the cottage. It was compact, like one square of a Battenberg bake – a dull pinky colour, his girlfriend would have picked off the marzipan. He walked into the garden, which was pickled in weeds, slugs and rubbish. He rolled the wheel on an abandoned tricycle and shoved over the rotted washing machine, exposing the open grave underneath.
The door was nondescript, the windows obscure like lidded eyes. The thatch on the roof had wasted away. It was coming up to summer. It could be open topped. This was a perfect shagpad.
He walked in on a hard stone floor and embers smoking in the chimney grate. There were takeaway cartons in the kitchen and excrement in the sink, which gurgled at him and he leapt back. There was damp here and there. The whiff of it was strong but it was like a sea breeze. It was pleasant and earthy.  Only had to spray some Febreeze. If he also bought blankets, cushions, then his girlfriend would love this. A rug that what was also needed and lamps.
He hurried away, needing to immediately tell his girlfriend. He passed the man again. This time he stood closer, and prodded him. He wasn’t stiff yet. He went through the pockets of the suit, and kept the twenty that he found.                      
‘Barry Innocence’ he read from the national insurance card. ‘The death of Innocence’ he said. ‘I hope you’ve gone somewhere better, sissy or not. Cheerio’
When he was on the bus home he rang the police and tipped them off. After that he did not spend his time thinking about Innocence.
He took his girlfriend shopping to buy what was needed to furnish the house.
‘It’s a shithole, Damien’ She told him as she viewed the place for herself.
‘I love it’ She hugs him.
‘It’s a shithole but you like that?’
‘Lets fuck’ She unzipped her coat.
Music to his ears.

Poem. A Nightmare. Loathinglothario.

I had a dream about you too but it was more of a nightmare.
Could you imagine that? a house, you, me and having to stay a night there?
Now I don’t believe in ghosts and demons but people can do ghastly things and boast of no reasons.
That’s the type of shit that I think scary, not mystical things – spirits, orbs and death fairies.
I believe in life and the way that it wants to hurt you – murder, rape and leaving people right in the dirt too.
I want you to know that you made my fears come true, I expected you to leave me and you sure flew.
I always wanted what I thought was best for you but it seems like our love just wasn’t a strong enough glue.
Couldn’t keep together what was already pieced sloppily –
Commonly, awfully bodily, you could hear our pain audibly.
Honestly, consciously, making a mockery of modesty and honesty constantly. I guess our relationship was just a novelty.
You’ve found a new nest and, boy, what a winner. I’m sure you clean, study, fuck and make dinner.
And every night you sleep so sound, ignoring the fact that you’re captured and bound.
Not a single real soul will ever have you found, dug both our graves and left yourself six foot in the ground.
But I’ve crawled out and I’m back to life, free from your clutches and emotional strife.
There’s nothing I can do but leave you right there, in the hell you made, now its your nightmare.

Taken by permission from the author loathinglothario .
Read more of their work at Tumblr

Flash Fiction. Heat. Katie Lewington.

The sun rose over the sea, warming its icy heart. Seagulls merge into the picture, dripping an artists paint, with their curved body and grey colour. The beach begins to warm, the sand solidifying under its own rule and not dominated by the belly of the rolling sea.
The shutters of front shops are sprung open and people fleck the picture with urgent talk and the headlines of the day ahead. Pubs are pushed back, stains dried on the pavement are shielded and soon people are arriving, early morners driven over to claim their caravan or tent site.
The children want a bacon buttie for breakfast and hot chocolate but can we have chips and candyfloss later? The sun is heating, gradually reheating radiator pipes, rubbing its palms in glee, evilly hoping to tan a few people today. The rainclouds are emerging and the sun nudges them away.
Donkeys are paraded on the beach for trade, poop cleared by gypsy owners. Their young sons on their knees, scooping, whilst hoping to make a living. The sea and beach are inviting the families, who turn up in their hundreds, discussing pub lunch and dinner.
The children are digging holes with pathetic plastic shovels and buckets that bulge with the sea salted water. They collect and poke for live creatures in the rock pools, tucking sea weed in their hair, and gasping at the sideward movements of crabs, who are gazing and trying, in an uncommunicative language, to tell the children: bugger off. As if they are kin to grumpy grandfathers, too weary to father and none too grand. They don’t chime like the grandfather clock, faulty but with winding up, deckchairs creak like the sound effect in a horror movie, and they chase the children as mummy tries to brown, half concealed under an umbrella, reading her Jackie Collins.
The day goes over, it’s been a good one. There is litter lining the coves and shit on the steps – the red carpet a path to the beach and with the wind blowing over, gusting, gossiping with the drizzly rain, who smooches and wets stony paths leading to and through amusement arcades. The Wimpy is full to bursting, market packing and a couple snog on the beach front, their toes kissed by the sea.
An ice lolly, worried, discarded, a ball of mush drying the stone into a rainbow, flurries of ice, sad, and transforming into a puddle of stickiness, which then the last few bees attack.

K.L 2016 (C)


Poem. Concept: You love me like I love you. Inkstainedgalaxies.


I wake up to soft afternoon sunlight raining down on my face and I smile, I know that when I open my eyes I’ll see your face, the slight smile resting on your rough lips is the most peaceful I’ve felt in months, when you open your eyes I remember how we drowned in each other last night. You don’t move and neither do I, we lay there for what seems like the whole day just looking into each other’s eyes. Our limbs are entangled and our fingers intertwined. Outside, the waves hit the beach, making a thundering noise but we are deaf to it. We are numb to everything, except each other.

We are free

You make me breakfast and we have it together, sitting cross legged on the roof. You put on my favourite music and dance crazy with me. I pick you up and twirl you around, and the laugh coming out of your mouth is the most melodious sound these ears can ever hope to hear. We chase each other around, we wrestle, we cuddle, we pillow fight. Nights are the best, we pull out blankets and lie down, staring at the moon and remembering constellations and making a few of our own in the space between our bodies because every inch of my skin, which is touching yours, is on fire. We are stars, we are constellations, we are a galaxy.

We are happy

We debate over political issues and talk about the true meaning of feminism. I need you and you need me, yet everyday we make each other realize that we are too independent and competitive, women who know how to adapt to a constantly changing world. Everyday I tell you you rock, and you say, you’re not bad at kicking ass yourself.

We are strong

We are proud hipsters and grunge and aesthetic lovers, so I never say I love you, I say I’m in love with you and you never say that you love me, you say I’m in love with you and nothing has ever made me happier, and nothing will.

And we are in love


‘We’ are real.

Taken by permission from the author Inkstainedgalaxies.
Read more on her Tumblr.

Book Review. Sensual Rhapsody. David Russell.


On first reading these poems you are quite dazzled by the flow of the words and how they run together well. With words used such as girdle and loins they do seem also quite old fashioned.  One observation is these seem to be focused on muscular people, or those that swim a lot. On further reading, yes, these can be described as ridiculous poems and not so much erotic, more as inspiration in opening up new world’s and thoughts in a person’s mind. The pictures are a good accompaniment. 
Personally I adore this, albeit brief, collection. I don’t think it is going to be everybody’s cup of tea but try it and see!


I’ll justify your love

You overwhelmed my every fear

Oh yes: I’ll love you through the sheets of rain
Take you ripping, your luminous body
rippling from your drenched magnetic silk.

I’ll take your dress to the air,
the rapture of a parachute.

I’ll love you from a plane,
love you in free fall,

unlace that gleaming shell –
corset of lightning;
Roll with the turbine
fused in orgasm.

My fear was for the fall
My fear was in the fall.

My fear has gone, immersed.

My dream is in the fall,
My dream beyond the fall;
My hopes aloft,

Plunging with you

No top, not bottom,

No end and no beginning;

I’ll justify your love.

Purchase a copy for Kindle here.
Find more from David Russell here.