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Sunday, September 22, 2019

Featuring Gwil James Thomas



Pioneer Amphibian Haiku. 

Their fossil remains
Behind glass like a trophy 
won by some strange luck.


I Hate Poetry. 

Ridiculous 
sentimental bullshit - 
cheap jokes 
with senseless syntaxes -
vignette hybrids with 
ripped off riffs and spilt guts 
that get scribbled down and 
read aloud by deadbeats, 
liars and intellectuals alike - 
full of self promotion, 
delusions, excuses and 
at least one award 
that nobody’s ever heard of. 

They’ll slurp your entrails like 
Spaghetti for attention, 
break your heart for a good line -
but most of this is bravado to 
conceal the wounds of 
a delicate and dreamful soul.

So it’s probably best 
not to take a poet, 
or poem too 
seriously.


As it Settles. 

Her cute smile like 
a welcomed ceasefire, 
her mind razor sharp 
but embedded in fun,  
her skin soft and salty, 
nipples brown and perky, 
her happy memory 
lingering long after 
the sheets are washed, 
grinning back at me 
before it softly settles 
elsewhere in my mind 
and I’d like it 
to stay.


A Poem for a Bar in Bilbao, 
That Definitely Wasn’t a Casino. 

I drink a cheap glass of red wine 
with a warmed slice of 
Empanada de Atún
whilst outside the heavens have opened 
and are flooding the streets. 

Across the windowless bar 
my eyes follow some neon pink lights 
and I notice a hallway that’s lined 
with slot machines and ask the young 
latin woman behind the bar 
if I’m in a casino? 

To which she smiles 
and shakes her head - 
I down the rest of the wine,
take the final bite of my lunch 
and leave like a moth 
towards the artificial light.

Down the hallway two old men 
sit at slot machines and at the far end 
of  the hallway a large room is
being used as a geriatric gambling den, 
with a roulette wheel and a gang of 
elderly women and men sat around 
playing cards. 

I turn back to an unoccupied 
slot machine in the hallway 
put in six Euros -
lose four, 
get lucky 
win fifty 
and swiftly cash out.   

The old man to my right 
jealously glares at me like a drunk 
eyeing up the drinker that’s able to 
get blotto from a single beer - 
I’m a mere tourist to his addiction. 

I bundle the cash into my pockets, 
as the hombre to my right then
arduously reaches towards me 
with his long bony arms, 
as if he’s somehow been cheated. 

I smile and wander back to the bar
where the girl asks me if I’d 
like another drink? 

This time I shake my head. 

Outside the storm’s cleared and I decide 
that I’ll visit The Guggenheim 
with my winnings - 
they’ve got Picasso and Van Gogh there 
and that’s a far safer bet.


Gwil James Thomas is a poet, novelist and inept musician originally from Bristol, England. He is a Best of The Net nominee whose written work can be found widely in print and also online. He’s worked as a chef, a labourer, an aeroplane cleaner, a dishwasher, a product demonstrator and a news article archivist. He is currently laying low somewhere in Northern Spain. His fourth poetry chapbook Writing Beer, Drinking Poetry (Concrete Meat Press) is available herehttps://adrianmanning.wixsite.com/concretemeatpress/publications


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