And the corner angels sang,

something about Descartes

And decisions.

A swift one at the bookies

Or the same at Ronnie’s Bar,

Upon whose step they sat

Eulogising about word shapes

and if it was possible

To impart the mind of God – in a syllable or two.


And the rain had abated but the road was lustred

oil rainbows and petrol blooms

and the corner angels sang about liberty

and the cost of trust

Her hair braided and

The other – eyes heavenward

Mascara and lips all a-pout

And the change gathered like the wages of sin

Little tin at her feet

Like a dutiful dog.


Obedient and lost.


Oh little town of desperation

How sweet we see thee lie

And the corner angels sang

took smiles

And backward glances

soul eaters

Foot tapping to the mantra

Of something other than now

Hark them – their voices

Spitting in the discord

Of another ceaseless day.


Is this it?


That’s the question

and the corner angels know it

Sing of it and ask any God – every God

And all the fractured idols

fallen saints and

Reborn lovers

extinguished lives

And rekindled wives

social mores

And lazy afternoons by the TV

old newspapers from back when

And freestyle runners

soap box preachers

And politicians

Decision makers

And lifelong forsakers

Bar upon bar


Why would anyone choose silence?

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Robert Heath


Forty something project manager in the engineering sector by day and in the very early hours, before work, a dream of being a writer. Avid reader. Keen Allotment grower. Proud family man. Happy. Living with my long term partner. Two great kids. I am a recovered heroin addict who lost a good portion of his twenties to drugs. Having redeemed myself somewhat I am now in the position of being happy enough to try again for the only personnel dream I have ever had, that of being a writer. As a fiction writer and a poet I am influenced by the greats as I see them – Kafka, Dickens, Bret Easton Ellis, Hubert Selby, Cormack McCarthy, William Faulkner, William Burroughs, Phillip Larkin, W H Auden, Adrian Mitchell and most of all – Charles Bukowski, Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Pablo Neruda – people who could paint the inside of your mind with words. I like to think in some small way, I am following in their footsteps, or at least trying to. I have to date won an online short story competition and had several pieces of poetry published in various magazines.

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