Poetry:The Big Fight by Ian Copestick

I was re-reading ” Big Sur ” tonight And I noticed that I’m the same age As Kerouac was when he died. I’ve got to say That it scared the shit out of me. I’ve written a fraction of what he has But I guess I’ve probably drank as much Alcohol, and taken a hell…

2 Poems by Ian Copestick

 Why Is It Always Me? Why, oh why does everything seem to go wrong ? Other people’s lives look so ordered And seem to run so smoothly. Mine is like a house where I’m trying to keep The roof up with only two walls And the wind is blowing like mad. I wonder if their…

Fiction: The Kid with the Sad Face by Jason Beech

Molly Molly sat hunched opposite him, her face hidden behind long blonde hair, the smell of cheap bacon a nasty tenant in her nostrils. He rested on his elbows, raisin eyes fierce in a doughy face, a giant above her – angry being with her, angry she couldn’t stem the tears, angry she couldn’t open…

Poetry: A Poisoned World by Ian Copestick

I thought that when I grew up I’d feel part of this nation A useful member of society But no, it seems like my alienation Is starting to get the better of me There’s no place for my politics or my ideas There’s just a  concensus, a slump to the right A government ruling by…

Short Story in a Song: ‘Lola’ by the Kinks By Paul Matts

  It’s happened to all of us hasn’t it? To the best, to the worst. In a club or pub. In ‘North Soho’ possibly? Maybe elsewhere? Or some other public place, even. There are others I suppose. Minding our own business, or maybe interrupting somebody else’s. And bang. An attraction to another human. A connection….

2 Poems by Ian Copestick

 Out Of Focus Tonight I feel like a worn out Typewriter ribbon. No matter How hard the keys hit there’s Nothing on the paper, or Maybe just an indistinct smudge. Or like an old cassette tape That’s been recorded over Again and again until the only Thing that’s audible is tape Hiss. The words don’t…

Poetry: Turn On ( The T.V.) Tune In…. by Ian Copestick

I always wonder, as I walk the streets at night Past all the windows, behind which there’s light Just what is going on inside ? Drinking, drugs, sex or a fight ? Or is it just rows and rows of blank, dead eyes Numbed by what the wide screen T.V. supplies ? Their brains dead,…

Fiction: A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER By Tom Leins

11am. The Black Regent Rooming House. I peel the bloody dressing off my nose and drop it into the sink. Jesus. My face looks like something out of a fucking horror-show. I’ve been sticking my nose into other people’s business for longer than I can remember. Usually for money, sometimes out of sheer perversity. My…

Poetry: Inner City Blues by Ian Copestick

Let me take you down To the lonely part of town Where the light grows dim at the end of the day When the sun goes down The strangers frown And the paranoia just won’t go away   Where the homeless sleep The broken hearted weep And love and life always go wrong Where morals…

What The Hell Is Brit Grit ? by Paul D. Brazill

America may well be the official home of pulp and noir but the United Kingdom, long perceived as the land of tame Dame Agatha style cozies and stuck-up, Latin quoting police detectives, also has a grubby underbelly which has produced plenty of gritty crime writing. And there is a new wave of Brit Grit writers…