December 20, 2015


Silence in the mountains . . .
aspens stare at their reflections
in forest streams like teens preening
before a mirror. Purple flowers
tremble – anemones, petunias, verbena.

Singing starts as a sort of hum,
the flash of a tail fin and I see
her auburn hair flowing,
her pale pearly skin. Lit by rays
from the green corn moon

I skip across stepping stones,
gaze into the water. I will guard
your secret, I whisper. Did you gain
a soul by falling in love with a man
and bear his child? She swings

a hand, gloved in weeds, waves
at me. Later, near a waterfall I hear
her singing, lilting notes floating
on the river, rising and falling
with the swell like small church bells.

Mary Franklin

Poetic plagiarism

December 20, 2015


It is unfortunate that the poetry scene has been tarnished by recent, highly publicized instances of plagiarism, yet the revelations of the despicable practice should not surprise poets. There are too many poetry competitions awarding too much money to the winners. Fame, it seems can come too easily by way of social media. Facebook seems to have created a new phenomenon, the instant poet, whose ‘work’ often seems to have incubated overnight with little attention having been paid to the craft of writing, before it is thrust upon a tired public.

Of course the Irish poetry world is clique ridden and exclusionist and has been so for too many decades, yet this very Irish trait should inspire, rather than deter poets. Maybe not enough of us are asking, for whom do we write? If the answer is for awards, or fame, or, God help us, for publication in Poetry Ireland, maybe we should be writing jingles for Tayto crisps or Milk Tray chocolate. The notion of writing for a so-called ‘public’ is sad, in any case. The number of people who actually read poetry can be numbered in the low hundreds and of those the numbers who try to understand it can be slashed by multiples. Someone has said if we get three people to read our poems we are doing well, a sobering observation and not one without foundation if we recall some of the gushy references to Seamus Heaney’s work in the aftermath of his death.

True, driven, poets will continue to write poetry in spite of the distractions that plague the scene. Forged in the fire of rejection and crafted in the isolated garret, it will endure to enthral and enlighten when the instant poem and its unworthy mentors are lessons in how not to promote the arts in Ireland.

Arthur Broomfield
Outburst Magazine

lashed at his balls…

December 20, 2015


‘Strip,’ Jude said. ‘Everything off, then on your knees.’

She slapped that damned leather crop against her right leg in emphasis…or, perhaps, impatience. Mac, already naked, lay on his back. His wrists were shackled to thigh cuffs, his legs spread with a spreader bar. His cock stood stiffly to attention, jutting up at an angle from his taut belly. Dee, half-naked, sat astride his face, queen of all she surveyed.

‘Lick her arse out,’ Jude ordered. ‘Work that tongue right up where the sun don’t shine.’

She flicked Mac’s cock with the crop. Finally naked, I lowered myself to my knees. She brushed my right cheek with the tip of the crop.

‘Suck his cock,’ she ordered. ‘I want to see you gagging on it. Understand? Throat him…’

I did as instructed, and without hesitation. Jude was not to be messed with today. I took the head of his cock gradually into my throat, my eyes half-closed, fighting to control my gag reflex. Somewhere above me I heard Dee moan as she climaxed over Mac’s face again.

I felt Mac’s cock grow even stiffer; he was about to shoot his load. I continued to work it, greedily. He cried out and thrust his arse up from the floor. I didn’t taste his sperm: it shot straight down my raw throat in a half-dozen spurts.

‘Did I give permission for that?’ Jude yelled. ‘Did I?’

Her high heels click, clicked across the vinyl flooring. She tapped the back of my head with the crop. I raised my face.

‘Move away,’ she said. Without any other warning she stood on Mac’s left thigh with her right foot, pressing her weight down on the spiky heel. He cried out, twisted, but she shifted all her body weight onto the right foot.

‘Please, Mistress…pleeeaaase.’

Jude lashed at his balls with the crop. Twice. Dee reseated herself on his face.

‘You,’ Jude said, indicating me with her crop. ‘Come through to the bathroom. I need to pee…’

I went down on my knees in the shower. Jude peeled off skin-tight black leather trousers and stepped in to the shower with me. Her vee area was smooth and pink, her sex slightly puckered.

‘Open your mouth,’ she said. ‘Open it wide. You mustn’t spill any…’


Welcome to Sunday Sacrifice…

December 20, 2015