Creative Work: Poetry “Metal” by Neil Horabin

Enjoy the second part of this Sunday post. 


By Neil Horabin 

guitar strings, jacks and cables, pedals, more cables,

his fingers pick at the four strings in rotation and the feedback rises, sustains

he presses his lips against the mesh of the mic, lets out a murmur

and begins to sing;


home is not a place for,

home is just wherever you are,

and you are all the world to me’

I picture you, back pressed up against the wire fence,

the rust leaves a message on your coat,

and I feel your lips on mine, my tongue on your teeth

they’re sort of metallic, I love that, the cold, the dryness,

tingling, capturing, magnetic.

you twist your fingers into mine,

your wedding ring scraping my skin,

as it should do,

then your mouth is on my neck and

those sensations lacerate my spine,

I take your earring into my mouth,

the gold, the diamond I bought for you,

and then it’s all hands and zips,

urges,  demands,

you climb all over me and pull me into you

controlling hands on my backside and frantic mouth upon mine

tongues unfurled once again, rose petals searching for the sun

melting away you have to cry out and I cannot stop myself

and you hold me tighter into you and push us over onto the ground

and all I can see is your silhouette, and metal.

Words, Pauses, Noises is fortunate to have not only talented writers but also innovative creators. Enjambment and the creative choice: to capitalise or not to capitalise – only touch on a small selection of poetic design, but such choices have charged the work of many of today’s up and coming poets. The Forward Prize for 2013 Best First Collection was awarded to Emily Berry at the British Museum 1 October. Her elegant, humorous, and striking collection “Dear Boy” encompasses incomparable tact in form and ingenuity. Words, Pauses, Noises praises, publishes and promotes the experimental revolution that continues to flourish in new literature. 


Creative Work: Poetry “It’s Who I Am” by Alasdair Neil Horabin

Creative Works

Today we have a two-part post to highlight the differences in regional poetry! We are pleased to welcome Alasdair Neil Horabin’s poetry, which carries an essence of home similar to his published prose here on Words, Pauses, Noises. For many writers, the sense of ‘self’ within their work stems  from where they live. For some, the dialect of their region, the ebb and flow of speech, affects the way that the words flow onto the page. For others it is the geography or the quirks of the people who live in that place. 

Some of the prominent and inspiring writers of place (limited to only a few): Raymond Carver, Jeanette Winterson, William Trevor, Flannery O’Connor, and Sandra Cisneros.  As old, wise words say: write what you know. That advice rings true in today’s two-part poetry post.

“It’s Who I Am”

By Alasdair Neil Horabin

It’s where I go, it’s who I am,

the docks, the wet stone steps,

the rotting unsold cod,


towards the depths,

of the bottom-most slab

where the dark sea laps

my ankles and calves freezing

slipping, dead, brutal

fish-bitten, wrinkling.

And I know,

I just know,


We hope that you enjoyed Neil’s poetry (we certainly do!).  Stay tuned for another poetry post today on Words, Pauses Noises. We will return next week with more work from our talented Kingston Creative Writing Masters… stay tuned!

Creative Work: Short Fiction “I Will Build An Ark part 1” by Alasdair Neil Horabin

Today on Words, Pauses, Noises, we have for you the first part of a two-part short story, written by Neil Horabin, written to commemorate the 2011 London Riots.

I Will Build An Ark – part 1


By Alasdair Neil Horabin

It never really gets dark within the M25. You don’t even get to see any stars on the clearest nights; the glow of street lighting forms a perfect umbra.

As the afternoon progressed Michael followed events on the pub TV: fighting in North London, looting and police lines. He wasn’t sure when the news readers started spreading the violence again, when the violence became rioting.

Finally, the sirens called him outside, Clapham was beginning its own revelry. People everywhere, shouting and laughing, shop fronts beaten in, the hustle of late night ‘shopping’. He recognised some of the looters, they nodded acknowledgement to him beneath their hoods, he nodded back.

Then the police marched in from way up the road. The locals turned towards the police line at the other end. More anger, and the throwing begins: anything small enough to chuck starts raining at one of the police lines. More broken windows, smashed in doors, escape routes being found.

Up towards the Junction the trains are passing oblivious to the wailing shop alarms, the growing panic and fear, escalating aggression. Michael takes out his mobile to video the scene but it’s hammered out of his hand and he’s shoved into street railings, badly winded. A rich Barbadian accent asks him if he’s alright from behind a boxed forty-inch TV.

His carer kicks the damaged mobile back, ‘Ya betta getta new’un quick bafor they all go, man.’

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