FAKE POEMS

The sex of Aneta Interview with one of the most contested photographers (and hot) of the moment

The position of Mars The facts of the day commented on by the comedians of Zelig of the team and Colorado Ridens. Sex, blood…

Terry Richardson for topless Click amateur models with brazen front of the lens of the American photographer

The anti-pollution models Surfrider create a calendar with a bikini-clad models … of oil. That is why

The touch of the photographer. The pictures of Miranda Kerr nude for the camera

The simulated sex contest For three years now, even the world championships are held by Air Sex, hot show …

But you know Tory? And Jayden? And the other most famous pornstars and hot year?

Andi Muse Its beauty is the result of an irresistible mix of genes, Irish, French and Indians. The images

Wanted: Sexy twins A Colombian magazine look for pairs of models. Three are the only requirements

An automatic translation of http://www.gqitalia.it/eros 

She arrived boxed, licked in a jiffy bag’s bubble womb. I tapped off the lid and there she lay: half human in the buff/ half star-web machine. I had to encourage her out with the blunt end of a pencil. She skittered off into the nest. It was a perfect microcosm, all miniature multi-storeys, offices, banks, hotels, interspersed with fuchsia shrubbery. Heaped about the buildings was a substrate in a shade that the pet shop owner had labelled Nuclear fallout-grey. It made her the presiding ghost queen of a burnt-out world. She loved it – that jovial lippy rictus on her thumbtack face! At night I watched her move, her liquid armour a stardust column. When she was still, her stillness was a gleaming jam. Some mornings I’d shuffle downstairs in slippers to find only her torso protruding from the ashen soil, like an apocalyptic vision. Something about her creamy skeleton with all its bumps and crow-quill flick of hair made me rage to nip the bud of her between my teeth. Her bones would give like Turkish delight. I took to sleeping beside her tank, comforted by her whisper-scuttle – her manner of appearing busy burrowing, naked back to me, even though her home was already ideal. Feeding time was when I had to turn my own back. I could barely stomach her wry little face splitting to a snarl as her jaws worked apart a cricket’s casing. Over time the plastic streets became encrusted with the fuel from mammoth murders. Only for brief flashes did I allow myself to feel it – the sting of one terrible/ juicy thought. That it might be beautiful to prise my deadly darling from her artificial paradise, to slop her into the bin with the evening meal’s leftovers, her glossy bin liner body bagged in its own dark. 

Claire Trevien - Azahara

He tells the psychiatrist about his recurring dream. The one in which he’s standing in the street where he lived as a boy on a peaceful summer’s day. There’s only a moment to notice the diffusing lemonade sky before the monster appears. He was never quite sure whether it was a pig or a wolf or a monkey or a bat, but he sees it now looming out from behind the church at the top of the street, a freakish column of scraggly black fur, leather-wrinkled skin and snout. He starts running, and as he’s running he’s aware that the pig-wolf-monkey-bat has given chase. You’d expect something so huge to make the ground tremble, but the dream is silent save for the birds and light breezes blowing away clots of cherry blossom. He runs, and as he runs he becomes aware that although terrified, he’s experiencing a rush of freedom the likes of which he’s never known in waking life. The quiet lanes shagged with foliage and the broad, empty roads lined with glittering car bonnets are all open to him – he could run in any direction. Anywhere he likes, for as far as he wants. He could run to the park and hide in one of the capsized boats they keep for rowing out onto the lake, or run to his grandparents’ house (they’d probably still live there, this being a dream) or sprint to his old school and hunker down in one of the chalky classrooms, peeking through the windows as the pig-wolf-monkey-bat’s giant head passes by. He thinks of silver balloons lost to cornflower-blue skies, scarlet smoke spewed by the jet planes at airfield displays – the way his hair and hands seemed so much more vivid when he was 19. Something implodes in his chest and the dust lives on in his body for years which then become the seconds it takes for dream logic to resolve itself. He runs, and as he runs he knows for certain that the only way to feel this brutally alive is if something huge really did attack the city. If mass destruction came, maybe he’d excel.

The first time I was declared dead I was two. The second time I was declared dead I’d recovered before the thrown ball hit the grass. The third time I was declared dead, our family dog stopped eating and stared mournfully at my limp body. The fourth time, the lifted glass trembled briefly but the wine was not spilled. The fifth time I was declared dead no one noticed and I had to make the announcement myself. The sixth time, paramedics were on hand within a matter of seconds but were disappointed to discover the crisis had already passed and that I was reviving myself with minimal difficulty. The seventh time was a mistake. The eighth time I was declared dead was a dawn of glorious sunlight and I wept to be confined in blackness even momentarily and from that day forth I have gone in fear of night. When I was declared dead by a woman I had hoped to seduce it was only one of many refusals and I did not take it unduly to heart. The tenth time I was declared dead was mortifying and I will not speak of it. The eleventh time I was declared dead I was glad of the rest, having slept poorly all that week. The twelfth time, the heavy news was delivered by courier but I was unable to answer the door and found only a note informing me I’d been out. The thirteenth time I was declared dead was no unluckier than the others and confirmed my belief that superstition is mere delusion. The fourteenth time came as a surprise. The fifteenth through twenty-ninth times I was declared dead were not particularly remarkable and somewhere around the thirties I lost count. I am hoping that on the one hundredth occasion I will receive a telegram from whoever is monarch at that point so that I may resume my accurate record.

I searched my name on Google and found no trace of my own life. I found a Tom Bland, a photographer based at 64 Duke Street. I peeped through his window to find him photographing Charlotte Gainsboug. That goddess, I always wanted to be her brother in that film, The Cement Garden.

I always wanted to be a photographer and as a child, I photographed endless objects, never people, but sometimes my own hands. Tom Bland - he stole my life. He could help me regain my life; teach me. He did Judo on Wednesday’s and I watched from a window so high up, I had to stand on a bin, as he rehearsed his kicks with a class of women; he helped those women lift their legs. I did those kicks between balancing on the bin and looking in.

He stole my life. I dreamt it and he embodied it. I wanted Gainsboug to stare seductively into my lens, but it was his lens. I sat down opposite him in Café Nero and unravelled a series of photos. They were of him and a woman he had picked up at the Betsy Trotwood. I lied and said, ‘She’s my girlfriend.’ He spat out his latte and just walked out. I became terribly afraid so I followed him down the street and he turned with the words, ‘What the fuck do you want?’ I had to be honest; I told him everything and he replied, ‘I don’t give a shit. I can’t teach you to be me. A name doesn’t mean we’re the same or will ever be the same.’ He hit me in the eye and wrote on my palm, ‘The Buddha said find peace from within, not outside yourself.’

The next day I decided to kill him with a leg of lamb. I ran at him shouting, ‘You’re a no-good-arse-licking-Buddha-loving-vegan-cunt,’ and he broke my jaw with a single high-flying kick. I’m still kicking. I will knock that grin off his-smug-ugly-not-happy-but-pretending-to-be-motherfucking-face. He’s a cunt. Did I make that point already? He’s a cunt.

*Written for the Betsey Trotwood Summer All-Day on Sun 27th July 2014. *

A couple sat opposite me on the train tonight. I knew they were a couple because the woman told the man that she needed to buy facewipes. He said they could stop off for a drink if she liked, and she smiled. And when she smiled I saw a staggering, indelible sadness in the corners of her mouth, and I recognised it because it’s how I look when I’m pretending to be happy. This woman was thin and beautiful in the manner of a cartoon mouse who hasn’t had a good meal in a long time. The man had glasses and a beard and you know, you could tell that it wasn’t a Dalston hipster beard or a thinking woman’s sexpot beard. It was just a beard. For the rest of the journey, they both studied their phones until they got off the train together at Petts Wood. But the cartoon-mouse woman’s sadness stayed with me. I would never have noticed it if she hadn’t smiled that way. It was a smile that said, Nothing to see here folks. These slices of shadow hugging my face are just the dying echoes of a long hard day, jumping off the windowsill of time. They are not the watery choke of someone clinging to the wrong lifebelt in an interminable storm. I am a woman about to buy facewipes and go for a drink with my bearded boyfriend and this makes me so happy that I smile with every tooth in my head. Look at me, smiling. Sometimes it feels like I’ve been pretending to be happy for so long, most of the time I don’t even know I’m doing it. At Dunton Green a man sat down where the couple had been. He sat in the middle, taking up both seats with a blank-faced nonchalance that could only signify true happiness.

Amy Acre is a freelance writer from London. Her poems have appeared in Poetry Review, Popshot, Rising and Rhyming Thunder: The Alternative Book of Young Poets. She performs in pubs, bars and fields across the UK, and co-hosted London open mic night, Sage & Time. Her first pamphlet will be out with Flipped Eye later this year.

start from here, but here I am, I wouldn’t from here, but here I am, I wouldn’t start here, but here I am, I wouldn’t start from

but here I am, I wouldn’t start from here, here I am, I wouldn’t start from here, but I am, I wouldn’t start from here but here

am, I wouldn’t start from here, but here I

I wouldn’t start from here but here I am,

wouldn’t start from here, but here I am, I

Laura is the most incredible person on this erath lacking her own form of transportation

a tiger in the bedroom she likes giraffe print but hates the animal

a laurel flower quixotic and mercurial the pimpshit in every way

the most intelligent person ever kinda like the hot farmer girl on the sunmaid raisin packets

she doesn't respond to your text the wall clocks stop a star crossed lover

logical positivism states you can believe in what you see sure thing guv but wait till you meet a LAURA

it's unbelievable fool dude did you see that Laura over there I so did man I so didddddddd

begins to fly She's loved so much and doesn't know it

On a day when the sky is the colour of combs for toy horses, he sees two beekeepers ambling across the road. They lug a wheelbarrow between them. Their suits catch the sun and they could be gold-clad spacemen or android mourners. In the wheelbarrow a wooden box jostles about. He imagines the queen in there, her network of careful bronze yet to be smoked. He wonders whether we imitate nature or nature imitates us, and if it’s the former then why isn’t our queen ripe and bloated with eggs among her living room’s chintz, and if it’s the latter then why isn’t the queen in the box supine on a little throne? Last summer he had dreams of starting his own colony and ordered a queen bee online. If separate existences truly mirrored one another then there should have been some fanfare for her arrival, but there was only a jiffy bag waiting for him on the doormat one morning. His excitable fingers pulled out not the queen but a length of amber whip, a lick of whiskey-cream. In the heat and oozing varnish-reek of the back garden he smeared her burst jewel on his wrist then wiped his wrist in the grass. For weeks he thought about how a queen bee transmits her dream of order through her drones, and how his teeth would not now sink through her dream’s sweet palace.

Through the Plexiglas I watched as they modified your body, ironing smooth your chest scar from childhood surgery. The news screens in the pastel waiting room showed a wealthy actress who’d had the whole lot done. She glided before the flashbulbs with an unblinking smile, her metal dress like a bell. The joints of her ankles and wrists reminded me of the action figures I’d played with as a boy. At first I thought it great, your bionic breasts; how they spun like a blender, and how a whole host of accessories could be clicked into them. But I grew to miss your exhausted-after-work-normality, the scent of a hard-worked body. You’d lie in bed all summer stinking of roasted car bonnets, humming like a deep freezer. The fingers I stroked under the blanket were smooth as batteries. Now I wait for the day when you’ll outgrow my lethargy, my need to eat, the fact that my genitals are not equipped with an auto-cleaning system. And when they upload what’s left of your consciousness to the invisible exoskeleton that criss-crosses everything – what then? Will I always see you from the corner of my eye, only for you to vanish when I blink? Will I see your waterlogged face collapse in puddles, or slide like a half-remembered film through the steamed-up glass of bus shelters? Will I be dipped in you as a cloud is dipped in sky, a lighthouse in sea?

“GOLD IS A METAL” but so is platinum. Adamantium isn’t a real metal although the boy in the Replacements t-shirt wishes it was. You bet he takes the skyway. Metal. Crushed Pepsi cans like bugs. Also metal. I wanted to love this book of poetry WHAT IS POETRY what is poetry IS WHAT Some lines were good (a wisdom tooth confession extracted grudgingly) The rest is EYEROLL.

Dites-moi madame Vos mots me manques Tell me madam I miss your words

Angel Kiss

I laid under a tree and the angel was leaning towards me I’ve come to say goodnight (Oh how I loved thy eyes) I’ve come to say goodbye (Oh how I loved thy mouth) I’ve come to kiss you at last (Oh how I loved thy voice) I’ve come (Oh how I loved to hear thee speak) I’ve (Oh how I loved thee) I

Tell me madame dites-moi

This Dream

This dream took off without me (it flew) I sat on the bed’s edge (in the dark) Turned on the light and looked at the room (here) The bed the window the ceiling the floor (in this room) The bedsheets the blanket the pillows the creases (in my head) And I said This dream took off in the creases in my head on the pillow in this bed under the bedsheets under the blanket between ceiling and floor and the window was closed (it’s flown)

Dites-moi Tell me

Fly Floor

I’m a fly in a room. I’m attracted to light and air. I zig-zag across the room and hit my body my head on hard surfaces. A white wall a window pane a glass panel a ceiling light bulb. I have no organs no limbs. I lose consciousness and fall. Someone walks into the room and says there’s a dead fly on the floor.

Vos mots your words

Anouche Sherman was born in Paris and grew up in Paris and Jerusalem. She writes short prose and poetry in both French and English and translates from French into English and from English into French. She's currently writing a play.

In 2013 an average of £13,000 was spent on individual home improvements projects per household in the UK.

(Source: YouGov 2014)

When I first moved in it was like I was living in a dream. I used to wake up Saturday mornings and say ‘Is this it? Am I really living in the countryside?’ So from that point of view the plot was a perfect find.

There’s more involved than people think. I could so easily have fudged it, but in the end there’s nothing better than having the jewel in the crown of the house being a real timber frame. Modern fixtures and fittings and then this, my large replica Victorian aviary. It’s about four times the size of an average Victorian bird cage and it’s probably the one feature of any room in the house that gets the most attention.

In my day job I deal a lot with jewels, so having a lot of light in the house was something that appealed to me. I like the drama that you get from the different light conditions throughout the seasons. I wanted the windows to be traditional and airy. Typical double-glazing can be a bit characterless, that’s why I went for this. If you come a bit closer, here, touch the window. Now lick your finger. And again, what do you taste? Sugar! Exactly! Now tell me that’s not the most amazing thing.

People come over all the time and they say how nice it looks. I say it will look a lot nicer when the beds have been dug in properly, and there’s not so much wet jam everywhere. I’m glad to be in this part of the world, and this particular part of the New Forest is an area where wheat straw is the predominant thatching material. I had a thatcher in who could do lime bootlaces, and I wanted them for the roof, because it’s in keeping with the forest.

You want your house to be as much your home as it is part of the landscape. So sponge on the inside to keep the heat in, and then bootlaces on the outside.

This is my dining room. They call it an ‘open-plan’ dining room. It runs from the kitchen right through the living room. Dry walling took me about a week. These are marshmallow with a fine Japanese maple coating. It gives the interior a bit of a pebbledash, contemporary, unfinished feel. If you look at the necessity of a home, the house has created that home, the home that I needed. I did all the furnishings and interiors. The house was a bit of an experiment. I think it’s really important to make it comfortable. If you’re happy then you can achieve all sorts.

Well I wanted a large oven because I like to have guests. Some people like a walk-in wardrobe, I like a walk-in oven. That’s a German tiled chimney. We can take a look inside if you like, or would you and your friend like another look at the aviary?

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The signs above my head read thusly: It is 18 degrees C. It is 4:42 AM It is prohibited to smoke. I must wear a seat-belt. To my right, Americans who are in a pissed off mood with each other. To my left, the speedy retreat of the Spanish countryside and the lights of Barcelona. It is now 17 degrees C. It is now 4:44 AM. I still can't smoke. I've taken my seat-belt off. I am listening to E talking and contemplating my joyful life. My arse is getting numb. Bloody rock hard coach seats. And me with no padding. My mouth is as dry as a badger and twice as furry. It is 17 degrees C. It is 4:47 AM I really want a fag now. Fiddling with seat-belt instead.

I am the current slam poetry champion of the Isle of Man. No, not the Isle of Wight, the Isle of Man. The one with tail-less cats and the motorbikes. I find joy in the absurd and well timed cups of tea. I used to model wedding dresses. These days I work in pharmacy. You can contact me through the blog.