194 lede

FAQs
Before the Previous Question Is Exhausted
(And such other pending questions as were specified) by Rob Kovitz

The Previous Question18 takes precedence of all subsidiary12 motions except to lay on the table, and yields to privileged14 and incidental13 motions, and to the motion to lay on the table.
...click here to READ MORE

Nightmare on Bamburgh Beach. + 1 in addition by Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon

Sanderlings scamper in cuckoo-spit, froth
dribbles ahead of whipped waves, on beaches
slashed by incoming tides. Plump, clockwork
waders, they totter, drunk on bootleg moonshine.
Seagulls, windbags on wings, screech
waken ghosts of sailors, marooned then lost
on rocks nearby. Their cries shatter my nerves
like cracked eggshells. My vigil’s long,
this January night shift. My is penance due

drunks on the party boat. by Emalisa Rose

along with the terns and the
gulls i wait for your dividends
as tides bring home the bounty.
But you've brought me no shells
nor a glimpse of that peekaboo
heaven; your rollover blues just
loop me with seaweed and the
strange stench of the afterbirth,
with concoctions of flipped over
Heinekens off the party boat.

The deep breath. and 1 more | by S.W.

Covers of climate and constant wandering
source through the tips of my fingers as
I wait for the moment to extinguish itself.

There was never someone else
waiting in the billows,
but the way I felt when I closed my eyes
and let the breeze pass through me,
blowing my hair against my skin - it changed everything.

Reassurance and surrender
rambled through my mind and hands
as the final dance and contemplation
of my soul’s reflection tapped across the sky.

Christmases Past. by Robert Lowe

In a nineteenth century Paris poster
By Toulouse Lautrec, masked faces appear;
Nowhere is their habitation. They smile,
Ecstatic in a knowledge of secrets:
There they are, in half-dismantled places
That memory holds with queues of scaffolding;
Though from the shipwreck rises song like this.
The cries of drowned mariners fill all thoughts.

Mr Hester and Mr Sharpe are there:
One thin, and broadly smiling, one most dour
(A monk’s ring of hair dandruffs his jacket) –
Both colleagues of workdays long gone, where
We sold electrical wholesale house-ware.