Inkspeak: What a Waste of My Death! by Deborah Edgeley




The clock says two.
So where are you?
Am I the protagonist?
Or antagonist?
I know you’ve worked on me
after your supposed degree.
You say you know what you’re doing.
which point of view are you using?
You foreshadowed me
and left me
in the sea
with death imagery.
Forget your master’s degree
You’ve done a Hemingway
and forgot about me.
Well, fuck that.

Erm, never mind you.
I have been waiting a whole week
to meet my first love, Roger, and he’s not appeared.
I am in tears.

Pah! Pathetic!
I’ve killed someone. Poisoned
by hemlock
in the library with ladders
and am glad that
I will never be found out.

I am a version of Pantalaiman
and I’ve got no bloody Lyra to talk to.
I might as well read Sartre
and be done with it.

To hell with you all!
I’m already dead.
That’s a cert;
because she started writing in flaming medias res.
What a waste of my death.

I’m the magic realism protagonist.
The Merlinesque enchantress.
Who knows
that if she had of written my story
it would of gotten goddam published.








Inkspeak: Love Letter To Heathcliff by Deborah Edgeley: Guitar by Dave Hulatt

wuthering pic



On the moor.

Ragged as you were.

I saw you

through the cracked window,

where my dead hand touched yours,

where my name was etched in three on the wooden desk.


Your dark long locks fought the wind,

like your soul.


MY Heathcliff.

You destroyed everything…..


Yes, I became a lady, yet,

I loved Edgar, not.

It was always you…


Your face I saw

when I tangled in flesh,

trying to make a hybrid us,

with the wrong man


You walk this earth without me, yet,

I walk with you.

In you.


I look into your eyes of pain,

and I weep,

until you return to me.





Inkspeak: Falling Man by Mark Sheeky

falling man


What is that thing,
that flutter of black,
against a white-grey sky
of thin nothing-winter air.
Flickering like a dying bat,
a shattered umbrella thing, falling
down, pulled
to Earth, a man.
A man arms waving
in a panic, a man
flapping, drowning in air, a man
plunging alone
in the cold air
far away,
seen from afar.
I see him, in silence,
the falling man.




Inkspeak: Trying To Capture The Sun by Mark Sheeky




The quest, the ever quest.
The run.
Trying to capture the sun.
The race, and the chase,
and the aim of the day begun.
The jewel in the sky.
Trying to capture the sun.
The reach, the hope of something,
that moves,
is true,
Something you can feel in you.
This is the world,
in gold and diamond blue,
laid bare;
the end, yet just begun.
The best I have done,
so far,
as I reach for the sun.



Inkspeak: Quick! Get Your Lows, While Stocks Last! by Deborah Edgeley




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Inkspeak: Managed by Mark Sheeky




I wonder if I’ll have some money soon,
to calm my nerves,
as I walk up and down, and up and down my dead cube room.
The wide window looks out,
upon a city of grey filaments.
Tiny people and their machines, moving in ant-like industry.
Are these people rich, or struggling too?
All of these people, trapped,
in invisible hamster-wheels to live in concrete boxes, like this.
Putting products in boxes,
trees in boxes.
Animals in tins.
Where is the land?
In a box, with a plough, in a museum.
It’s all managed now.


Mark Sheeky’s website


Inkspeak: If Bach Had Been a Beekeeper by Charles Tomlinson, guitar by Dave Hulatt





If Bach had been a beekeeper

he would have heard

all those notes

suspended above one another

in the air of his ear

as the differentiated swarm returning

to the exact hive,

and place in the hive

topping up the cells

with the honey of C major,

food for the listening generations,

key to their comfort

and solace of their distress

as they return and return

to those counterpointed levels

of hovering wings where

movement is dance and the air itself

a scented garden



Inkspeak: Piano by D H Lawrence: guitar by Dave Hulatt

piano pic


Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

Inkspeak: Medicine Man by Deborah Edgeley: guitar by Dave Hulatt

ice cream lady


Here comes

the medicine man,

With his glittering box of clefs

Like the ice cream lady

in the Odeon

Pass me a quaver

Care for a treble?

Like to try a madrigal?

Two for the price of one!

Want to taste

some harmony?

freshly made

this morning


be a love

and fetch some more octaves,

we’re running low….

Oh dear, this coke is a bit flat….

Medicine man


between your senses

and spirit.

Medicine man,

the combiner,

the diviner

With his sacred invisible tongue

Delicate as china

Speaking words,

without words

Expressing the inexpressible

After the silence…..

A deeper understanding,

how low can you go?

Let the cattle cry, ‘Death Row’




Spread your patchwork blanket on the green

And picnic on the food of love

Eat the music

Give me excess of it

Hey, medicine man

Pass me another quaver!