"Inside 163" – Ewan Wilkie 
(Recorded 04.03.19)

I saw a baby in the skin of a twenty something 
Three times over:

I saw one of them turning his teeth brown with worry
Whilst backflipping for his fortune. 

I saw one of them crying black tears,
Cling-Film wrapped and factory packed. 

I saw one of them smoke fags on the sofa
flicking butts in a fire hazard fountain.

I saw myself blowing out the candles on my 42nd birthday.
Its tomorrow. 

I saw piles of bills swearing at me
teaming up with my to do list
and mock me. 

Itching powder in my clothes,
Electric handshakes in the bath,
Whoopee cushion cooking gas,
Relentless sounds of laughter.

I saw her scratch her head and I scratched mine. 
I embraced the TV for comfort.

Ewan Wilkie - Inside 163

"I Come Back To" – Ewan Wilkie
(Recorded 04.03.19)

I come back to the sickly squelch 
of sourdough bread, 
neath‘ caffeined streets, 
Where once was Safeway. RIP

I come back to Murphy's Pukka Pies
Squashed from the sky, 
Gelatined meat, 
By UFOS of Quinoa. RIP

I come back to incense smoked rags 
Colourful armoury of holes with low price tags,  
In a barn that the kids love
where a man once played pool. RIP

I come back to a fridge full of test tubes 
ectoplasmic smoothies smile
Eager to hatch. 
Five a day replaces bacon butty. RIP  

I come back to a legendary pine forest toilet 
Boiling up the side of a hill, 
ruining: 
“our view”. 
Now with plans to be a Go Ape. RIP

I come from Bodysnatcher central 
Their untethered alien hive 
“mastermind bastards!” I roll my eyes:
“My parents have been lost to a yoga and pilates tribe” RIP

I came from town
They come from where?
vaporised, transformin
And now they are here.

Their Intergalactic battles have been won. 

Where has my town disappeared to? RIP

Ewan Wilkie - I Come Back To

"Knock Knock" – Marta Zenka
(Recorded 14.03.19)

After each night the sun rises. Holds water as its captive in double glazed windows, sets the scenes of learned routines: coffee, cornflakes, a cigarette in the usual seat - adjacent to the kitchen sink. People outside look like ants because they are ants- walking back and forth on cracked pavements. The constant dripping from the ceiling echoing below the humdrum.

The sound of the door bell pierces air, the clank of the lock coats the atmosphere in a bodily stench, lingers in my ears like chat- tering teeth, it’s nice to see your sunburnt face, sit over there or somewhere else, sorry about the mess, rubber limbs spread on armchairs, savour memories stuck in the lining

ephemeral possessions live their lives under the sofa or in a dark corner until they’re thrown away, porcelain and glass lives in cabinets, never felt the warmth of lips, picture frames are small enclosures for people who left me, I keep them on top of the telly, I make the bed every morning because that’s how my mother raised me

Dinner cooking, flavours saturating, table dirty table clean, sub- stances desired, it’s your birthday go on you deserve it, red wine splattered on white tablecloth, we howl when it’s a full moon, I’m full, substances undesired, eyes rolling around looking for something in the back of their skull, a lost tongue looking for relief on the bathroom floor

I need a shelter, four walls and a roof, a bed is just springs and wood to settle in, burrow into dirt and grow roots, call it permanence, hallelujah to concrete and plaster, walls which shake on the weekend, evenings when words are whispered, socks which lost their pair, lightbulbs which flicker, taps which drip, doors which rattle in the wind: let me in let me in let me in

Marta Zenka - Knock Knock

"Cake Baking" – Ashanti Wheeler-Artwell
(Recorded 13.06.19)

'I'm going to bake a cake today'
My mum would say and I would sit and watch as her fingers weaved magic 
Turning flour, milk, eggs, kneading into cookie dough
Mixing objects into shapes that I never knew they could create
The first time I attempted to weave her magic
I found my fingers were made from butter
And my goods didn't rise like they should.
My mother said there's no magic
You just need elbow grease and years of practise 
And even then, they don't all turn out perfect.
But I know she lies because she also weaves needles, making holes seemlessly smooth
Turning a pair of trousers into five years growth
I am maleable
So she moulds be back when I lose shape
Kneading and knotting with kindness patience and love until I am something that resembles being human again.
Maybe that was easier because the clay hadn't set then
Maybe easy is just reflective hindsight
Because the elbow grease wasn't all mine then, 
Maybe easy is the luxury of a model whose design
whose designer knew the template she 
sowed, grew and birthed it out
Years of sculpting made the magic feel easy 
She said I wouldn't set the same as before
You never harden back into the exact same shape of a previous model,
Especially after a smash.
We don't have the same language for the things that we see as children
But I now know that my mother's fingers are worn, swollen, itchy and red
That the magic she stitches on everyone else
Has left her seams frayed, 
So I take her template 
To try and work the same design on myself with kindness, patience, elbow grease and love 
Even with practise my fingers are still butter
And sometimes that needle I hold poised to knot threads pricks my skin, the stabs cover my hand I slip past the eye holding a knife and a left chest scar that everyone around me now shares
And the eyes staring at me are some of the most beautiful that I've ever seen.
So I go home, take out my heart, seal it in an airtight jar and bury it in the yard.
Someday I'll go out with a spade and a hammer and smash it back open
But for now I'll just focus on healing.
My mother's kisses are magic
Whenever I fell over hers is the first name that I would call out
On kiss from her can stop any pain in the world, be it cut, bruise, fever.
But these hurts feel deeper.
I am learning how to be my own mother, magic, goddess and best friend,
I am learning how to kiss myself better.
But I still can't bake
I still can't take inanimate objects
- myself, space, time -
And turn them into different shapes
- love, friendship, family, change
I go home.
Those unravelled seams have a new hem.
My mother is turning her time into art.
My sister is turning her time into knowledge.
This building has, for th6e first time in my life, taken on the healing aura of a home.
The women in my life are truly the image of you,
Taking the nucleus of pain and shifting it into the centre of creation
I give myself up to learning how from them.
Crossed-legged I fold myself up, little girl again,
Sitting quietly in the corner of the room
She notices me
And asks what I need.
Nothing I say.
All that I need to grow is right here,
Unnamed, inside the atmosphere of this room.
I tell my mother that I think she is beautiful and full of magic.
She smiles and looks at me.
'I'll bake you a cake', she says

Ashanti Wheeler-Artwell – Cake Baking

"Living Room" – Angus Rogers
(Recorded 03/05/19)

Angus Rogers - Living Room

"11:34 Brighton to London" – Af Williams
(Recorded 25.07.19)

Af Williams – 11:34, Brighton To London

"Smallness At Dawn" – Polly McCormack
(Recorded 25.07.19)

Polly McCormack - Smallness At Dawn

"Relay" – Polly McCormack
(Recorded 25.07.19)

From the collection, "Fossil Moon".

Polly McCormack - Relay

Paddy Hornby – "The Lemon Salesman"

Recorded live at the 'Away With Word Volume Three' anthology launch at The George Tavern, Shadwell (10.10.19).

OUT NOW ON TOOTHGRINDER PRESS:
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Paddy Hornby - The Lemon Salesman (Live @ AWW3 10.10.19)

Kaiya Waerea – "This Is Not An Island"

Recorded live at the 'Away With Word Volume Three' anthology launch at The George Tavern, Shadwell (10.10.19).

OUT NOW ON TOOTHGRINDER PRESS:
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Kaiya Waerea - This Is Not An Island (Live @ AWW3 10.10.19)

Harrison Charles – "Life On The Ranch"

Recorded live at the 'Away With Word Volume Three' anthology launch at The George Tavern, Shadwell (10.10.19).

OUT NOW ON TOOTHGRINDER PRESS:
https://toothgrinderpress.bigcartel.com/product/away-with-words-volume-3

Harrison Charles - Life On The Ranch (Live @ AWW3 10.10.19)

Elinor Potts - 'West Country'

Recorded live at the 'Away With Word Volume Three' anthology launch at The George Tavern, Shadwell (10.10.19).

OUT NOW ON TOOTHGRINDER PRESS:
https://toothgrinderpress.bigcartel.com/product/away-with-words-volume-3

Elinor Potts - West Country (Live @ AWW3 10.10.19)

Chloë Hasti – "Emulsion"

Recorded live at the 'Away With Word Volume Three' anthology launch at The George Tavern, Shadwell (10.10.19).

OUT NOW ON TOOTHGRINDER PRESS:
https://toothgrinderpress.bigcartel.com/product/away-with-words-volume-3

Chloë Hasti - Emulsion (Live @ AWW3 10.10.19)

"Influence A" – Marc Brightside
(Recorded Live @ Little Nan's, Deptford, 26.06.19)

Marc Brightside – Influence A – (Live @ Little Nan's, Deptford, 26.06.19)

"A Singer's Silence" – Paddy Hornby
(Recorded 27.11.19)

In one bed amongst four, a man sweats bullets…
Not pleased about it, he awakes to a cloudy haze around him.
Everything is either out of view, out of reach or home to a thin layer of scum.
No matter how many times he voices his frustration,
I witness the same response.
A sister coos and calms the complaints.

A mist seeps through the ceiling, plonking upon the surfaces as clinical dew.
Lo and behold, ‘Patient A.B’ grows patience again.
A scolding pan of bubbling bitter sarcasm starts to simmer.
The steam dissipates, the liquid cools to inoffensive,
the tepid state regains control
as intended.

He’s been on this repeat cycle for days and weeks.
I lie as his neighbour and cant help but ponder my position.
As a mute with a body full of my own tongue, 
actions feel the only option for effect.

To kick the bucket, A silent sack of tongue tied organs seems like a dire sign off.
Perhaps a crescendo!
The end to my opera!
Act finale!
Alas I bide my plans to the tee. 
As the patient A.B anonymous whisps and whinges in this systematic fashion,
I work on my mental stage directions. 
Director, actor, plot, 
hook, line and sinker

Paddy Hornby – A Singer's Silence

"The Hypochondriac" – Dan Weller
(Recorded 04.12.19)

The paintings that capture your thoughts
are of logs jammed in an awkward game 
                                                                      of
                                                                           Tetris,
where every move is wrong
and the empty       space left
is also filled with logs.

In the clumsy timber-dam of your daysickness,
hyperbole and WebMD occupy the friction

     like pickling brine in the mason jar
     of a notably splintering comedown.

          All this to say:
          don't fear, my love, for I am

          proud as a mophead in dirty water
          to do my job –
          to breathe in your ailments
          like the sponge you keep in your sink.

Dan Weller – The Hypochondriac

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