The Story is About a Guy…

By Lewis A. Beach 

…the story is about a guy who can’t seem to find meaning in and to his life…
…a guy who works the bare minimum and is proud of it…
…he gets by and isn’t noticed, he clocks in every day, he’s reliable.
…the story is about a guy who like many others, he’s lost his passion…
…he used to make movies but no longer, the very act seems futile…

Hobbies are expensive and passion requires follow through, he doesn’t bare the necessary requirements, not any more.
A career or a project like making movies is to have a religion; its purpose is to extend mortality but also to fill the interim moments.
Being an artist of course suites a life of melancholy, it also does well to those who don’t do well…in a general sense.
But he’s an atheist and he doesn’t do well with it…

…the story is about a guy who has no luster anymore.
…no sex drive and no want to fall in love.
…everything that once turned him on…now annoys him.
…he could once hold the floor in argument but now seeks corners and hides in them.

Drinking and having friends, like the artist and his legacy, are designed to leave a mark after the person has left this world.
But now he sees no value in the endeavor, he knows that like him the universe will also die, and nothing will be left.

…the story is about a guy too brave to kill himself but to cowardly to live.
…he’s embellished with cliché.

At one time the cliché would be the drunken artist, and then the depressed train wreck writer guy, and then the obsessed moviemaker…now he’s just a guy that sits at home and watches shows about serial killers.
The museums of time no longer fascinate him.
That’s what films are; they moments and movements and are full of light and they shine and the hope and the often crash and dive but that’s okay because they’re movies and they’re moments and those moments can be replayed and they can be seen again and loved again.

…the shimmer of the movie picture and the hiss of the sound and the truth and the lies. It’s all meaningless now.

The story is about a guy quite like a lot of other guys, but this guy wrote this poem and this guy was once depressed but isn’t anymore.
The guy that wrote this poem is sitting in front of his computer screen, he’s getting fatter and lazier.

He’s on Facebook a lot, is he wanting?

…and in order to get thin he starves himself for a while, and enjoys being ill.

He’s an unhappy fellow and doesn’t want to talk about it.

Letter of Complaint

By Lewis A. Beach 


Dear God

My name is Alfred, for 25 years now I have been following your work with great fondness but I felt somewhat disappointed with your creation of the Ostrich. As a freshman in high school I dated several Ostriches and found them to be rather dismissive and not very well adapted to the bedroom. The Ostriches’ sadist nature did lead to excitement in bed but only during role-play. If the purpose in life is to procreate and pass on our genes, then you have not given us an easy way of doing it. Also, I don’t really like being looked down on, it’s off putting and makes oral sex all the more difficult. Without meaning to be too strident, I would like to offer the following suggestions.

1. You possibly add some more sensual glands in order for the Ostrich to get the best experience, thereby coxing its better nature.

2.  Maybe you could add a nerve impulse that causes tonic immobility when turned upside down, like a tiger shark.

3. Failing that perhaps you could just make them a little shorter with bigger breasts and for the love of you would it kill you to give them a sense of humour?

I hope this letter finds you well.

Humblely yours, no really.


The Mosquito Has Found a Good Meal in Me…

By Lewis A. Beach 

The mosquito has found a good meal in me…
…how he sits on his skittle legs balancing his bloated blood sack on his back.
He knows that when I return and rest, that’s when he dines best.
He’s spritely in his eating habits….
…he’ll leave a throbbing tip.
He never stays for the final course and finger bowls in which to wash his little ends.
Leaving as I do he knows how to kill time, he’ll digest his fill from the night before…
…he knows I’ll be back soon, whisky and tar embellishing my blood.
I get him drunk every night, when I stumble in after my midnight recreational.
…down by the park finishing the cheapest bottle a whisky that I can haggle.
After his gluttonous ritual he’ll retire to some crack in the wall or hole in the door…
…I bought a Venus flytrap but it goes hungry every night…
…unlike my insect guest, who dines well off me.
I’ve become quite amicable in the way I lay myself out for him…
…I’m well fed and quite slow, plenty of fat and a good blood flow.
I’ll let him carry on his routine, for he’ll not live much longer.
My flytrap is begging, when I find the bloodsucker’s corpse I shall feed him to the plant.
Maybe then the plant can understand a night of disillusioned compensation.
Drowning in a terrible concoction of blood, bile and booze.
Until he dies though, he’ll keep flying until either he or I spread our wings no longer.

Level Playing Field

By Lewis A. Beach

And it was a level playing field now; because we’d pulled down the goal posts and erected a large totem pole from its’ remnants.
We stuck on it the bodies of the managers and executives and the players who weren’t so good.
We then hung the referee from the balcony stalls and dismembered and mutilated the lines men.
The spectators were now participants in some great ritual; drunks and junkies and hoods and the cops who had broke rank; they were all there…
Stromin the pitch…
A friend and I went to the bar and ordered four beers…
We necked each bottle and then shared a whisky.
By this point the pigs had rushed the stadium and we felt it best time to leave.
Over a wall and onto the car park, we stood and lit two cigarettes.
The rain began to shower the stadium and surrounding grounds.
I never liked football anyway.
“Who the hell won?” my friend asked.
“No shits given” I replied in earnest.
We clambered into a near by cab and asked him to drop us off at the nearest cocktail bar.
It’s true; I never liked football.


By Lewis A. Beach

And so we stood on a station platform
holding hands with our arms entwined.

We held each other closely and kissed.

Do I feel the way he feels?

I have loved before, really I should know.

But that love was something different.

Or maybe love needs to swell to prosper.

I don’t need to love him so soon.

If I love the time we spend together;
a love that we can both enjoy,
I think that’s the best love of all perhaps?

Love the now, the time spent together.

Standing on the station platform,
I wish that time would halt and not restart.

So we can love this time together
and hope that our train will never arrive.


By Lewis A. Beach 

“BAN THE BURKA; Bring on liberation,
no more Islamic intimidation!”


In our nation of democracy;
can’t you see the sad hypocrisy?

…mitigated by dishonesty.

I suggest, and I hope that you agree,
that Muslim women don’t need to be freed…
…not western Muslim women, no…
…but in fact western women, no?

Those products of the status quo,
those who admire Miss Monroe?

I’m not talking of post-feminism;
nor do I want to promote any schism…
…or perverse islamist fetishism.

I hate Islam like all religion,
I show all faiths the same derision.


I am feminist; don’t be mistaken,
but the burqa should not be forsaken.

I know it’s a symbol of oppression…
…but to enforce liberation is hardly emancipation;
it’s a step from dictation.

Here’s an idea…

Why don’t we let them choose to wear a vale?

Don’t let islamophobia prevail;
lets stop freedom from going stale.

Hate the faith not the faithful

-of this virtue we should be grateful

-with this mantra we’ll be successful

Back to my point about western women;
who can’t go out without rouge or crimson,
who are forced…
…to conform to a masculine vision.

Maybe it’s they who need to be freed;
they paint their nails and trim their goatee.

Not all women; (of course)
I don’t generalize,
far be it for me to marginalize.

But those who diet and aim for zero size…

Wouldn’t it be nice not to be fake;
not to be called love, dear or angel cake?

Yes you’ve heard me right make no mistake.

Perhaps they’re in need of liberation;
those who conform to models of starvation?

They should try some feminist libation.

How sweet;
to take no care of our image,
to cover up, that’s privilege…
with no gawping at your cleavage.

Ok, sure…

I admit there are pros on either side,
and to think there are no downsides…
…would be pure utopian lies.

I’m sure some are forced to cover themselves;
attached to sexist patriarchy this dwells.


But, but but;

We can’t defeat subjection…
with some piss-poor litigation;
we do it with education.

Unveiling Muslims will do nothing…
but convince the Daily Mail…
that they’re onto something.

Who are we to pass judgment?

We; the staunch capitalist apologists…
call THEM dangerous fundamentalists.

We’re all ideologists…

We should break our chains together…
and change our world for the better.

Fat chance of that happening;
while the Daily Mail keeps flapping

and the EDL keeps marching.

I’m Shivering in the Warm

I am shivering in the warm
though the windows are shut.

The heating is on yet I shiver.
I rub together my feet; I twitch and I rock.

It’s like I’m about to address a hundred people
a hundred times over.

I can scarcely hold this pen,
my chair creeks with every spasm
and it’s very repetitive.

I shield myself in blankets and listen to
good music –
but it doesn’t help.

My span of attention is cut,
my dedication wavers.

I spark another smoke but the
trembling worsens.

In my stomach a thousand chrysalis
are hatching.

The thought of leaving this safe room
quickens the pulse (not in a good way)

Everything irritates me now

I feel nauseous…

I grip the arms of this chair; as though
it were to be blasted…
…a million miles…
…with me strapped to it…

There are no longer holy sentences, not one act sacred…

Just getting a drink from the water cooler feels like a
…down a tunnel…of six thousand eyes; glaring.

Why do the meds work no longer?

Why can’t my old pal Johnnie Walker be here
…to console me?

My modest kingdom for a glass of

I cut up magazines in hope of writing
something true.

All I can think of is these fucking butterflies
in my gut.

It must be mating season.

Time for another smoke…

…maybe I can suffocate these brutes.

My Drunken Confession

For me the booze was a crutch;
…to take that away leaves me alone.

Alone facing a dark un-even road;
…do I want to travel that road?

Sobriety offers me nothing; stability hampers my thoughts,
…refraining empties my mind.

For now the real is quite clear;
…I struggle with reality that is untemperd.

With medication that tries to suppress anxiety;
…I live in simulated states of calmness.

Honestly, drinking did provide; subsisting crazy mad vibes,
…subsidising lonely bad times.

So what do drunkards do when dry?
Does thou try rhyme and not cry?

Act upon our inhibitions and neck whisky;
…live life with life and not with rye?

Authorising senseless sex attacks; trivialising beauty in nature,
…overriding real bad headaches.

If my blood flows with this poison;
…then why not allow me its ills?

If tomorrow I haven’t tired to resist; then shoot me now.

For life without my crutch is a life of hobbling and falling.

This scornful sobriety – This; my drunken confession.