Calling all Creative Types

So, I’m going to be working with a few UK based charities curating a literary collection of poetry, prose, fiction and non-fiction based on individuals experiences with issues facing the mind, body and soul.

Within the collection, we want your stories about any of the following things:

. Mental health issues – Bipolar, Schizophrenia, Depression, Anxiety etc.

. Body issues – Eating Disorders, Body dysphoria etc.

. Soul issues – Coming out stories, Gender dysphoria etc.

We really want raw emotion. Please don’t filter yourself. The point of this project is to create a collection of work for people who are struggling with one or a multitude of issues.

If your contribution is selected, you will be notified and kept up to date with when the collection will be published. As this is a charity based project, we cannot offer any financial reward, however all proceeds are being donated to UK charities aiding in Mental health care.

All submissions to be emailed to anthony.slatcher@gmail.com with your name (if confidentiality is an issue please use a pseudonym) and your location.

If you would like to be brave and share your story in one of the specified formats, or have any questions regarding the project please contact the aforementioned email address.

Please join us in creating what could possibly be a life saving body of work for somebody. Thank you.

Penny For Your Thoughts!

My first book, Penny for Your Thoughts is officially available to buy now! I’ve been working with my editor for five months now on a debut collection of poetry that has been four years in the writing process.
I’m really, super proud of this, and never thought any of my work would see the light of day, so to get an editor from a recognised poetry publisher who aided me in the self publishing process to see something in it really means a lot.
Some of you will like it, some of you will read it and go what the hell is this?! But, any support would be greatly appreciated.
But yeah, the secret is out!!

Penny For Your Thoughts is available internationally in paperback form now and e-book pre-order at:

Boomerang

To whomever
Is reading this.
Let it be known
That I understand
Completely
That I
Abuse the word
Love.

I love
Binge watching TV
Heartache
Rosé wine
Busy days at work
Cold Coffee
Scalding hot baths
My dog
Rainy, miserable days
My family
Early dog walks
My friends
Not being able to sleep
Clocking out of work
Bad rosé wine
Singing when driving
The colour green
Broccoli
And Sprouts at Christmas.

I’m a lover
Of lots of things.
I love and love again.
I abuse the word love,
Throw it around
Like a boomerang
In the hope
That one day,
It will come back.

Clumsy Love

The only reason
I let you
Lie on top of me
Was to see
My outline
Printed perfectly
On your skin
When you were
Finished.

But, when you
Peeled yourself
Off of me;
My edges,
My corners,
My ink
Was smudged.

It Takes a Village

Whenever I feel the familiar feeling
Of a panic attack
Grabbing its rope and pick-axe
To climb up my throat at night,
I know what to do.

I grab a pen and begin drawing
Small, unique smiley faces.
Usually on my thigh. Black ink.
I then give them all a
Name and occupation.

George the paper boy
Was late on his morning rounds.
Which made Mrs. Richards,
The one with a lavender rinse at number ninety-two
Have a mouth like an upside down crescent moon.

We have John and James, the local electricians
Beaming, capital D’s on their lunch break.
They both had the sausage and egg sandwiches.
Served by Stacy, who five hours into her shift
Had zzz’s trailing from her mouth.

Tanya and Charlie were introducing
Their new puppy Lola, a dachshund
To Tanya’s auntie Christine.
But none of them could find
Christine’s son Toby.

Toby was around the back of the knee.
Scared. Blue ink.
All of the faces, and stories, and rush
Affected Toby and his default speed
In a way he couldn’t verbalise. So he ran.

He ran somewhere quiet, out of sight.
And when he was behind the knee,
Toby took out a pen. Black ink.
And began to draw
Small, unique, smiley faces.

Teetotal

Your red wine lips
Intoxicate me
With every kiss.

Your blushes and depth
I swirled and savoured.
Sent me silly, dizzy.

I drank you dry.
A selfish binge
Sent you running.

It’s been four months
And I still long for
The touch of your favourite merlot.

Scripture

I ran
My tongue
From the
Nape of
Your neck
To the
Base of
Your tail-bone.

Every bone
That your
Spine presented
To me
Was a
Rosary bead.

And my
Tongue, now
Mid-pilgrimage
Carries blasphemous,
Sinful, positively
Unholy thoughts
Of you
And I
Together.

Dormant

My dear,
Do not let your dainty-ness
Be used against you.

As if your feminine hands
Could not rip this
Creeps throat from his neck.

Do not let an open door
Turn into a self-signed invite
To slap your arse as you walk past.

Break the fuckers arm.
Then his nose.
Then his ego.

Chivalry isn’t dead. It’s dormant.
Hiding behind a mask
Of twenty-first century entitlement.

My dear,
You are neither dead, nor dormant.
Your dainty hands can open your own damn doors.

Planning Permission

Blueprint.
Approved.
Payment.
Worry.
Waiting.
Moment.

One knee.

Confirmation
Foundation.
Development.
Future.

Paper Aeroplane

I lay you down.
Gently. Softly.
Like ornate silk.

Your body;
So delicately thin.
Like ancient papyrus.

As I bent and folded
Your body carefully
Watching your patterns emerge.

You were artwork. Origami.
A freaking lotus flower.
Beautiful in full bloom.

You paid less care.
I was batch bought
Industrial A4.

A few rips and tears
As you folded me thrice,
And threw me away.