blackmail press 28
Robert Grant                   

+ Ellipses

There’s a guy
sat in front of me,
watching porn on his laptop.
In a coffee shop,
whilst eating a breakfast muffin.

Everyone around him
is ignoring the fact,
that it’s just so obvious.

About as obvious
as the fact that I’m behind him,
writing about it.

Just as I’m watching
the exhausted mother,
starring into the space
where her imagination used to be..

The older couple,
still so into each other,
laughing loudly as…no work tomorrow.
Just drinking today.

The expressive talker,
gesturing wilding,
no doubt making some fatuous point,
that even she doesn’t fully understand.

The middle aged...middle manager,
power suit…lime green tie.
Numb look slapped across his face, head against window,
dreaming about painting or some interesting alternative.


More people enter,
through the amazingly small door,
which hits the fake leather seat back,
annoying Mr businesses coffee,
all over his tie.


The spunky hipsters striding with thick black rimmed glasses,
confident, beautiful,
and ignorant to their acoustic level.

This is a place where reality is found, coffee served,
break ups announced, dreams crushed.

Missing only an arrogant poet,
slumped in the corner,
watching another mans porn.
Writing ellipses with an erection. 

+ On a train

Small reminders of were I’m from,
the train rattles my brain into action.
These boys made men by experience,
before me
stand to let plugged women rest.

I sit badger winged,
sabre sheathed by my side pain,
vibrated awake by uneven track shoes.
As we wobble down the rails,
of aging.

So jazzed to be here,
yet still ensure of how in the blink of one pink eye,
we have turned to the aged.
Protruding from youth as if made
as accompaniment to ice cream.

Our memories alluding us,
resting head on shoulder,
when hipsters expel energy.
Hoping to catch a remnant in panting mouth,
this dog breathed commander waits.

To see if this girl has pink panties on,
or if that guy will ever smile.
She wants him hard,
I think he’s homosexual,
but appreciates the compliment.

The punk and the priest sharing a bench seat,
reading over each other shoulders,
of religion and speed rock.
She’s had a hard day at the office,
he’s not short of a euro.

All these distractions compressed,
into one drop of sweat,
now beading down my forehead.
Leaving me vomitous from the effort
of writing on a train.  

+ Heater

We’re trapped into a form of life that cannot be taught, can’t be learnt,
stretched or moulded into something it’s not. At the base of thought with purest form, it’s perfect.

When executed, its style is unbounded by questions and reasons,
putting forth explanations to roads less travelled or a crazy night, confined after to a bed with a cold.   

Tissues cascading over the floor, slotted together,
bringing corrosive arrangements to dance, in ore an incestuous need to create ones self over, in word

Ejaculating the first misfire of mindless retort, posed by a fool,
left festering awake, as you beat him over the head with drab memories of that time once, when you should have done it.

Standing in an ankle deep bathtub, holding a four bar heater,
hoping someone can stop the monologue, pen hitting page, expelling truth with flow, untold and un mentioned.

Quiet moments of contemplative sanity lost,
tossed through madness mistakes and missteps, by a hand who knows no salvation for imagination.

Muddied waters break on this shore,
lapping over crippled feet. I stand eroded, barricading my soft spot with a handmade façade of tranquillity.

For this is now my madness, my untaught curse,
urging my finger to relax their grasp, so I may see oblivion, with enough juice to fire up Wisconsin.  

Kitchen - Charles Olsen
Robert Grant is a writer, living and working in Berlin for some time now and has just completed my first novel entitled Much more than Mexico. After university in Southampton (England) he was published in a number of small independent magazines including Love Words and Beat. His first poetry collection was published by Searle in 2005, in the form of a solo spoken word poetry album, entitled ‘The Rambling Man’. This lead to performances on numerous stages, events and festivals all across the world.

Since moving to Berlin in 2007 he quickly established a strong reputation as a writer and poet, with articles about him being published in The ExBerliner and the Berliner Morgenpost. These articles are due to an English poetry event that he founded and curates called Beatstreet poetry Berlin. His work has been published in numourous poetry magazines and ezines including The Black Mail press, Wordpress, Lostbeatpoetry, Word Slaw, Foliateoak, Cynic Mag, Mad River and most recently the Sand literary journal. He has just finished writing and directing his first music video and is now working on an athology of the Berlin English poetry scene and polishing his novel.