1st Prize – 2025
Notes From A Transported Convict – Mark Lewis
peeler pinched in pox ridden poverty threepenny
upright fed by gluttonous gents tawdry tumescent grunting
and groaning ruffled and shuffled through cesspit cell through court
kangarooed hither and thither wrists chaffing elbow throbbing
by grip and by slip shoulders bruising by walls by doors by stick
sentence passed in the breaking breath of a baby no wailing
a future failing mapped futureless wave goodbye to shit stained
sperm-stained scabrous streets disbelief gurgled in guts
as the first and final ship of my life sailed flailed and swayed
and leaned swayed leaned swayed leaned swayed decks
sprayed with salt slick with sick the anguished oceans bobbing
like a whore’s head swallowing her pride for a stale
crust of bread from rain to sun sun to moon to sun to sun
no food but water too much water piss anointed
water filthy to mirage your face in grotesque eyes
agog groggy but not grogged fetid breath on fetid backs
sweat stained shit filled sacks of anger and bone,
bunched alone liminal mongrel starved got any food got any morsels
got any scraps just the soft fleshy ears nibbled by rats the heave
and heft of the living tomb no room hip to hip the ship
lurches you wash drink splutter gag swallow songs feebly
sung tuneless in sun plangent sorrowed longing for bricks and mortar
of familiar streets shit stained sperm stained scabrous
streets of no tomorrow thoughts a rancid stew
rot moulding in nostrils pores pouring the stench corpse cold
discarded cajoled docking unloading like chattel like cattle
measured notated eyes hair wart scar chronicled counted like goods
to blister tumble stumble fumble splintered streets exchanged
this sweating land the bark of tree the bark
of order the slash of the nine tongued lash
generously gifted to a white-faced master
aproned capped shifted dressed for women’s work
needle numb flax spun rope burned the women’s curse
of this new life the old life carry lift carry lift but at least
not to marry back bent like a dog’s leg fucked in places the seed
would not grow in places where his wife would not
let him go poor sow the bark of those trees rubbing
engorged knees no point in screaming nothing changing get it done
dreaming of turnips tatties gravy the spit roast
hog that I have become more meat than on me
but not more than in me adjust apron shift straighten
cap then back to the treadmill spit and polish the broom the lash
the dripdripdrip about the finger-marked thighs crusting
hold in the bowels hold in the howls the skin waled roughened
not my body just a hollowed shell discarded on alien shores
my nethers neither here nor there not mine nor his nor yours
let the maggots nestle here in that emptied vessel
my mind alone drifting wooden on waves ten thousand miles
yonder in sordid squalid streets of luxury this hotter hell’s
drudgery not mine not shackled here for redemption on Sunday
sin on Monday or whenever he can sin on no hope no past
hobbled hobbling ageless we age all the same in Van
fucking Demon’s land fourteen long years of pain, shame, disease
reward for the milling of a shilling of cheese