Neu! Boots Are Made For Walking DAY FORTY-FIVE – N.S. Thompson

“People Don’t Do This To Me!”

Would I move, would I mind,
Would I shift my behind
  When taking up two seats?  Not me.

Would I wait for my turn,
Would I listen and learn?
 I will not. Not ever. Not me.

When faced with delays
Watch my pitiless gaze
 Demanding swift action. That’s me.

No, I have no scruples,
So narrow my pupils
 And make people listen to me.

Or I bellow and stare
With my steely-eyed glare
 To get some attention. You see,

When faced obstruction
I threaten disruption
 With “People don’t do this to me!”



N S Thompson is a poet, critic and translator whose work appears widely in publications ranging from Agenda, The Dark Horse, New Walk and Stand to The Spectator and the TLS. His previous publications include the verse epistle Letter to Auden (Smokestack, 2010) and he co-edited the satirical collection A Modern Don Juan: Cantos for These Times by Divers Hands (Five Leaves, 2014). 

Neu! Boots Are Made For Walking DAY FORTY-FOUR – Holly Magill

Riverside views

The identification has to be done from DNA
due to the extent of decomposition.

Found in a tent pitched on the Severn’s banks
near The Diglis Hotel – a premier venue
popular with wedding parties.

The parks’ worker who made the discovery said
they’d had complaints of terrible stench
– he’ll never forget it, that smell.

There’s no next of kin, no one to tell
the name of the man who was 74 years old,
who had a tent, not much else.

Becca phones to request a discount on her Reception
– doesn’t want any of her guests creeped out.



Holly Magill is from Worcestershire. Her poetry has appeared in various publications, including Poets’ Republic, Ink Sweat & Tears and The Morning Star

Neu! Boots Are Made For Walking DAY FORTY-THREE – Tamar Yoseloff


Sump on the blink, dumping
sewage over dirt, brown
on brown; we’re submerged
in a mire of filth, big stink.

It pumps from your mouth,
your rump, scum that rises
fast and sticks, dirty tricks,
a load of shit you sell it –

fools’ gold, chip off the old
cock sucker, mother fucker
where do you get off . . .
get off this earth before

you throw it. Tub thump,
rumpty tump, you blow
a fuse, a furious fart,
you tear the earth apart

and we suck it up, chumps,
your faithful chimps
trashing the House.
No quick fix.

Neu! Boots Are Made For Walking DAY FORTY-TWO – Nicholas Murray


As I went out one morning,
when Autumn leaves were dry;
I found it hard to credit
the brilliance of the sky.

I looked into its blueness
and felt the warming sun
then turned towards the city
for my day had just begun.

I saw the slumped night-workers
asleep in crowded trains;
I saw the cocky bankers
as they plotted easy gains.

I saw a silent chippie,
with a toolbox and a saw;
among the posh commuters
his eyes were on the floor.

I read the morning headlines
on someone else’s Mail:
a TV chef was cheating
and Curry’s had a sale;

and in a distant war-zone
a hospital was razed;
I saw the children running,
their neighbourhood ablaze.

I left at Covent Garden,
the sun was still as bright;
and Europe’s offshore island
was tucked up nice and tight.



Nicholas Murray was born in Liverpool and now lives in Mid Wales. His most recent poetry collection is The Migrant Ship (Melos, 2016). He won the Basil Bunting Prize in 2015. Crossings: a journey through borders was recently published by Seren.

Neu! Boots Are Made For Walking DAY FORTY-ONE – Sally Evans

The Fear

The first snow on Ben Ledi
and a silence has descended.
We can feel the fear already.

In the air that should be heady
our own street seems undefended,
as the first snow’s on Ben Ledi

and the hoar hangs like a dready
where the autumn glow has ended.
We can feel the fear already,

our way of life unsteady
with a wider friction blended
and the first snow’s on Ben Ledi.

Help us, Allah, Christ or Jedi
please let all our ills be mended.
We can feel the fear already.

There’s a swirl, a tide, an eddy
through our small safe realm, attended
by the first snows of Ben Ledi:
we can feel the fear already.


Sally Evans is a well known and well published poet, in Scotland at least. meanwhile her e-book,  Anderson’s Piano, about a rail crash in the wilds, was at the top of the kindle Womens Poetry bestseller list throughout November. She is judging the Robert Tannahill Poetry Competition this year.

Neu! Boots Are Made For Walking DAY FORTY – Ruth Steadman

The State Of The Asylum

A magpie hawks his wares in the long damp yellow grass.
Look up! He struts in black and white; the sky is falling
fast. These keys feel so official I’m not sure I can trust them.
The building squats to pee under a low grey sun.

We’ve seen refugees and anorexics, paedophiles and veterans,
smuggled aid to starving bishops, absolved the dying desperate.
We’ve recycled every tear that’s stained the threadbare carpet.
Do come on in, dear – your pain is safe with us.

Hope with her hoover and undertaker eyes: Swim, people, swim!
– like the recently bereaved. We count our peanuts in a line
(licking blood from our fingers), tune the radio for news,
board up the window’s final view, sing as all the stars expire.

A quaint and charming doer-upper with original features:
an ECT suite, a padded cell – for sale to the highest bidder.


Ruth Steadman’s poetry has been published on the Royal Academy’s blog, in All that is unsaid – a pamphlet of student work available from The Poetry School, and is forthcoming in The High Window. She lives in south London, where she works as a psychotherapist in both the NHS and private practice.

Neu! Boots Are Made For Walking DAY THIRTY-NINE – Gregory Leadbetter


We are estranged:
a people spoken of
as if in story.
Our existence moot
even to ourselves.

Who are these figures
behind our faces
and whose faces
are these our own?

Our stars are scattered
kingcups, light spilt
like certain fate
for we the lost to find
and build our firmament.

Our beautiful are still beautiful
but cold as fresh
statues waiting
for the warmth of blood.

We hold world office,
our intent as yet unknown.

We are old: we feel
that in our bones
and in the noises
of our islands.
There are voices
on the air: do they
speak for us? Our mouths
are silent nestling crows
gaping to be fed.

Our sounds require
their dark interpreters.
Our spectres tell our young
we come from over the sea:
this movement
between, this flood
of our speech
seeking us out.

We wake to reports
of a boat capsized
beyond the horizon.
We assemble in hope
as if in sight of ourselves.

A child washes ashore
with her gift of tongues.

She is alive.



Gregory Leadbetter’s debut full-length collection The Fetch, was published by Nine Arches Press in October 2016. A pamphlet, The Body in the Well, was published by HappenStance Press in 2007. His book on Coleridge’s fascination with the transnatural, Coleridge and the Daemonic Imagination (Palgrave Macmillan, 2011) won the University English (formerly CCUE) Book Prize 2012.