Dave Carton (aka Button Presser) is 37 years old. He recently took up writing poetry again after a 20 yr stint where he wrote only a very few poems.

Since then he has been published in four poetry anthologies, as well as being published as Editors Choice in the quarterly Poetry Now magazine, and guesting on Poetry sites, and E-zines such as this one.

If you want to read more of Dave's poetry, follow the link below:

Does Xena live in Xanadu?
© Dave Carton

Does Xena live in Xanadu?
Will Hercules compete
With the ghost of the Mighty Manitou
in this mythical deceit?

Will Gabriel storm Valhalla
Using only her trusty staff?
Will Xena meet Caracalla
And cut the sod in half?

Did Aeolus truly war with Thor?
Was he really so thick skinned
As to unsheath Rob Roy's claymore
And throw caution to the wind?

In this maelstrom of Myth & Mystery
Where the Titans clash by night
When they throw in a dash of history
You're assured of a damn good fight!

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catfish (Steve Rouse)

CATFISH (STEVE ROUSE) is a member of the Manchester (England) - based poetry group called The Monday Night Group in Manchester, England. He's quite active on the local poetry scene and has been published by Crocus and the AK Press, amongst others. He writes about anything which comes to mind and has been accused of being experimental, which he confirms or denies as the occasion demands.

icarus rebounds
© steve rouse

What if Icarus's fall had been broken
by Jesus, out for a stroll on the Aegean?
It's not as ridiculous as it sounds,
if you can believe a man can fly
and another can walk on water,
you can probably believe anything.

Jesus and Icarus became great friends.
They had much in common, both having had
difficult relationships with their fathers.
They'd sit around on waves and talk,
waiting for whales to ride. Sometimes Icarus
would feel Jesus gently stroke his wings.

angels have zits
© steve rouse

Angels have zits, heads like
lead shot, tumescent with
custard. Eruptions pompeii
their pot-holed faces when

they sleep, baby-curled in
Elysian fields, termites
nibble their toe-nail cheese.
God has B.O. Armpits like

rain forests - things swing
through the hairs, get
dislodged when he scratches,
fall a hundred miles or more,

bounce off clouds and populate
worlds. His breath formed the
Magellanic cloud, he belches
galaxies and hasn't washed

his hair since he created
oceans. Next door, while
cherubs shit in the woods,
daemons polish their tiaras

and lick their icicle wings.
Their dainty horns tipped with
silver and their tails tipped
with glue. They pat their

piglet-pink faces with cream,
manicure their claws and wash
their hair in rosewater.
Beelzebub's Italian tie is

the colour of his eyes, the
colour of the ocean, the colour
of the sky which frames the
dove that flies back to my arm.

It is heavy, it caws, pecks my
hand, draws a focus of blood.
The paint upon its feathers is wet,
the olive branch drips vinegarette.

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