PART TWO

DAVE CARTON 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: http://www.thepentagon.com/buttonpresser

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! [email protected]

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. [email protected] Visit the Monday Night Group web site at: http://www.mondaynightgroup.mcmail.com