Slow burn

Lynsey Rose reading from her novel “First Aid Kit Girl”

I push in the cigarette lighter. I like the red ring that lights up around it. I like the click it makes when it€™s ready.

I lick my lips, bite my nails. I change songs. The lighter clicks, stops glowing. I push it in again.

My battery will survive. I€™ll go back soon. Before…

First Aid Kit Girl is available from The Book Depository and Amazon

First Aid Kit Girl out now

Girl meets razorblade meets boy…

We have some super exciting news! We are proud to announce that The Green Press has published it’s latest novel, First Aid Kit Girl by first-time author, Lynsey Rose. You can buy it here, and it will be on Amazon very shortly.
The book is a black comedy, a story about oppression, hope and self-harm. Read Lynsey’s Next big thing interview to find out more about what the novel is about. You can also like First Aid Kit Girl on Facebook.

Keep your eye on Lynsey’s blogs Extol and Exitainment for more information.

You can also follow Lynsey on Twitter or find out more about her here.

More sex from The Green Press…

But, you know, literary sex. Intellectual. By Lee Webber.


Wilde’s Tomb

In vogue, with sodomite gait and a wink,
I kiss your grave and mouth your name, and then
imagine Savoy tables, amber drinks,
my buttocks tight like all your suppered men!
Just charm me Wilde. I€™m done with being coy.
I want a cigarette case made of gold.
I’€™ll let you feast on me, I’€™ll be your boy,
let scandal, infamy, pure love unfold!
Now lipstick covers you, your pigment shroud,
I hope you know the wonder that you give,
a homemade epitaph spells it out loud,
says €˜here lies the best man who ever lived€™.
I’€™ll leave you, cursing Victorian luck,
I’€™d sell my soul for one Wildean fuck.


It’s cold outside… fancy a poem about an affair?

Another unsatisfying sex session with Miss Lynsey Rose.


I knew it would be the end if we did it.
I imagined how it would be.
I pictured it like a bad film
The door slamming behind you
Me throwing myself on the crumpled bed
I even knew what I’€™d think:
€œWe€™’re damned€.
I compiled a play-list of music to sob to
All the hard stuff,
From weepy as hell
to unbridled anger.
I was really going to
relish it.
I was really looking forward to it.
As it was
It didn€’™t work out like that.
We did it on the couch
At lunchtime.
It took us 15 minutes to get home
And back
So time was against us.
Plus the conversation about
Shall we/ shan’€™t we?
took a few minutes more.
But we basically already had.
It wasn€’™t ideal
I wasn’€™t wearing my seamless knickers,
Or my decent skirt.
the first thing you said was,
€˜We must never do that again.€™
You looked shell-shocked.
And we couldn’€™t find the condom-wrapper
to hide.
I had to drive us back to work
And guilty songs came on the radio
One you knew
And one I knew.
I tried to keep your head together
When I just wanted to
Sellotape my own mind up.
This wasn’€™t how I planned it.
Back in the office
Emailing about the aftermath
Knowing it would
never happen again
I wished for one more chance
To fuck up in style.


A smoking break with Lee Webber…

We may be green but we like a fag and a snog from time to time.


Nicotine drops you
headfirst. Thoughts kick and bruise you.
A year since she left
you’€™re scratching your head,
pulling on a cigarette,
sat on pale-brown grass.
Hard for her, you’€™d yield-
firm lips, Vaseline kisses
dancing cold on your neck.
Afterwards a fag,
warm beer and sunburn, silence,
her hand on your wrist.
You never said €˜stay€™.
Was it right to sweeten her
with doormat eyelids,
only to sit mute,
your yellow lungs like cowards
breathing back the words?
Now cold, shadow set,
you offer ash to darkness,
suck your cigarette.

What’s in a word?

This poem, by Anne Mullane, is a bit like ‘I’d do anything for love’ by Meatloaf.

The Word

We are mesmerised by the word.
That word
The one you just said.
In this brightly lit café
It lies between us
Acid sharp, it flays the table.
And the future lurches
And you are placed apart
Cut off from the herd.
You look at me, expectant,
But I cannot help you
I don’€™t know how,
I wasn’€™t expecting
That word.


Mr Achampong is back…

Here’s an extract from writer Jeff Achampong’s latest novel…

€˜What do you mean I need a pass?€™ Kwik was right in the face of the doorman who stood patrolling the VIP area. €˜Were on the list!€™ The doorman took a step back and wiped the spray from Kwik’s tirade from his forehead €“ and iPad screen. He cleared his throat. €˜I€™m sorry, sir, you are not on the list because there is no list. You need a pass to access the VIP room, so would you mind stepping aside? You€™re blocking the entrance.€™
€˜Yeah, blood, come out the fucking way.€™ All five of Kwik€™s group turned to see a crowd of eight or nine guys €“ none of them looking like they were going to make it past the dress code check at the entrance.
Kwik turned to Darron and then back to the group noticing that they all had bottles in hand. €˜Man, what€™s your problem, shut the fuck up and wait your turn. Don€™t you see I€™m chatting here?€™ Jasmine and Sharon €“ realising that this had the potential to go bad at any moment €“ quickly unravelled themselves from Darron and Kwik, backing away.
€˜The problem€™s yours, bruv, not mine.€™ One of them, who was holding a champagne bottle, pushed through to the front and went nose-to-nose with Kwik. Darron who had seen this exact scenario play out many times before where Kwik was involved, was about to push the guy back, but iwas taken by surprise as his friend Bram pushed him to the side and muscled his way between the two; careful to make sure he did not spill his drink on either. €˜Chill out man, this ain’t worth it.€™
By this time, the Beastman from the main door appeared from inside the restricted area. He didn€™t need utter a word; the smile, along with his utterly impressive but surely steroid-created physique, was enough for all parties to know that Bram was probably right. Champagne-bottle man stepped back a pace from Kwik, took a swig from his bottle and looked over the two girls. €˜Any of you gals wanna come in VIP? Come party with us. Fuck these losers.€™ The doorman lifted the barrier and they bundled past Kwik, Bram and Darron and went inside. At least two of them made sure they stepped on Kwik€™s shoes on the way past, and Bram noted that none of them showed any sort of pass. Sharon and Jasmine looked at each other and then followed them through the barrier before Beastman slammed it shut.
The three of the group left delicately made their way up to the rooftop terrace which was inhabited by a dozen or so smokers, as well as a few couples chatting. They found a table and Kwik lit up a Marlboro.
Bram was first to speak, €˜Well, that when less than well€™.
Kwik took a drag on his cigarette. €˜Shut up Bram, I don€™t need your analysis right now.€™

Neapolitan afternoons…

Here’s a poem from the lovely Lynsey Rose. Lynsey’s novel will be released through the Green Press very soon! If you want to hear Lynsey’s voice (well, you never know) and you like Big Brother, why not check out her podcast? (We can’t be serious poets and novelists all the time).


The duck egg sky

The sky is marshmallow blue,
yellow, pink
I want to peel it
like a sticker
wipe it like a board.

The sky is
a duck egg
an angel cake
an eye-shadow trio

An easel
a blanket
or a mistake.