Excerpts from SECTORAL HETEROCROMIA, a Poetry Collection by Luke Nutt

1. The incidents you aren’t allowed to discuss, particularly if you are a
man; the emotional dogma of living; the gooey shite.




the swirls of emulsion on the wall
wont miss your running fingers;
the dead flies on the windowsill
won’t miss your complaining;
the water from the shower-head
has forgotten the curves of your body;
the chair you wrote in
will slowly lose your imprint;
the photos you will never see again
are the only things that remember the colour in your eyes.
had i known you were about to leave
i would have tidied the house
since your smell has matured into a toxic sitting.
its too late in the day for that nonsense
so your aura can stay even if you won’t.
as is expected, i will leave the door unlocked
so the possibility of your murderous return is unobstructed.



nobody falls to pieces, really
our solid state changes –
we become a liquid form
so barium heavy
unable to be caught
by God.


Lovey Shite

i just want the delicate dreams
the naughty nightmares
the sweet dreamy demise that i deserve.

remind me of earlier
when we would walk
through ocean’s lips,
Helios’s grip
on our way home
to my favourite place:
the bedroom at the top of the stairs.
i had never in my life been so far away from judgmental glares.
i’ll wait by the sepulcher
bring yourself
– the job is yours




dying is not
a method of eradicating you.
dying is an art form.
an art form in which brush strokes
are unacceptable. kiss yourself
with a knife.
create art with your crimson oil.
the carpet is your hue to change
i would love to kill you myself
to watch your blood tango,
tango and dye the bed sheets
you masturbated on.
i have had to kill you
and i didn’t have to love it –
but i did.
only because my masterpiece is complete
and we are both so happy.
this is not auschwitz
more of a cessation of lesser-life.



oh kitty you bastard
your body was unexplored
undocumented and fruitful.
i knew you were coming for me –
pearl harbour, perhaps?
after your kissing kamikaze sweep
on my brow
i was dizzy
unable to keep myself standing
with the irreparable damage.
the walls around me melted
with a hot touch.
let’s hold hands
and watch this whole thing fall apart.
i became very good friends
with the curb
with your foot
that you clamped on my chest.
at a loss to keep hold
of the breath under my chest
i wished i could have killed you
that would have been suicide.
i’m not ready for the commitment.
the commitment of death.
the death of you. truthfully
there is little that i am ready for.
imagining such a blessing
would be a sadomasochistic crime.
the thought of such a blessing, however,
lingers like your perfume – a sillage.
there is no wind to carry it away
there is no distraction
no destination or required location.
you pulled the chain connected to the plug
so we could drown together.
i’ll be right back.
but you did not return.



i heard your body
crooning for me
you were begging
to be unravelled
explored so delicately.



Biological Beatdown

love that echoes
in my eyes. a heart
that beats mine
to a pulp.
good girl.
don’t stop.
venomous kisses
of yours that
react slowly
with my mind.
don’t stop.
your words
your words
shouldn’t scare me,
that is the job of
thoughts i cannot release.
don’t stop.


I’m Coming, Ganges

my corpse relaxes
with sore
untouched lips.
the river’s hum
gently whispers
on my leg’s side.
i can see God.
he doesn’t care –
that’s why i’m here.



when your bones crack
i imagine i am walking
on sea shells.
the rush of love
as you smile
seems to envelope the world
causing it to blossom.
each time i attack your lips
i embrace the taste
of lilies feeding on blood.
it upsets me that
nature can be manipulated
in such a way
that destruction can
appear so humanely natural.


Death Metal

isn’t it strange
that if you wish
to remove a song
from your head,
you are to listen
to it repeatedly,
but, with a person
it only kills you
h a r d e r.




don’t roll away from me
i hate being under the covers alone –
molested by asphyxiation.
i’ve had a long life,
particularly today.


2. Blindfolded and wandering through the forest during a snowstorm. I
have tried to explain this collection of poetry but believe me, I
cannot. Some, I am sure, do not even make sense. Take them as they



your blood
it takes a moment
to spend as much time
on my tongue, as the words
“i love you”



it was a vile, sunny day
that i spent with naked, blistered feet.
we stood amongst the nettles
and a few of our pet bees.
it is just a simple amalgamation
of spit and chewed food.
but when you participate
in kissing me, i become.
my mind begins to gently torture me.
my teeth grind
i make another attempt
at trying to figure out
exactly what or who you are



it doesn’t count
when i trample on flowers
because they can’t resist.
you can and it upsets
everyone even more
because you’re beautifully whimsical
but filled with toxins
you have that enticing
straw on your neck
that i can’t help but suck at


3. So, when you go for a run, and you have that really clear, spicy
breath of air at the back of your mouth, the one that makes you
salivate rather heavily; that’s what these are all about – slightly
discomforting but you know they are good for you.



you know, Honey
if it rained
every time joy
spread your cheeks
i would drown
with a similar
expression of content


4. These are based around strangers you fall in love with in the street
and never see again; they are also based around the people you spend
your life with. Again, the gooey shite.




just because your hair
lies on the ground
embellished in betrayal,
does not mean
at all
that the rest of us
have forgotten about your beauty



your naked flesh
concealed by destructiveness.
a blow of amalgamated couth insults
flows delicately from your mouth.
i was worried i would see you leave
heaving your brogues,
scorning and scolding
over cold, collected cobbles
but you hobbled happily,
the drunken jive,
over to my corner of the bar.
i really wish you hadn’t




as you do
the first flower of spring
in a field of withered dreams and memoirs
you left before my ticket was valid.
a collage of cottages habitually unkempt by the sea
eroded and swept – my hand is dry
adieu, adieu, adieu
i wave powerfully
but no crooked eyes have noticed me.


5. Here, I have attempted to join beauty with the physical appearance –



i still find strands of your lily pink hair.
it’s 11:45 at night.
it isn’t long for my wishes to take a hold of the icy tail in the deep
infinite shower above me and everyone else.
your blood was sticky.
dried lips were positive to a negative.
my hands were scaly from the rope burns.
what do you expect?
i was too afraid of letting go.
i was reassured.
none of this was my fault.
i did not intend to enter Alice’s wonderland and see you for myself.
the mysticism, clarity, starvation, abstract nature you throw at me
leaves me burning yearning calling shouting blistering growing aching
horny climbing clawing hiking sprinting for something else from you.

you are always enough
you are never enough



Words – Luke Nutt

Pictures – Alfie Verity


Selected Poems by Neil James Jones


The darkened bank

Where the river rose before

Water left its mark.

I want it to rise again.

I wish it would never leave.




A picture of grey.

Cold, brittle branches stretch out,

Clouds sit unmoving.

Relief comes from the footsteps,

The floorboards break the silence.



A Sestina:

The unknowable creature is the one we seek to analyse

And the comparisons come easily: beauty, goddess, angel

But not strong or gifted or even decent.

That’s why the serpents coil around your legs and hiss

Their flicking tongues nip with the expansion

Of their influence and they see you as prey, a wounded moth


The fragile wings turn to dust when the moth

Is captured, yet we still analyse

And investigate its formless, fractal expansion

In them we seek the work of a god, the face of an angel

Or the reassuring and debasing hiss

Of the serpent, neither compassionate nor decent.


The observers claim to be upstanding, decent

And with honour. You are still a moth.

Pinned. Immobile.  Oblivious to the unheard hiss

Of the bubbling beakers and creaking equipment that will analyse

You. They will strip the angel

Of its wings, now folded and without expansion


The creeping, oozing expansion

Into your heavenly domain makes a decent

Defence impossible and the angel

Will soon fall, a burned and broken moth.

After the action, after the fact they will analyse

What went wrong. They’ll blame each other with a snap and a hiss


When they turn and their sweet words become a hiss

That rings in your ears, the expansion

Of white noise, static you cannot analyse

They no longer need to be respectful and decent

They cannot lament for the moth

This alcove has lost its angel


There is no place on earth for an angel

Those that do not believe will hiss

There is no place in the daylight for a moth

The sun boils in its red giant expansion

The is no place in this city for the decent

Only literal, reptilian minds that cannot analyse:


An angel in expansion

A hiss at the decent

A moth to analyse



A Collection of Couplets:

The grand game never changes

and remains through the ages.


High in the ivory tower,

secure in their seats of power.


For I am just one person

but with inaction things worsen.


“Things will never change” they advise,

though the history books say otherwise.


Change is more than overdue,

we ask ourselves “what can we do?”


All the lies they have spoken

mean the promises stay broken.




Five More Minutes of Spring

It’s always the sun that wakes me.

The bright early light that shakes me from sleep.

No matter the weather outside,

It is a warm spring day,

Shot through with potential.

Anything is possible.

I breath deeper,

Smile easily,

And the hum and buzz of something natural

And growing follows me

I want that feeling

All the time

Every time

I cling to it

And that is why I beg you.


I reach from the covers to touch you

My fingers extend

Vines creaking with slow motion exertion

My hand flailing in the space you left

Branches groaning with intention

And I ask you to stay

On this spring day

for five more minutes



Exile on Oldham Street

Oldham street is not a home to anyone.

The humans here have already gone.

It is a transient space,

A waiting room.

A bus lane flanked by barber shops and vintage clothing sales,

Hipsters stare at Apple laptops while sipping artisanal craft ales.


The velocity of the road means that

No busker can play,

No one can ask for change,

No one wishes to stay and chat,

And the charity muggers of Market Street are well out of range.


The residents of Oldham Street are just popping in.

They have just arrived or are waiting to leave.

The seconds spent here do add up,

Those seconds spent have accumulated over years


Before Affleck’s Palace

There was Affleck and Brown


Before The Night and Day Cafe

There was day and night


Before Madchester

There was the Methodist Mission


If you take one of those seconds,

On a summer afternoon,

And spend it on yourself

You might just see

Beneath your feet

Where the history of this street

Pokes through


Sad Girl Poem


It is easy to cry

When you realise

That everyone you love

Will reject you

Or die

You are born, you live and you die.

And maybe that’s enough


There is far more evidence

To suggest the existence

Of Harry Potter

Than any religion created

Or mystical doctrine ever stated

You are born, you live and you die.

And maybe that’s enough


We are all afraid of death

Of taking that final breath

But even that is ok

Ok to be terrified

Ok to be horrified

That you are born, you live and you die.

And maybe that’s enough.


This is not a dress rehearsal

A state before the reversal

Admit it freely

Admit that you are going to die

And that any place after is a lie

You are born, you live and you die.

And maybe that’s enough.


Assume that your faith is an invention

Its purpose merely the retention

Of willing donors

Or the desire to explain

This uncaring physical plane

You are born, you live and you die.

And maybe that’s enough


You speak of beauty

As is your duty

When considering creation

But there is beauty in chance

And music in that Brownian dance

You are born, you live and you die

And maybe that’s enough


What if there is no reason?

And for nothing a season?

The walls come tumbling

Perhaps the purpose is you

And what you manage to do

You are born, you must live and you must die

And maybe it is enough to try



The Social Customs and Culture of The Oxford Road People

A giant Tin Can once filled with human beans

Sits as a monument to student dreams,

Student debt and student diet.

The Museum’s resident Tyrannosaur

Reminds us of what came before

And what will come again when the road stands quiet


From Rusholme to Parrs Wood,

Meaningless names now lost for good.

The road was there before it was built

And will remain

Even when reclaimed

By the drains clogged with silt


Tribesmen scale the Geoffrey Manton building’s furcation

To see the foliage crash like a wave against Oxford Road station.

They will stalk the campus for prey,

Dry venison in the bus lane by day,

Tan hides on the bicycle racks of All Saints Park

And draw close to the bonfire of law school books come dark


As the days grow longer and hotter

The primitives will seek the only source of clean water.

The parched and thirsty tribesmen enter

The sacred springs of the Aquatics Centre.

They will greet each other solemnly as their forefathers did,

The tribal salutation of “Alright ‘r kid?”



Get in the car and go

We’ll catch some cats that can blow

And maybe a little something more

for a couple of young guys looking to score


The girls, my god the girls

The bubble gum blondes with California curls

Those fierce and fiery redheads

with hard smiles and soft linen beds


Small town girls utterly devoted

San Fran’ sweethearts, sugar coated

Diner broads served to order

as we head on down to the border


There’s the sexy jazz that screams

The hot tea minus the cream

And the cervezas por favor

But we want more

Not just the girls,

but the girl


We are here to find her:

The American Dream


Not the Hollywood mass production

Or the Madison Avenue mass seduction

She must be sought not bought

Uncovered and discovered


Stepping straight off the rolling stock

Or fresh off the boat in port

Or maybe just a short walk

into Old Town


Neither manufactured nor tailor made

You’ll know the girl by those eyes of brown and jade





Words – Neil James Jones

Images – Danielle Jade Oldham