Boston 15th April 2013

The clouds fell and drifted and people appeared in the dust.

And we saw blood and silent screaming photos from three thousand

miles away. And above them, The Lennox, and the American flag

and the sky dotted between ash and debris.

And a glance of fire burst in blameless faces.

Yellow fluorescent jackets made swarms of confusion

and the words Physician, Police and Adidas.

And the tears in the eyes of a girl holding a man and

the blood spilled and stained the flag

next to a giant m&m mascot, ignorantly grinning.

A girl wrapped in foil. Her feet red and dirty and

a man’s legs gone, now a sharp stick of bone and his mouth

in an O shape, screaming, in a wheelchair,

crossing the finish line. And we all watched and

they lay on the ground in the deep, sinewy blood shapes,

as the clouds faded and showed the time: 4:09:55

© Michael Holloway

As it happened: Boston Marathon Explosion

Michael was born in Liverpool in 1985. He studied English Literature and Creative Writing at the University of Central Lancashire until 2008 and graduated with his Masters in Writing from Liverpool John Moores University in 2012. He has written a number of novels, which are currently unpublished, and often writes short stories and poetry. He also works with PIYE magazine. He is now one of the editors of Poetry24.

An Evil of Want

I shall never get you to entirely understand

the distance so far between us.

A great, grand Liberal stood atop the head of a man

with no ears, mouth, or eyes.

An evil Want of post-war Britain ended

with Beveridge. But they make us want once again.

The small eyes, gap-toothed grin beneath balding head,

laughs without shame or remorse.

Please take it from us, take it all,

take our money, take our lives.

Cupped hands to a bowl

at the knee of the millionaire government.

But still you shall give and you shall take away.

If no money now lands in our hands, perhaps it

belongs to the men in Parliament. Taking and smiling.

It seems we shall want once again.

© Michael Holloway, 2013

 Benefits: taking money from the poor.

Michael was born in Liverpool in 1985. He completed his Masters in 2012. As well as poetry, he writes short stories and hopes to get his first novel published soon. His blog is http://thehyperkarma.blogspot.co.uk/

Children Who Died in a Fire

Which children echoing their thoughts?
I thought it was over.
Each one, as myself, a little younger,
Pretends to be an aeroplane.
Do you like to wear Spiderman shoes?
He asks.

I am asleep now. Perfect as death.
Rest easy, little glow on the shore.
Slowly in the evening, same place as before,
My shadow shrinks. The sand is gold.
The sun is just fire, I think.
Who are the children who once was me?

I think I smell petrol. On your hands.
Is there Heaven? she asks.
Of course there is, I say.
I pretend to be God,
Standing in the middle of the ocean.
Each one, as myself, a little younger.

© Michael Holloway

Derby fire deaths: Neighbours to form human chain

Michael Holloway was born in Liverpool in 1985. He studied English Literature and Creative Writing at UCLan and is currently studying a Masters in Writing at LJMU.

Mother of Soldier

Mother who sweeps the floor each morning alone
Who crotchets together her failing mind that keeps her
Sleepless each night, and Mother who actually cannot believe
Any more in a God who killed her son
Wrapped up in camouflage and black boots put on his feet
By the hands of his dead comrades;

Mother of soldier, who died here too,
In a war of opinion that sacrifices you,
Mother your son is dead, taken away fighting,
Killing and real bullets tearing a hole in the heart of Mother;

Mother who weeps with a cancerous moan
Distracted by war and the governing bodies,
Killed and tortured by the bloody hands of your owners,
Who treat you like a dog, Mother, like a dog
And now, less photogenic sunsets with his face,
Lifeless in a casket now burning in the crematorium of

Your motionless son; unable to love or to care,
Mother, your country has killed him,
Fearless frightened burning with fury,
While your peers decide what to wear;

Mother hates the army, hatred of difference and death,
Hatred of feeling of loss and hate,
Hatred of disgusting vulgar green and black,
Hatred of Jack and his loyalty,
Hatred of country and honour,
Hatred of mother and son in crowds and crowds of soldiers.

© Michael Holloway

Soldier Gareth Bellingham's grieving mother 'hates army'
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Michael Holloway was born in Liverpool in 1985. He studied English Literature and Creative Writing at UCLan and is currently studying a Masters in Writing at LJMU.