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Lynn's Poems

Click 'Read more' to read selected poems from Lynn's books 'Bar in a Bra', 'Northern Goddess' and 'Poems from the Naughty Step'


From 'Bar in a Bra' by Lynn Walton

(written by Anne’s best friend who considerately planned a girly get-together on the evening before Anne was executed. Sadly her name has been lost to history.) it’ll be fine you’ll hardly feel a thing let’s have a last girls’ night in everyone round to your tower you’ll look great lose weight we’ll go through your outfits and check for something stylish with a low neck a Victoria Beckham would turn heads get the respect of your subjects and red would so go with the blood black accessories so everyone will appreciate how you create a state occasion let’s take selfies shake this fake news you couldn’t have time for adultery, incest AND conspiracy not with all your royal responsibility not to mention the creation of the reformation can you get a lipstick to match your bloodgroup that would be so on trend on facebook more likes than the entire Tudor timeline front cover of Hello peasants can vote for their favourite Boleyn moment be seen more than Jane Seymour just cos you had a Tudor for a suitor who turned out to be a serial seducer was so not your fault let’s do tequila shots you’ve no worries about headaches or hangovers we could sleep over or get an uber home what about face masks waxing eyebrows cucumber eyepacks a you tube tutorial on red stained hairstyles something that won’t fall out ….when it falls off firm hold hairspray mustn’t let a strand stray we’ll whiten your teeth keep that regal smile on your face secure your place on the history syllabus there’ll be media exposure photographers getting closer you don’t want gross odours get a 24 hour deodorant with spices and herbs I’d put it on now or you won’t get your money’s worth sweat stains are so last season’s Plantagenet queens shall I get Prosecco and Ferrero Rocher or something posher wild boar hors d’oeuvres porpoise nibbles, conga eel, curried veal Jamie’s fifteen minute swan tagine is to die for have you got “Now 1536” hits it’s got top lute tunes with a virginal twist they say you’re having a French executioner OMG is he a looker have you found him online I’m sure he’ll be gentle as it’s your first time and you’ve only got a little neck you’ll go viral I am well jel post on twitter #don’t lose your head update your profile an alive then beheaded hope you’ve learnt your lesson 10 second makeover edition this will be a media sensation decapitation and have you got the executioners number in your phone if you don’t mind me texting him when you’re done

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Icarus in Salford

From 'Northern Goddess' by Lynn Walton

(written by his mum) my Icarus is standing tall above you all on top of Salford Shopping City the sky belongs to him but it’s been littered with clouds swirling gently like clots of cream mixed with dust from broken dreams he spreads his arms wide was a mother ever filled with so much pride or so filled with fear she can barely hear the jeers of the Saturday crowd who’d rather be in Poundland but it’s keeping the kids quiet for now my Icarus says he can fly to the stars he’s been in the gutter too long never found the words to his song needs to try harder always drenched in falling short of someone’s ill-thought expectations the flapping of his wings is a Salford heartbeat that turns every head high and every voice low tips every shop out it’s eyes up at Gala bingo he rises like Jesus on a high the blue sky folding its arms around him my son soaring to the foothold of the sun’s jostling flames its heat stretching the air buttering his flesh there are feathers drifting down in a delicate descent my heart stops dead he falls like a stone tear nearer and nearer shedding scorching drops of wax on the told-you-so crowd splitting the sky as he comes down to the arms of the woman who bore him and loved her son before he loved the sun he crumbles into a silent Salford crowd spat from the sky bruising the ground arms hot with melted pain this precinct never stood so calm one voice whispers “Mam, I’m getting that tattooed on my fuckin’ arm” the last of his breath singes my cheek tears leak and puddle by the 36 bus stop now I only walk under grit-grey skies so I don’t have to scream at the sun’s gloating eye

Flatpack Sex

From 'Poems from the Naughty Step' by Lynn Walton

Flatpack Sex (All the “unknown” words are names of Ikea products - or they were when I wrote it in 2016!) Jack and Sophia decided it would be a great idea to slip into Ikea when the store was clear they wanted a bit of fruga and fryken sneaking round the display rooms after dark he started the night with a pint of best bittergurka she had a slugger of vodka there was a kludd and a klunka as they tore off their clothes and a gaspa when he caught sight of her arstid it made her feel tyngen all over the bastis tore her brada from her chest her busa was exposed which he obviously like to karesta he was all in a rush to be beddinge couldn’t even make time for forbluffad he had lustifik in his eyes, matlust in his voice and randig intentions to behandla he had too much tostero, his rodd was on the riso he was over enthused with the plight of his prickig I suppose cos he’d been on the pyssla and once he’d got the knack he just wanted to frack he eventually managed to docksta with his mighty klockis I could hear gentle smaklig, she seemed to enjoy that then out of the blue came a bjursta of foul insults he called her a slugger and a bagis then said you’re uppfatta and a hagge, nothing short of a trampa and I don’t think your underwerk is clean you slatten no wonder you’ve got a dose of the fungera she couldn’t believe it she got the blomsterriks kicked him in the gonatts and called him a tossig and a fryken birket by this time his dryck flader was failing his dimpa was whimpering his knoppa was totally knappad if that wasn’t enough several fortslutas who’d been loitering outside began florting and fortjusting themselves hoping to get in on the act but he’d had a fridfull he’d got nothing left his knubbig wasn’t really that big his meatballs were more squeamish than Swedish he’d lost his rhythm after masterbying his minibjorn in her muffinsmix he was nacksta by the end of the frakta he just wanted to go out for a lufsig I’m surprised she didn’t go off in a stromby he looked completely jackfrukt and totally knackerbrod not even a sparka remained he was drained in ikea but the webcam images were clear his new career was about to take ofta the whole event just spiralled by morning it had gone viral now Ikea can resurrect your flatpack sex

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