Mark G Pennington
Mark G Pennington is a writer based in Kendal, Cumbria and is the author of Barren Stories for Moonlit Mannequins, his debut book of poems published by Dempsey and Windle (2018). He has recently been nominated for The Pushcart Prize for poetry.
Praise for "Barren Stories for Moonlit Mannequins":
"Mark G Pennington’s poetry is masculine and sensual. It’s orchids and roses, it’s burnt orange and deep burgundy. It’s playing the blues on the accordion in a jazz bar. It’s a soulful busker with a battered guitar in the rain or the corner of a brothel. It’s spicy and secret with hints of Mexico, beat poets, angels and a shy Cumbrian. Mark G Pennington takes you to a place that you want to inhabit but from the safety of a page. A page that no longer feels like a page but a portal you are keen to re-visit. This is a poet you will fall in love with and after his poem Impossible Heart, you can’t help but love him with your guts."
29 poems, 45 pages
15cm x 21cm
The filth and the rag brine
(from "Barren Stories for Moonlit mannequins")
The mirror looked like it had been
up all night. A sunken, netted and
pilfered salmon marked by the
severity of the fisherman’s net.
Blood dances like shadow assassins.
Inflated, pink skull.
The room dropped to its knees.
A man can bruise in many ways.
Eyes tired as mothers of gin and
drivers with bad road directions.
The gut of brokenness.
Overture in songbird elegy:
reminder of the dead broken heart.
You are always alone,
even when in good company.
© Mark G Pennington
Barren stories for moonlit mannequins
I telephoned the doctor over a hundred times one summer,
the neighbour on my right smoked copious amounts
of marijuana, police told me to watch those cold
callers after I threw mail in the street, advised me not to
go to London, so I never lived with my muse, except only
in the bedsit massage parlour, one weekend,
oils that send you to dreams,
I searched for the solicitor with the whisky breath,
he couldn’t be found and I was sentenced to
six months, crackers, toothache, hell and senescence,
the only woman for miles around who could answer
the phone like gunpowder rain shooting,
the neighbours on the left had this stinking dog named after
a boxer, who would bark at eight in the morning, most days,
my guitar made the woman cry. It was either going to be
them or the doctor.
There was once a scion with his phantasmagorical dream,
coming out of the shadows of dharma bums, bite me when
I’m loose on Mexican beer and going against all of the
doodle brains, come the end of the carousal years.
Crossover in transition, there was a woman along the way told
me to offer myself to all and I parted ways with all the
strangled crowds after the last Valentine’s, the innocent
hallways where the seeds of self love shoot up, crooked junk,
these glum angels need untying. My incarceration, although
unwanted nailed extraction, steeping leaves making good tea.
© Mark G Pennington