Posts by Rob Schackne

A poem for that time of year, by Rob Schackne

First, do not (whatever you do)

organise yourselves into perfect cells

it’s a dead giveaway, other people talk

plus, resist creating any magical crowds

Second, do not talk to the bigmouths

even if their conscience is a lighthouse

or if the one you want is really the funny wife

they’ll spill all the beans you don’t have

A poem by Rob Schackne

Locked inside the iron house

Seventeen others are snoring

There are no windows anywhere

No ventilation means we’re dying

A poem for Friday night – by Rob Schackne

She sits down too close to me

and orders a bottle of red wine

already loaded fast busting up

with her boyfriend on the phone

A new poem by Rob Schackne

Inner Mongolia or Nei Menggu

shares an international border

with Mongolia (of course) and Siberian Russia

it stretches almost two and a half thousand kilometres