WILD NATURE POETRY AWARD competition now open.


Brett Evans lives, writes, and drinks in his native north Wales.


His favourite companion is centenarian, curmudgeon Jack Russell, Remi, although Brett has recently been adopted by a cat – Black Belt.


Brett is co-editor of poetry and prose journal Prole, his debut poetry pamphlet The Devil’s Tattoo was published by Indigo Dreams in 2015.










Cover image by Mark Sparx

Twitter @sparxart





138 x 216mm


34 pages


£6.00 + P&P UK


ISBN 978-1-910834-85-5


PUB: 25 JUNE 2018













Meet Sloth. Not so much an anti-hero as a weary, serial under-achiever. Sloth and the Art of Self-deprecation is a collection of poetry where deadly sin meets the crappery of modern living and popular culture - if, that is, Sloth can be bothered.


These poems are dedicated to all the sloths in this life – numbers of toes being irrelevant




"Proudly acidic and cynical in all the right places, Sloth and the Art of Self-deprecation is an assured and absorbing collection."

 Rachel Trezise


"A wonderfully debauched, entertainingly schizophrenic collection of wild highs and come-downs that woozily celebrates life and the music that is life, while retaining enough of its critical faculties to be wise and speak truth

to the great unwashed."

 Martin Malone


"Remarkably, gloriously, shitfaced-to-the-point-of-blackout free of any desire for what we used to call "bourgeois respectability." And if you think I mean by that anything resembling a lack of craft, humour, intelligence, or worthiness of your attention,

you, sir, are a douchebag."

 Quincy R Lehr




Sloth on the Rocks


Sloth’s urine defiles

his canopy, far above

the dirt’s industry


where ants and beetles

busy themselves. Sloth could rise

should he dare to fall.



Brett Evans


Sloth and the Art of Self-deprecation









Sloth on Fine Dining


Sloth’s favoured position for eating

is legs above head – not his own legs, of course –

and being the slothiest of sloths he’ll lunch

at the laziest of leisure; a real underachiever.


Accomplishing more than fool-sloths,

whose tongues are prized as mere limbs

obtaining tasteless leaves beyond their can’t be arsed

reach, Sloth revels in the rainforest-wet of his reward;


lapping up all he needs to nourish fruitless days.

And don’t be duped to think that starburst effect

cunted down thighs, up spine, out to tips of digits,

or any echoed cries from the canopy above enough


to lull Sloth into some nuzzled slumber. He’s more

than awake, face already tucked into his second course.




Sloth’s Panto Season


'It's behind you!' they yell, and Sloth knows

they roar the truth – it's all behind him.

Celebrity had been and gone, the fickle

public no longer cared on what day

of the week he shat.

The white-dressing-gowned portraits

in Hello! soiled by a keen-eyed reader

writing in to highlight that infamous

upside-down-Africa urine stain.

The much derided, ghost-written memoir

stripped and recycled; 'Pulped Fiction'

the tabloids mocked, and never gave weight

to publishing Sloth's quiet

'Oh no it isn't.'




Wild Bill’s Celestial Jazz

for Wild Bill Davison 1906-1989


                    ' harder-driving, or more masculine, cornet

in the entire business.' – Eddie Condon


Born in Defiance (that's geographical as well as literal)

wailing b-flat into a life of lust and vice


that your appetites craved until the grave –

a bolshie enough bastard to take such a calling further.


And should such a place exist and you had entered there

via some loophole or celestial, administrative balls-up


(or maybe God called you to teach Joshua a thing or two)

then I'd fear for His angels: any with cocks


would be seduced into joining you on a frenzied bacchanal;

any in a frock best watch her tits and crotch.


No doubt angels are inclined to forgive. And so they should;

their brass would only sound sweeter fuelled by such ferocity.


And all the blessèd tapping their feet as your thunder

blew over your home. Wild Bill, they'd say. Defiant in death.



Sloth is in a tree of his own;

two-thirds his weight lolls in his hairy gut.

He will only descend to shit and bury his turds,

easy prey for those who condescend, resenting

Sloth’s days of decadence where no muscle is flexed

or put to work – he knows the wages of sin

is what we all get paid. Not quite as somnolent

as they’d like, it occurs to Sloth he couldn’t give a toss

for slurs by those who cannot see the irony

in looking up to him, frustrated by his apathy,

green in their envy. And in his coat of algae,

time for a nap, Sloth suspects

he may merely have dreamt them.




The Martini as Big as The Ritz


A mixing glass in which you could launch the Ark,

enough ice to reassure the polar bear,

so little vermouth to cause France to revolt,

and stir as vigorously to cause civil war.

That aromatic wine strain down the sink;

you want this guillotine-sharp. Enough gin

to make Hogarth sketch again,

Hemingway shudder, Roosevelt

and Churchill to shoulder each other,

Bogart to falter through a Faulkner script,

F. Scott Fitzgerald to admit that he’s pissed –

this night could never be tender.

Think The Raft of the Medusa when stirring again;

strain cold spirit, discard ice like the hopes of the pole

and bask in the bullshit that heroes only need gin

in frosted glass that shows no reflections,

and the art of self-deprecation.




Sloth and the Snake

for the Standing Rock Sioux


Sloth farts himself awake,

groans indescribably – deprived

of sleep as he already is; bickering

neighbours, yelps and yawps have stolen

Sloth’s beloved canopy of lullabies.

And Sloth knows he’s too simple

but this morning, even he picks

up on disturbances. Sloth’s shoulders

stiffen momentarily as strength

is mustered to reflect on the beauty

of all he can see, and tune into protest songs

beyond water cannon and rubber bullets.

The black snake is about to slide

across the wide Missouri – far away,

that rolling river – and it’s not

the ever mournful leaves

that spill onto Sloth’s once carefree cheeks.        

Energy enough to chide Too simple

for this world, battling his eyelids

knowing dreamcatchers grasp

less than he does, Sloth feels fresh;

snatches the closest branch

as if it were a lance.


author pic 9781910834855