And so they sat by the stream
and made words.
They strung together syllables
like ladders of DNA
then tried them out
to get the heft of them:
fruncient
baw
quelly
untass
habbif
swen
'I swen you,' he told her,
and even though neither of them knew what it meant,
she smiled.
Friday, 25 November 2011
#100: Dead Man's Jenga
A newsworthy disaster
(think choking damp in a pit,
or some kind of theatre fire,
or a bridge collapse - you know,
the old timey ones that ushered in
the cosy sweater of health & safety legislation
we now enjoy)
fills the mortuary to over-capacity.
Dennis and Eli stack bodies in the cool cellar.
When they run out of space, they begin
heaping them on the stone floor -
it starts out as a practical stopgap
but soon becomes a game.
This is the gallows humour
that both men are infamous for -
Eli once brought home the blue cadaver
of a drowned girl and introduced her
to his mother as his beloved.
He continued the farce right up until the wedding day,
when Dennis' ventroliquism skills failed
to convince the vicar.
(think choking damp in a pit,
or some kind of theatre fire,
or a bridge collapse - you know,
the old timey ones that ushered in
the cosy sweater of health & safety legislation
we now enjoy)
fills the mortuary to over-capacity.
Dennis and Eli stack bodies in the cool cellar.
When they run out of space, they begin
heaping them on the stone floor -
it starts out as a practical stopgap
but soon becomes a game.
This is the gallows humour
that both men are infamous for -
Eli once brought home the blue cadaver
of a drowned girl and introduced her
to his mother as his beloved.
He continued the farce right up until the wedding day,
when Dennis' ventroliquism skills failed
to convince the vicar.
#99: My Horse Hates You
For Lee
Eduardo the horse, Eduardo the horse!
How his name is curséd through the ages!
He sports a thick, waxed moustache
and barges into coffee houses,
bakeries, auction houses,
mortuaries, antenatal clinics,
hunting for you,
yes you who is reading this poem now!
For it is you who he blames for his cruel deformity,
this creature equine in all but one aspect,
a smooth, pink caucasian rump
protruding from his dappled hind quarters,
mocking him.
Eduardo the horse, Eduardo the horse!
How his name is curséd through the ages!
He sports a thick, waxed moustache
and barges into coffee houses,
bakeries, auction houses,
mortuaries, antenatal clinics,
hunting for you,
yes you who is reading this poem now!
For it is you who he blames for his cruel deformity,
this creature equine in all but one aspect,
a smooth, pink caucasian rump
protruding from his dappled hind quarters,
mocking him.
#98: Wholly Ghost
For Nick
Now I'm a spook, I like to visit old buildings -
not to frighten people, just to check out
the architecture. You know what it's like
as you get a bit advanced in years. Actually,
that's the worst thing about being dead.
You know how they say you get more right wing
as you grow older? Well, some of these folks
have been dead for thousands of years,
so they are like crazy racist, mainly
against countries that don't even exist anymore.
That's why most of us prefer to hang out
in libraries, old castles, graveyards -
quiet places, where we can be alone,
away from the dickheads.
Now I'm a spook, I like to visit old buildings -
not to frighten people, just to check out
the architecture. You know what it's like
as you get a bit advanced in years. Actually,
that's the worst thing about being dead.
You know how they say you get more right wing
as you grow older? Well, some of these folks
have been dead for thousands of years,
so they are like crazy racist, mainly
against countries that don't even exist anymore.
That's why most of us prefer to hang out
in libraries, old castles, graveyards -
quiet places, where we can be alone,
away from the dickheads.
#97: Rock Bottom
Trent came round in a tin bath,
part submerged in his own faeces -
nope, no wait a minute,
he spotted a piece of sweetcorn there.
He never ate sweetcorn.
This was someone else's poo -
perhaps many people's, in fact,
a confederation of defecators, given the volume.
Well - advantage pranksters! he thought,
bearing the poo-blackout philosophically,
(as he had learned to, over the years)
and he began looking round for a towel.
part submerged in his own faeces -
nope, no wait a minute,
he spotted a piece of sweetcorn there.
He never ate sweetcorn.
This was someone else's poo -
perhaps many people's, in fact,
a confederation of defecators, given the volume.
Well - advantage pranksters! he thought,
bearing the poo-blackout philosophically,
(as he had learned to, over the years)
and he began looking round for a towel.
#96: Nobody Saw Us Come In Here, Nobody Will See Us Leave
For Ben
In the old chapel,
the Keepers of the Flame
hunched round a table.
The abbot locked and bolted the door,
then solemnly handed each man a bowl.
Into each bowl, he poured
a portion of Frosties, and some milk.
They ate in rapt, ecstatic silence
while in the vaulted windows
saints gazed down
disapprovingly.
In the old chapel,
the Keepers of the Flame
hunched round a table.
The abbot locked and bolted the door,
then solemnly handed each man a bowl.
Into each bowl, he poured
a portion of Frosties, and some milk.
They ate in rapt, ecstatic silence
while in the vaulted windows
saints gazed down
disapprovingly.
#95: A Brief History Of Something
Daryl found the kazoo at a car boot sale in Yatton.
He paid the man £150 pounds for it.
When he got it home,
(which took him longer than usual
because he decided to take the Renault
through the Tesco carwash on the way back)
he showed his wife, Alice.
'That's too much to pay for a kazoo,' she said.
Daryl said nothing, but from that day forward,
he fostered a cold, hard nugget of hate for her.
He never played his kazoo.
He paid the man £150 pounds for it.
When he got it home,
(which took him longer than usual
because he decided to take the Renault
through the Tesco carwash on the way back)
he showed his wife, Alice.
'That's too much to pay for a kazoo,' she said.
Daryl said nothing, but from that day forward,
he fostered a cold, hard nugget of hate for her.
He never played his kazoo.
#94: Caressing David Icke
I have seen him change in his sleep,
that ancient DNA kicking in
as he dreams of lying prone
on a hot, flat rock in an endless desert.
His skin thickens briefly,
or his tongue thrills from his mouth
like a party favour.
He is happiest then, and I,
a giddy insomniac,
am happiest watching him,
stroking his fine argent hair,
shielding his face from the hidden cameras.
that ancient DNA kicking in
as he dreams of lying prone
on a hot, flat rock in an endless desert.
His skin thickens briefly,
or his tongue thrills from his mouth
like a party favour.
He is happiest then, and I,
a giddy insomniac,
am happiest watching him,
stroking his fine argent hair,
shielding his face from the hidden cameras.
#93: Smiling On Public Transport
Every day I watch the tram go past,
that same gormless man
sat at the back, his face pressed to the glass
in a rictus of jollity.
What does he, of all people, have to smile about?
With his colossal pustules
and his eyes like a suicide chair,
his carrier bags of withered cress
and his unwelcome moustache,
the purple ganglia extruding from his throat
and his pronounced cranial frill
like a stegasaurus?
WHAT'S FUNNY ABOUT THAT?
that same gormless man
sat at the back, his face pressed to the glass
in a rictus of jollity.
What does he, of all people, have to smile about?
With his colossal pustules
and his eyes like a suicide chair,
his carrier bags of withered cress
and his unwelcome moustache,
the purple ganglia extruding from his throat
and his pronounced cranial frill
like a stegasaurus?
WHAT'S FUNNY ABOUT THAT?
#92: Touch Me, Hit Me, Help Me
Augustus ploughed headlong into the happy throng
of children, thrusting his cattleprod
every which way
with a gusto
that witnesses later described to the court as:
'ghoulish',
'inhuman'
and 'consumately arousing'.
Three years later, he remembered that day
as he sat in the tiny attic,
and drowned himself
in a tureen of chill goulash.
of children, thrusting his cattleprod
every which way
with a gusto
that witnesses later described to the court as:
'ghoulish',
'inhuman'
and 'consumately arousing'.
Three years later, he remembered that day
as he sat in the tiny attic,
and drowned himself
in a tureen of chill goulash.
#91: Will We Be Ok In The Future?
In the future, tea technology is so advanced
that the tea we drink is basically lots of tiny robots
that consume our internal organs for fuel
and replace them with new ones.
In the future, there is no oil,
but it's okay, because we have been enslaved
by a race of intergalactic warlords,
and they have loads. Plus
they still let us watch Sky Sports
(News).
that the tea we drink is basically lots of tiny robots
that consume our internal organs for fuel
and replace them with new ones.
In the future, there is no oil,
but it's okay, because we have been enslaved
by a race of intergalactic warlords,
and they have loads. Plus
they still let us watch Sky Sports
(News).
#90: Internet-Internot
Fergus started an argument about whether God existed on an online forum.
Four weeks later, through well-reasoned logic
and apposite examples, he won it.
This victory made him extremely happy.
It settled the matter once and for all.
The whole world breathed a sigh of relief
that he had invested such a lot of time and emotion,
instead of doing things like talking a walk,
or phoning his nan to see how she was,
or enjoying a cup of tea,
because now the subject was closed,
and the sum of human knowledge
had made a huge net gain.
Four weeks later, through well-reasoned logic
and apposite examples, he won it.
This victory made him extremely happy.
It settled the matter once and for all.
The whole world breathed a sigh of relief
that he had invested such a lot of time and emotion,
instead of doing things like talking a walk,
or phoning his nan to see how she was,
or enjoying a cup of tea,
because now the subject was closed,
and the sum of human knowledge
had made a huge net gain.
#89: My Friend Betty Has An Interesting Pet
So you go to see her,
because you realise she's dying,
and also
she has your copy of The Brittas Empire on VHS
and you don't want one of her sons taking it home
when they come to divide up her things.
Anyway, on a side table,
on a lace doily,
is a little ghost in a jar.
'It's me Mam,' wheezes Betty, lifting her oxygen mask.
You look, squint.
A misty purple thing with a vague face
stares back at you.
By jove, it is!
because you realise she's dying,
and also
she has your copy of The Brittas Empire on VHS
and you don't want one of her sons taking it home
when they come to divide up her things.
Anyway, on a side table,
on a lace doily,
is a little ghost in a jar.
'It's me Mam,' wheezes Betty, lifting her oxygen mask.
You look, squint.
A misty purple thing with a vague face
stares back at you.
By jove, it is!
#88: Just Cakes
I woke up from the car crash
in a fine, light suit, intact
lying on a springy cloud.
Everything had a soft luminescence.
Me, the clouds, the heaps
of sticky buns, and upside-down pineapple cakes,
and eclairs, and lemon muffins.
'So this is Heaven?' I said out loud.
YES said a voice
(presumably YKW).
'Where's everyone else?' I said.
O, THERE'S NO PEOPLE, He said,
JUST CAKES.
It was like my seventh birthday all over again.
in a fine, light suit, intact
lying on a springy cloud.
Everything had a soft luminescence.
Me, the clouds, the heaps
of sticky buns, and upside-down pineapple cakes,
and eclairs, and lemon muffins.
'So this is Heaven?' I said out loud.
YES said a voice
(presumably YKW).
'Where's everyone else?' I said.
O, THERE'S NO PEOPLE, He said,
JUST CAKES.
It was like my seventh birthday all over again.
#87: Death To Death
'Come with me, o wanderers,
into the Underworld!'
Rupert beckoned
to the baffled board of directors.
He indicated the fire exit with his laser pointer.
'There you will witness horrors and miracles
the likes of which no mortal man has seen!
But you must not shrink from this!'
He gripped a pale man's sleeve.
'For Colin waits,
trapped in eternal torment!'
Blank faces.
'You know -
Colin from accounts!'
'Ohhhhhh!' the brave party said as one.
into the Underworld!'
Rupert beckoned
to the baffled board of directors.
He indicated the fire exit with his laser pointer.
'There you will witness horrors and miracles
the likes of which no mortal man has seen!
But you must not shrink from this!'
He gripped a pale man's sleeve.
'For Colin waits,
trapped in eternal torment!'
Blank faces.
'You know -
Colin from accounts!'
'Ohhhhhh!' the brave party said as one.
#86: Kiss Me, I'm A Misanthrope
Lucius loathed humanity, so
he would often repair to the ruined cathedral
where, in summer, lizards skittered out of the cracks
to bask upon the ancient stones.
There, he hunted for love.
If he crept with extraordinary care,
he found he could position himself
above one of the marvellous creatures,
lean down, and run his tongue along
its notched spine. Eventually,
one did not run at his wet, slow touch.
This, he took for affection,
and considered them married.
he would often repair to the ruined cathedral
where, in summer, lizards skittered out of the cracks
to bask upon the ancient stones.
There, he hunted for love.
If he crept with extraordinary care,
he found he could position himself
above one of the marvellous creatures,
lean down, and run his tongue along
its notched spine. Eventually,
one did not run at his wet, slow touch.
This, he took for affection,
and considered them married.
#85: Brother Pudding
comes steaming out of the monastery,
his robes splattered with suet.
Angry red scalds decorate his face.
'The Christmas pudding is ruined!' he exclaims,
shaking his fists at the winter sky.
'Why would you do this?
Why? Why? WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?'
Then an Iberian wild boar falls from nowhere,
breaking his neck cleanly.
his robes splattered with suet.
Angry red scalds decorate his face.
'The Christmas pudding is ruined!' he exclaims,
shaking his fists at the winter sky.
'Why would you do this?
Why? Why? WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?'
Then an Iberian wild boar falls from nowhere,
breaking his neck cleanly.
#84: Head Shot
Mr Unwin's head pops in a gust of cherryade.
Lesley-Ann's head rasps air through the hole,
withers, deflates.
Oscar's head yields like dough.
The bullets stick in the soft flesh like warts.
Sid's head cracks,
and falls into two neat halves.
Uncle Zed's skull implodes, creating a miniature black hole,
follow-up bullets hanging, distended, around the event horizon.
Lesley-Ann's head rasps air through the hole,
withers, deflates.
Oscar's head yields like dough.
The bullets stick in the soft flesh like warts.
Sid's head cracks,
and falls into two neat halves.
Uncle Zed's skull implodes, creating a miniature black hole,
follow-up bullets hanging, distended, around the event horizon.
#83: The Radio Show That Changed My Life
Mr Watanabe In Fartland was a BBC World Service radio serial
that ran from June 1963 to August 1971.
It detailed the adventures of the titular 'Mr Watanabe'
(listeners never discover his first name)
and his adventures in the magical
constitutional republic of 'Fartland',
which he discovers when he is swept overboard
during a marlin fishing expedition.
In Popular Culture
The Weezer b-side 'Draino' contains the lyrics:
'O Mr Watanabe,
gonna punch Dugg's momma till we make you happy'
A reference to the episode where
Mr Watanabe is forced to beat to death
the mother of his horse pal 'Dugg',
after losing a bet.
that ran from June 1963 to August 1971.
It detailed the adventures of the titular 'Mr Watanabe'
(listeners never discover his first name)
and his adventures in the magical
constitutional republic of 'Fartland',
which he discovers when he is swept overboard
during a marlin fishing expedition.
In Popular Culture
The Weezer b-side 'Draino' contains the lyrics:
'O Mr Watanabe,
gonna punch Dugg's momma till we make you happy'
A reference to the episode where
Mr Watanabe is forced to beat to death
the mother of his horse pal 'Dugg',
after losing a bet.
#82: Hinterland Betjeman
He appears from the swirling mists,
a cowled figure punting through grey waters,
and beside him, the poet John Betjeman,
writing something jauntily accessible about it all
on a small slate.
His chalk has worn down to a tiny nub
he must clench between thumb
and all four fingers, scratching words
onto the tile
while Charon peers over his shoulder,
affecting a pallid sneer,
muttering something in his fetid tomb-breath
about Pound
and laziness.
a cowled figure punting through grey waters,
and beside him, the poet John Betjeman,
writing something jauntily accessible about it all
on a small slate.
His chalk has worn down to a tiny nub
he must clench between thumb
and all four fingers, scratching words
onto the tile
while Charon peers over his shoulder,
affecting a pallid sneer,
muttering something in his fetid tomb-breath
about Pound
and laziness.
#81: Saying Goodbye To Old Socks
For Sarah
We decide to give them a viking burial -
they have served us well, it is the very least
that they, and we, deserve.
Erika makes a raft from pop bottles and lolly sticks.
At midnight, we take them to the duckpond,
lay them threadbare and careworn
upon their transport to the afterlife.
I put a lighter to one teal heel.
The resulting blast hurls me 30 ft into the air.
Erika's eyebrows vanish in a puff of hot grief.
Perhaps, I reflect on the way down,
we should have washed them first.
We decide to give them a viking burial -
they have served us well, it is the very least
that they, and we, deserve.
Erika makes a raft from pop bottles and lolly sticks.
At midnight, we take them to the duckpond,
lay them threadbare and careworn
upon their transport to the afterlife.
I put a lighter to one teal heel.
The resulting blast hurls me 30 ft into the air.
Erika's eyebrows vanish in a puff of hot grief.
Perhaps, I reflect on the way down,
we should have washed them first.
#80: Isn't All Meat Dead?
Astonishingly, this pertinent observation
fails to soothe the bully.
She rips a fire hydrant from the sidewalk
and brandishes it like Donkey Kong,
her teeth angry battlements
as water fountains into the hot afternoon air.
But lo!
As a fine spray descends
the sunlight makes a rainbow.
Paul points towards the miracle.
'Surely this?' he tries,
but the magic falls on arid ground.
fails to soothe the bully.
She rips a fire hydrant from the sidewalk
and brandishes it like Donkey Kong,
her teeth angry battlements
as water fountains into the hot afternoon air.
But lo!
As a fine spray descends
the sunlight makes a rainbow.
Paul points towards the miracle.
'Surely this?' he tries,
but the magic falls on arid ground.
#79: Lunchbreaks At The Kremlin
For Leo
Yakov cracks open
his Dairylea Lunchables,
which he has been looking forward to all morning.
There is an office Tetris league -
he and Dimitri are tied joint fourth.
Grigori is sixteen points in front
and basically uncatchable,
but then everybody knows
he grew up as a government project
in one of the Atomgrads,
hence his extreme size,
extraordinary reflexes
and massive glowing tumour
on the side of his head,
lighting the stockroom an eerie green
as he rummages around for toner.
Yakov cracks open
his Dairylea Lunchables,
which he has been looking forward to all morning.
There is an office Tetris league -
he and Dimitri are tied joint fourth.
Grigori is sixteen points in front
and basically uncatchable,
but then everybody knows
he grew up as a government project
in one of the Atomgrads,
hence his extreme size,
extraordinary reflexes
and massive glowing tumour
on the side of his head,
lighting the stockroom an eerie green
as he rummages around for toner.
#78: Fingernails For Hadley
'They're retractable, like tape measures,'
says the doc, proudly,
unwrapping the bandages from round
Hadley's paws.
'Go on,' his arms folded,
'don't be shy. Give 'em a spin.'
He nods, grinning. 'Give those babies
a spinneroo! A spinny-spin-spin.
Not by the hair of my spinny-spin-spin.
You're a spinny-spin-spin.
Go on. Go ahead.
Give 'em a Spinderella.
Give those mothers a Spin, Lose or Draw.
A Spin Beadle's Money.
A, uh...
what's another one?'
Hadley watching all the while,
tongue out, panting.
says the doc, proudly,
unwrapping the bandages from round
Hadley's paws.
'Go on,' his arms folded,
'don't be shy. Give 'em a spin.'
He nods, grinning. 'Give those babies
a spinneroo! A spinny-spin-spin.
Not by the hair of my spinny-spin-spin.
You're a spinny-spin-spin.
Go on. Go ahead.
Give 'em a Spinderella.
Give those mothers a Spin, Lose or Draw.
A Spin Beadle's Money.
A, uh...
what's another one?'
Hadley watching all the while,
tongue out, panting.
#77: Boxing
'And Boris "The Speckled Moorhen" Chudley
is eating fists with the tragic compulsion
of a fat divorcee! Ooh! A one-two combo
to the livid congolmeration of living meat
he has the temerity to characterise as a face!
I can't see this fight ending in anything
but one man patting a puddle of gut putty
and collective repressed trauma so monstrous
that it can only be identified by its dental records,
wouldn't you agree, Largo?'
'Yes Phil, I - but what's this? Chudley is fighting back!
He's pounding Carlo "The Green Baize Card Table" Mountebank
so soundly that he's sculpted him into an entirely new person!
In fact I'd say his original opponent no longer exists!
And there's the bell for the round.'
is eating fists with the tragic compulsion
of a fat divorcee! Ooh! A one-two combo
to the livid congolmeration of living meat
he has the temerity to characterise as a face!
I can't see this fight ending in anything
but one man patting a puddle of gut putty
and collective repressed trauma so monstrous
that it can only be identified by its dental records,
wouldn't you agree, Largo?'
'Yes Phil, I - but what's this? Chudley is fighting back!
He's pounding Carlo "The Green Baize Card Table" Mountebank
so soundly that he's sculpted him into an entirely new person!
In fact I'd say his original opponent no longer exists!
And there's the bell for the round.'
#76: If You So Much As Breathe A Word Of This To Anyone, So Help Me I Will Pluck Your Eyes From Your Head And Feed Them To The Dogs
says grandma,
silhouetted against the burning orphanage,
her scowl like a rotten jack o' lantern.
She gathers up the rest of the fireworks ruefully.
'Bonfire night is over!' she snaps,
which sets Hettie off sobbing again.
silhouetted against the burning orphanage,
her scowl like a rotten jack o' lantern.
She gathers up the rest of the fireworks ruefully.
'Bonfire night is over!' she snaps,
which sets Hettie off sobbing again.
#75: My Personal Army
I order the troops to take the brewery.
'Now men,' I intone
from the roof of the bus shelter, tucking my swagger stick
beneath my armpit and marching back and forth,
'I'd never ask you to anything
that I wouldn't do myself gladly,
but let us make no bones -
when the sunrises tomorrow,
some of you will not see it.
Or perhaps you will see two sunrises
sort of out of focus and superimposed on each other.'
A cheer goes up.
We wait for the bus.
'Now men,' I intone
from the roof of the bus shelter, tucking my swagger stick
beneath my armpit and marching back and forth,
'I'd never ask you to anything
that I wouldn't do myself gladly,
but let us make no bones -
when the sunrises tomorrow,
some of you will not see it.
Or perhaps you will see two sunrises
sort of out of focus and superimposed on each other.'
A cheer goes up.
We wait for the bus.
#74: And Then A Polar Bear Walked In
I froze in the act of punching a clown.
The bear took in the scene
in a single, torpid glance:
the candle, guttering on the counterpane,
the chalkboard with the list of crimes,
the discarded Rolo wrappers.
Have you ever seen a bear blink?
My friend, it is a most terrible, miraculous sight.
I think I have the wrong chalet,
it seemed to say,
then turned, with the great dignity
available to its kind,
and lumbered impreriously away.
The bear took in the scene
in a single, torpid glance:
the candle, guttering on the counterpane,
the chalkboard with the list of crimes,
the discarded Rolo wrappers.
Have you ever seen a bear blink?
My friend, it is a most terrible, miraculous sight.
I think I have the wrong chalet,
it seemed to say,
then turned, with the great dignity
available to its kind,
and lumbered impreriously away.
#73: The Last Sip
tasted yellow,
tainted somehow. We gestured
to the barman. 'Is this all right?'
holding up the sort of
novelty chalice thingy
it had been served in.
'How much did you drink?' he bellowed
back, rubbing the bar down with a rag.
We glanced at one another, shrugged.
'All of it?' I tried.
His moustache stiffened like a cat.
The rag dropped from his grasp.
'But did you not read the promotional material?'
He thrust a shaking hand at the cardboard display
by the fruit machine. The cutout showed a 'hearty lad' character
downing a whole pint, then melting away into a skeleton.
The drink was called GreeD. 'It's a test!'
said the barman, and we started to bleed.
tainted somehow. We gestured
to the barman. 'Is this all right?'
holding up the sort of
novelty chalice thingy
it had been served in.
'How much did you drink?' he bellowed
back, rubbing the bar down with a rag.
We glanced at one another, shrugged.
'All of it?' I tried.
His moustache stiffened like a cat.
The rag dropped from his grasp.
'But did you not read the promotional material?'
He thrust a shaking hand at the cardboard display
by the fruit machine. The cutout showed a 'hearty lad' character
downing a whole pint, then melting away into a skeleton.
The drink was called GreeD. 'It's a test!'
said the barman, and we started to bleed.
#72: You Can't Ride Shotgun On A Unicorn
Angus cantered into the Bingo Hall
on the back of Doctor Krispin Reinhart,
his milk-white unicorn stallion.
'Who today will ride with me?'
he asked the room, his bulging eyes
daring them to answer,
while the Dr
defecated copiously,
a rainbow corona painting the air
around his steaming deposit.
Angus cocked his head towards
the sidecar bolted to his steed.
'Who will ride pillion with Angus?'
on the back of Doctor Krispin Reinhart,
his milk-white unicorn stallion.
'Who today will ride with me?'
he asked the room, his bulging eyes
daring them to answer,
while the Dr
defecated copiously,
a rainbow corona painting the air
around his steaming deposit.
Angus cocked his head towards
the sidecar bolted to his steed.
'Who will ride pillion with Angus?'
#71: Could You Hold This For A Minute?
She held out a black metal sphere,
a fizzing fuse draped from one end
like a monkey's tail.
'Just while I go and put change in the meter,'
she said, apologetically.
Jeremy regarded the object
with a degree of circumspection,
no fool he. 'And how do I know
this isn't stolen?' he asked, at last.
The young lady smiled,
unhasped her yellow leather handbag,
and produced a receipt.
'Why then of course, madam,' he beamed,
doffing his bowler and accepting custody
as she ran, ran, ran.
a fizzing fuse draped from one end
like a monkey's tail.
'Just while I go and put change in the meter,'
she said, apologetically.
Jeremy regarded the object
with a degree of circumspection,
no fool he. 'And how do I know
this isn't stolen?' he asked, at last.
The young lady smiled,
unhasped her yellow leather handbag,
and produced a receipt.
'Why then of course, madam,' he beamed,
doffing his bowler and accepting custody
as she ran, ran, ran.
#70: Damn Those Paperclips
In the stockroom,
the office supplies organise themselves
into a union.
The holepunch presents a list of demands:
1) Actual pay.
2) A Christmas disco.
3) One of those remote-controlled airships
to carry them around the workplace.
When talks collapse, they resort to strike action,
the photocopier printing hundreds of images
of the CEO's monochrome arsecheeks,
the paperclips attaching them to shareholder information packs.
the office supplies organise themselves
into a union.
The holepunch presents a list of demands:
1) Actual pay.
2) A Christmas disco.
3) One of those remote-controlled airships
to carry them around the workplace.
When talks collapse, they resort to strike action,
the photocopier printing hundreds of images
of the CEO's monochrome arsecheeks,
the paperclips attaching them to shareholder information packs.
#69: He Arrived Dressed As A White Tiger
For Lisa
He arrived dressed as a white tiger,
his taxi crunching to a stop on the gravel
just as they began
lowering the coffin into the ground.
As he dashed towards the assembled mourners,
he wondered if he had misread the email -
either that, or no one else
had gone to the effort.
Bloody typical, he thought,
elbowing his way to the front
and tossing an item of soiled underwear
onto the descending lid
as per the instructions.
'All right guys?' he said, resolving to be polite,
'What have I missed?'
He arrived dressed as a white tiger,
his taxi crunching to a stop on the gravel
just as they began
lowering the coffin into the ground.
As he dashed towards the assembled mourners,
he wondered if he had misread the email -
either that, or no one else
had gone to the effort.
Bloody typical, he thought,
elbowing his way to the front
and tossing an item of soiled underwear
onto the descending lid
as per the instructions.
'All right guys?' he said, resolving to be polite,
'What have I missed?'
#68: Is Your Toothpaste Working?
Ochre tentacles of stink
snaked from Jonathan's gob.
Houseplants withered.
Cats went rigid
then ran from the city.
Small birds landed in his mouth
and tried to peck out the foisty morsels,
perished, and eventually became part of the problem.
Families threw a few keepsakes into suitcases
and drove for the mountains
and nobody told him
for fear of hurting his feelings.
snaked from Jonathan's gob.
Houseplants withered.
Cats went rigid
then ran from the city.
Small birds landed in his mouth
and tried to peck out the foisty morsels,
perished, and eventually became part of the problem.
Families threw a few keepsakes into suitcases
and drove for the mountains
and nobody told him
for fear of hurting his feelings.
#67: The Customer Manager Was Not Convinced
For Matt
The customer manager was not convinced -
she stroked her chin skeptically,
and then reached over
and stroked Brian's chin skeptically,
then the stroking became more tender
then they kissed.
Two months later, they were married.
They moved to Stroud and had three children,
Lawrence, Emily, and Viscount Popinjay the Third,
who was, in fact, a budgie.
Sometimes, Brian struggled to remember
what his complaint had been.
The customer manager was not convinced -
she stroked her chin skeptically,
and then reached over
and stroked Brian's chin skeptically,
then the stroking became more tender
then they kissed.
Two months later, they were married.
They moved to Stroud and had three children,
Lawrence, Emily, and Viscount Popinjay the Third,
who was, in fact, a budgie.
Sometimes, Brian struggled to remember
what his complaint had been.
#66: Diary Of The First Door Knocker
April 1st: I am having an affair
with Mrs Schelswig at Number 44.
Her husband doesn't suspect a thing -
primarily because he is confined to an iron lung
and cannot make his way to the summerhouse
where we conduct our amorous liason.
Mrs Schelswig and I smoke imported cigarettes
and talk until the early hours.
Last night, she asked me what it's like
having a brass knocker for a face,
never being invited in, etc, etc.
I told her: 'Shut up and kiss me,'
and she did, powerfully,
as if I were keeping her alive.
She is becoming clingy.
April 2nd: Ha ha, April Fool.
Me and Mrs Schelswig are not involved at all.
In fact, she hardly notices me
when she calls on the Shenstones.
I have decided to give up smoking.
with Mrs Schelswig at Number 44.
Her husband doesn't suspect a thing -
primarily because he is confined to an iron lung
and cannot make his way to the summerhouse
where we conduct our amorous liason.
Mrs Schelswig and I smoke imported cigarettes
and talk until the early hours.
Last night, she asked me what it's like
having a brass knocker for a face,
never being invited in, etc, etc.
I told her: 'Shut up and kiss me,'
and she did, powerfully,
as if I were keeping her alive.
She is becoming clingy.
April 2nd: Ha ha, April Fool.
Me and Mrs Schelswig are not involved at all.
In fact, she hardly notices me
when she calls on the Shenstones.
I have decided to give up smoking.
#65: Whatever Happened To Fish & Chips
Mr Huxley was nostalgic and confused.
Every Wednesday, he would pine for things
that had never actually gone away.
'Oh, goodness! Oh me, oh my!' he'd sigh,
gazing dejectedly into an empty mug.
'Do you remember the days of instant coffee?'
or, frowning sadly as a child accessed the internet:
'In my day, you could just switch on a radio,
and there would be music - for free, no less!'
Sometimes, he removed his bowler hat,
scratched at his lank black hair,
and wished you could still buy Head & Shoulders.
Every Wednesday, he would pine for things
that had never actually gone away.
'Oh, goodness! Oh me, oh my!' he'd sigh,
gazing dejectedly into an empty mug.
'Do you remember the days of instant coffee?'
or, frowning sadly as a child accessed the internet:
'In my day, you could just switch on a radio,
and there would be music - for free, no less!'
Sometimes, he removed his bowler hat,
scratched at his lank black hair,
and wished you could still buy Head & Shoulders.
#64: Don't Make Me Say It Twice
Randolph Neumünster,
you are a beautiful, hirsute gent
with a voice of purest honeywine.
The nights I have spent, sir,
replete and supine
beneath the window of your bathroom,
drinking your lays
as you sing of barrowboys
and melancholy duchesses,
listening as you pass
stool after perfect stool,
the latrine roaring its approval
with every flush!
Randolph, Randolph, Randolph,
my darling, dizzy man,
my fuddle-headed moonchild,
my wise, wise bard.
Sing on. Sing on.
Please, sir, sing on.
you are a beautiful, hirsute gent
with a voice of purest honeywine.
The nights I have spent, sir,
replete and supine
beneath the window of your bathroom,
drinking your lays
as you sing of barrowboys
and melancholy duchesses,
listening as you pass
stool after perfect stool,
the latrine roaring its approval
with every flush!
Randolph, Randolph, Randolph,
my darling, dizzy man,
my fuddle-headed moonchild,
my wise, wise bard.
Sing on. Sing on.
Please, sir, sing on.
#63: The Insensitive Machine
In the future, the Space Robot
looked me up and down
with its view portals.
It was able to perceive reality at a submolecular level,
and it could also see through time.
The Robot did a nano-frown.
'You are poor at writing Speculative Fiction,'
it uttered, in a staccato monotone,
then it did a print out.
'Also you will die alone,
clutching deliriously at a holo-photograph
of a girl you no longer recognise,
inconsolable,
inconsolable,'
shaking its tungsten head mournfully,
taking my hand
in its silver pincers.
looked me up and down
with its view portals.
It was able to perceive reality at a submolecular level,
and it could also see through time.
The Robot did a nano-frown.
'You are poor at writing Speculative Fiction,'
it uttered, in a staccato monotone,
then it did a print out.
'Also you will die alone,
clutching deliriously at a holo-photograph
of a girl you no longer recognise,
inconsolable,
inconsolable,'
shaking its tungsten head mournfully,
taking my hand
in its silver pincers.
#62: Feels Like A Wednesday
So skyscrapers tumbled like a logging operation.
Beggars emerged from heretofore unseen alleyways,
coughing tapioca, holding their hands out expectantly.
Dennis, canny as always,
stayed home and played Skyrim.
He called in sick, just to cover his jacksy,
claiming his eyes had turned to molten bronze,
but when he phoned,
there was just calliope music
and the sound of an electric mixer,
beaters slopping through something viscous,
reality unpeeling like an old bandage,
revealing the lesion it was meant to protect.
Beggars emerged from heretofore unseen alleyways,
coughing tapioca, holding their hands out expectantly.
Dennis, canny as always,
stayed home and played Skyrim.
He called in sick, just to cover his jacksy,
claiming his eyes had turned to molten bronze,
but when he phoned,
there was just calliope music
and the sound of an electric mixer,
beaters slopping through something viscous,
reality unpeeling like an old bandage,
revealing the lesion it was meant to protect.
#61: Frogging
So they clustered on one side of the motorway
getting a feel for its rhythms,
looking for gaps in the traffic -
little life-giving pockets where one
with a plucky temperament and surfeit
of alacrity could thread through and reach the river
on the far bank,
its logs and ridge-backed alligators,
its cool, swift waters,
dark as macadam.
getting a feel for its rhythms,
looking for gaps in the traffic -
little life-giving pockets where one
with a plucky temperament and surfeit
of alacrity could thread through and reach the river
on the far bank,
its logs and ridge-backed alligators,
its cool, swift waters,
dark as macadam.
#60: Human Gas: A Proposal
The professor lands his airship in the grounds of the university
and disembarks to a rapturous crowd.
He tethers it to a noble oak.
Shocked academics pop monacles.
'Ladies and gentlemen!' he announces
from the collapsable podium
he brought with him,
'I present to you, the Future of Aviation,
the salvation of the Empire,
the Miracle of Modern Flight...
the Windenberg!'
Godfried, his callipygean assistant,
on all-fours behind some bushes,
his trousers down,
applying a suction cup.
and disembarks to a rapturous crowd.
He tethers it to a noble oak.
Shocked academics pop monacles.
'Ladies and gentlemen!' he announces
from the collapsable podium
he brought with him,
'I present to you, the Future of Aviation,
the salvation of the Empire,
the Miracle of Modern Flight...
the Windenberg!'
Godfried, his callipygean assistant,
on all-fours behind some bushes,
his trousers down,
applying a suction cup.
#59: Steeplechase Flavour
Clattering through close, witchy forest,
stagnant ditch water bursting beneath hooves.
Sunlight flashing through leaf gaps,
then a sudden gallop through boggy mud,
the slopping of unshod feet
elbowing through a hallway
of dawdling co-workers,
hunched and enflannelled
and flaccid as steamed cabbage.
Jostle for the elevator,
strain against the stirrups of your failure,
snorting in the wet autumn,
skidding on leaf mulch.
stagnant ditch water bursting beneath hooves.
Sunlight flashing through leaf gaps,
then a sudden gallop through boggy mud,
the slopping of unshod feet
elbowing through a hallway
of dawdling co-workers,
hunched and enflannelled
and flaccid as steamed cabbage.
Jostle for the elevator,
strain against the stirrups of your failure,
snorting in the wet autumn,
skidding on leaf mulch.
#58: Things That Don't Fit In A Bottom
'Twelve austin allegroes,
a spike mine,
a banjolele,
the Bible,
a loaf of soda bread,
Return of the Mack on CD single,
Rhodesia,
a lionness,
Hampton Court,
Uranus,
a filofax,
Roaring Emma,
a nut tree.'
Humphrey looked at his colleagues mischievously.
'Ho ho! I beg to differ!'
a spike mine,
a banjolele,
the Bible,
a loaf of soda bread,
Return of the Mack on CD single,
Rhodesia,
a lionness,
Hampton Court,
Uranus,
a filofax,
Roaring Emma,
a nut tree.'
Humphrey looked at his colleagues mischievously.
'Ho ho! I beg to differ!'
#57: By The Time The Bleeding Stopped, We Were 8 Miles Away
For Ailsa
I wrapped my hand in a T-shirt that said 'Fat Willy's Surf Shack'.
There was so much blood that, when it clotted,
the T-shirt became a permanent part of my hand.
People treat you differently; they reach out to greet you
at dinner parties then flinch.
'Don't be alarmed,' I have to say, feigning cheeriness,
'it's just a mass of scar tissue
fused with dated beachwear,' and I wave
the dark crusted club at them,
to prove it doesn't bite.
I wrapped my hand in a T-shirt that said 'Fat Willy's Surf Shack'.
There was so much blood that, when it clotted,
the T-shirt became a permanent part of my hand.
People treat you differently; they reach out to greet you
at dinner parties then flinch.
'Don't be alarmed,' I have to say, feigning cheeriness,
'it's just a mass of scar tissue
fused with dated beachwear,' and I wave
the dark crusted club at them,
to prove it doesn't bite.
#56: I Am Ginger Now
For Michael
So after the business where a football
took the young keeper's head off,
that time when I picked up a cat
and it popped like a blister of a bladderwrack,
the incident where I stamped
and the British Isles crazied like a dropped i-Phone
I've resolved to take it gentle.
Now, I pick up tea mugs the way others
cup rare butterflies;
I tiptoe everywhere;
when I sneeze, I am my face at the sky
because everything is breakable
and I just want to get through the week.
So after the business where a football
took the young keeper's head off,
that time when I picked up a cat
and it popped like a blister of a bladderwrack,
the incident where I stamped
and the British Isles crazied like a dropped i-Phone
I've resolved to take it gentle.
Now, I pick up tea mugs the way others
cup rare butterflies;
I tiptoe everywhere;
when I sneeze, I am my face at the sky
because everything is breakable
and I just want to get through the week.
#55: I Didn't Ask For This
For Heather
On Christmas morning,
they huddled round the tree.
Presents formed a polka-dotted and snowflaked metropolis.
Colin ate his chocolate buttons one by one,
holding each one up to the light
as if valuing a horde of Roman coins.
Doris, Colin's wife of twenty-one years,
ripped open the prezzie marked:
'To my darling wife, Doris x x x'
Inside the box was the whole of Rhodesia.
There were zebras, baboons,
some water monitors,
lots of jungle, some Zimbabwean guerillas.
Still in her nighty, she looked up at her husband, shocked,
but he was struggling to put the batteries
into his new sat nav, and took no notice.
On Christmas morning,
they huddled round the tree.
Presents formed a polka-dotted and snowflaked metropolis.
Colin ate his chocolate buttons one by one,
holding each one up to the light
as if valuing a horde of Roman coins.
Doris, Colin's wife of twenty-one years,
ripped open the prezzie marked:
'To my darling wife, Doris x x x'
Inside the box was the whole of Rhodesia.
There were zebras, baboons,
some water monitors,
lots of jungle, some Zimbabwean guerillas.
Still in her nighty, she looked up at her husband, shocked,
but he was struggling to put the batteries
into his new sat nav, and took no notice.
#54: More Evil Than You Could Possibly Conceive Of
For Paddy
And there it lay
pulsing with malevolent intent
like a dog poo under the floorboards.
The gang gathered round.
This was what they had fought to find,
this was the locus of all the world's misery -
the Primal Darkness,
the Abyssal Defilement.
'Destroy it!' Beadle cried.
'This may be our only chance.'
The hero Edmonds hefted his trusty broadaxe,
but then, he wavered.
'But what will become of the world?' he queried.
'Can man exist without evil? Is evil not part of our nature?
What if, by destroying this, I destroy all mankind?'
'Then it is a price worth paying!' yelled Beadle,
unsheathing his dagger, 'and if you lack the courage
to land the final blow,
I shall vanquish both of you!'
Thus, the two allies fell upon one another,
the Primal Darkness belching its corruption
as noble blood painted the stones.
And there it lay
pulsing with malevolent intent
like a dog poo under the floorboards.
The gang gathered round.
This was what they had fought to find,
this was the locus of all the world's misery -
the Primal Darkness,
the Abyssal Defilement.
'Destroy it!' Beadle cried.
'This may be our only chance.'
The hero Edmonds hefted his trusty broadaxe,
but then, he wavered.
'But what will become of the world?' he queried.
'Can man exist without evil? Is evil not part of our nature?
What if, by destroying this, I destroy all mankind?'
'Then it is a price worth paying!' yelled Beadle,
unsheathing his dagger, 'and if you lack the courage
to land the final blow,
I shall vanquish both of you!'
Thus, the two allies fell upon one another,
the Primal Darkness belching its corruption
as noble blood painted the stones.
#53: 24 Paté People
Lord Northbrooke used two fingers
to scoop another sizeable dollop
of the duck and champagne paté
onto his brioche.
'Ah haw haw haw,' the toff clowned racistly,
raising his steel-coloured eyebrows
the way he imagined a Frenchman might.
The gathering wolves were unimpressed.
They now filled at least 70% of the billiard room.
Two stood on the pianoforte
and more were coming down the chimney.
to scoop another sizeable dollop
of the duck and champagne paté
onto his brioche.
'Ah haw haw haw,' the toff clowned racistly,
raising his steel-coloured eyebrows
the way he imagined a Frenchman might.
The gathering wolves were unimpressed.
They now filled at least 70% of the billiard room.
Two stood on the pianoforte
and more were coming down the chimney.
#52: Stop It, Graham Wants To Say Something
For Fiona
Donald presses a big, smelly forefinger to my lips;
I down drumsticks.
'Oh really?' I sneer, curling my lower lip.
'This ought to be good.
This ought to be real good.
Will it, Graham?' I'm swaggering now.
Will it be good?
Good like a clement Sunday?
Good like dismantling a grapefruit
and discovering a hidden listening device?
Good like I felt
looming over elderly mother with a velvet cushion
and smothering the life out of her stupid, sleeping
body... oh.' I trail off, abashed.
Graham is lost for words.
Donald presses a big, smelly forefinger to my lips;
I down drumsticks.
'Oh really?' I sneer, curling my lower lip.
'This ought to be good.
This ought to be real good.
Will it, Graham?' I'm swaggering now.
Will it be good?
Good like a clement Sunday?
Good like dismantling a grapefruit
and discovering a hidden listening device?
Good like I felt
looming over elderly mother with a velvet cushion
and smothering the life out of her stupid, sleeping
body... oh.' I trail off, abashed.
Graham is lost for words.
#51: The World's Smallest Zoo
She kept it in the case for her contact lenses.
Under an electron microscope
you could just make out a sort of horse,
another horse,
and a grey shape that hinted at sentience.
Elspeth (for that was our zookeeper's name)
charged $1000 a peep.
As soon as she had made $3000, she closed the zoo forever,
and bought herself a plasma screen TV,
plus some lawnchairs.
The animals perished.
Under an electron microscope
you could just make out a sort of horse,
another horse,
and a grey shape that hinted at sentience.
Elspeth (for that was our zookeeper's name)
charged $1000 a peep.
As soon as she had made $3000, she closed the zoo forever,
and bought herself a plasma screen TV,
plus some lawnchairs.
The animals perished.
#50: The Day I Got My First Bra
They carried me through the streets
a brass band playing Donna Summer's I Feel Love
and children capered and tickertape fell
like soiled bandages or rinds of flesh.
It fit like the other half of a pendant
I had worn since birth,
the mayor congratulated me and gave me
a giant novelty key.
He said: 'If you ever meet God,
push this into His eye socket
and turn it clockwise. According to an ancient pact
He made with the humans,
He will be honour-bound to grant you
six wishes. Yes, six.'
And then,
we went to Nandos.
a brass band playing Donna Summer's I Feel Love
and children capered and tickertape fell
like soiled bandages or rinds of flesh.
It fit like the other half of a pendant
I had worn since birth,
the mayor congratulated me and gave me
a giant novelty key.
He said: 'If you ever meet God,
push this into His eye socket
and turn it clockwise. According to an ancient pact
He made with the humans,
He will be honour-bound to grant you
six wishes. Yes, six.'
And then,
we went to Nandos.
#49: How To Write A Poem In Less Than 5 Minutes
Start with a random scene,
two anthropomorphised basking sharks fencing
over a ravine, for example,
fireworks bursting round their sleek gills
as they thrust, feint
(you can imagine a tightrope beneath them, and then
a mile or so of wet air
down to a jungle floor - perhaps they have legs,
perhaps they balance on deft tails,
your choice)
and one is the goodie, her face is scarred,
a topaz set in the left eye socket,
the baddie, moustachioed,
a rose in his lapel,
(yes, he wears clothes - the dapper scoundrel!)
and everywhere
the smell of blood.
two anthropomorphised basking sharks fencing
over a ravine, for example,
fireworks bursting round their sleek gills
as they thrust, feint
(you can imagine a tightrope beneath them, and then
a mile or so of wet air
down to a jungle floor - perhaps they have legs,
perhaps they balance on deft tails,
your choice)
and one is the goodie, her face is scarred,
a topaz set in the left eye socket,
the baddie, moustachioed,
a rose in his lapel,
(yes, he wears clothes - the dapper scoundrel!)
and everywhere
the smell of blood.
#48: Bit More Beef Mate
Sirloin sizzled on the skillet,
shrinking as customers queued under a blue tarpaulin,
the monsoon now ramping up to its full, bullying extent.
Jenny clacked the tongs
like a lobster, wiping sweat from her plastered brow,
everything wet and hot now,
rain fizzing like static,
the smell of burning fat
and the clatter of coins in the tin.
She turns the steaks
like someone waking a sleeper.
Still, the storm draws in.
shrinking as customers queued under a blue tarpaulin,
the monsoon now ramping up to its full, bullying extent.
Jenny clacked the tongs
like a lobster, wiping sweat from her plastered brow,
everything wet and hot now,
rain fizzing like static,
the smell of burning fat
and the clatter of coins in the tin.
She turns the steaks
like someone waking a sleeper.
Still, the storm draws in.
#47: Monkey Shaving
Chimpy wields the cutthroat razor with an easy grace,
shaving his chin and throat in slow strokes,
working the blade across soft skin.
He stops to slice a banana
into golden medallions.
The radio plays Vivaldi
and the midnight world outside the barber shop
is black as the afterlife.
The mirror throws back a defiant glare.
With every move, he grows smaller.
shaving his chin and throat in slow strokes,
working the blade across soft skin.
He stops to slice a banana
into golden medallions.
The radio plays Vivaldi
and the midnight world outside the barber shop
is black as the afterlife.
The mirror throws back a defiant glare.
With every move, he grows smaller.
#46: Trees Remind Me Of You
It is a bosky autumn morning.
An elm reaches out and taps me on the shoulder
with one stiff, bifurcated apendage,
its hair an explosion of sales graphs.
'Don't forget about Gregory Finn,' it says
in an affected, schoolmasterish voice.
'He has the plump, benign face of a genie.'
I brush it off.
There is no need for this arboreal nonsense.
O Gregory,
how could I forget you,
my dear, repugnant hog of a man?
An elm reaches out and taps me on the shoulder
with one stiff, bifurcated apendage,
its hair an explosion of sales graphs.
'Don't forget about Gregory Finn,' it says
in an affected, schoolmasterish voice.
'He has the plump, benign face of a genie.'
I brush it off.
There is no need for this arboreal nonsense.
O Gregory,
how could I forget you,
my dear, repugnant hog of a man?
#45: Trev Begat Trev
Each time, he becomes a little smaller -
a nesting doll, essentially,
so you'll be in the middle of discussing something mundane
like becoming suddenly aware of your own tongue
or how it's impossible to roll your eyes back far enough
to see your brain,
then he'll reach up from his pint of mild,
and his fingernails will find a seam in the middle of his forehead,
a hairline fracture you never noticed before.
'No, come on Trev,' you say, 'not again.'
But he prises
and the two halves separate
in strings of gore and vernix
like the lid of a sarcophagus,
and he steps out,
smaller, his skin pink and raw
like a scald, and already,
he's reaching for his pint.
'Now,' he says, 'where was I?'
a nesting doll, essentially,
so you'll be in the middle of discussing something mundane
like becoming suddenly aware of your own tongue
or how it's impossible to roll your eyes back far enough
to see your brain,
then he'll reach up from his pint of mild,
and his fingernails will find a seam in the middle of his forehead,
a hairline fracture you never noticed before.
'No, come on Trev,' you say, 'not again.'
But he prises
and the two halves separate
in strings of gore and vernix
like the lid of a sarcophagus,
and he steps out,
smaller, his skin pink and raw
like a scald, and already,
he's reaching for his pint.
'Now,' he says, 'where was I?'
#44: This Town Is No Longer An Aquatic Paradise
Local shopkeepers step onto the pavement to ring out curtains.
A lady with a tattoo of a needlegun
sweeps water from the bookmaker's door in thin sheets.
In the pet shop, all the fish are gone.
Kids run down moist streets
trying car doors. One in twenty
releases a jackpot of stagnant water,
cigarette packets, sodden particles of old Googlemaps directions
to Barnstaple, a Britpop mixtape.
Wispy clouds hustle by with their hands in their pockets.
Crows pluck live ragworms from treetops.
A lady with a tattoo of a needlegun
sweeps water from the bookmaker's door in thin sheets.
In the pet shop, all the fish are gone.
Kids run down moist streets
trying car doors. One in twenty
releases a jackpot of stagnant water,
cigarette packets, sodden particles of old Googlemaps directions
to Barnstaple, a Britpop mixtape.
Wispy clouds hustle by with their hands in their pockets.
Crows pluck live ragworms from treetops.
#43: Younger Than Yesterday
Oswald swans into the office
decked in neon green propeller cap,
a yo-yo tucked in his palm
like an apple.
He makes a show of walking to his cubicle
on spring-stilts. He is unsteady on them;
by the time he reaches his chair, he is bloody
and shivering with pain.
He effects a cheerful smile through gasps,
as if these are the sort of zany capers
he undertakes every day,
as if this is no more unusual for him
than a 7 a.m. bowel movement,
than hot water and brisk jog for breakfast.
At 9:51 a.m. he sends a group email to everyone on the floor
with the subject line:
NOTICE ANYTHING 'DIFFERENT' ABOUT ME TODAY?
At 10:30 a.m. he is made redundant.
He clears his desk,
pedals home under a cloud.
decked in neon green propeller cap,
a yo-yo tucked in his palm
like an apple.
He makes a show of walking to his cubicle
on spring-stilts. He is unsteady on them;
by the time he reaches his chair, he is bloody
and shivering with pain.
He effects a cheerful smile through gasps,
as if these are the sort of zany capers
he undertakes every day,
as if this is no more unusual for him
than a 7 a.m. bowel movement,
than hot water and brisk jog for breakfast.
At 9:51 a.m. he sends a group email to everyone on the floor
with the subject line:
NOTICE ANYTHING 'DIFFERENT' ABOUT ME TODAY?
At 10:30 a.m. he is made redundant.
He clears his desk,
pedals home under a cloud.
#42: Weather Report From Six Feet Under
Screamwinds strip the snot from your nostrils
and send it fluming into the horizon.
Today, green lakes of fog purl around ankles
but it was not always thus.
Some centuries, lightning banged across skies
the colour of bruises; once, for six years
lava chimneys rose unsupported into the night.
And there are groans in blue and grey,
sudden tides of rooks - occasionally,
the sense of something far off and huge,
stirring,
like a body under a shroud.
and send it fluming into the horizon.
Today, green lakes of fog purl around ankles
but it was not always thus.
Some centuries, lightning banged across skies
the colour of bruises; once, for six years
lava chimneys rose unsupported into the night.
And there are groans in blue and grey,
sudden tides of rooks - occasionally,
the sense of something far off and huge,
stirring,
like a body under a shroud.
#41: Another Can Of Mother
In our nuclear bunker
it is still and serene as a recording studio.
The paint has dried in the nursery.
We eat heartily from tin plates,
steaming chunks in gravy.
With one hand, you make your fork hang
in the air, like a seagull; with the other,
you heft the empty tin.
'Horsemeat, did you say?' you query,
squinting in that way
I have come to love
and hate.
And I could never lie to you, not really,
so I say: 'Yes, if you like,
you could call it that.'
it is still and serene as a recording studio.
The paint has dried in the nursery.
We eat heartily from tin plates,
steaming chunks in gravy.
With one hand, you make your fork hang
in the air, like a seagull; with the other,
you heft the empty tin.
'Horsemeat, did you say?' you query,
squinting in that way
I have come to love
and hate.
And I could never lie to you, not really,
so I say: 'Yes, if you like,
you could call it that.'
#40: Get Thee Behind Me, Nathan
My fourth attempt to exorcise him
is as ineffectual as the others,
but by now, a small crowd has gathered.
They cheer me on as I gesticulate broadly
at the apex of tallow candles
and chalk-line geometry.
'And with these, Beast, I bind you!'
flinging a handful of jelly beans
which clatter off his indifferent pate.
He does not even look up from his crossword,
but I can tell he is irritated
because he begins
to cross out the clues he has already got,
using broad angry biro strokes
that nearly tear the paper.
is as ineffectual as the others,
but by now, a small crowd has gathered.
They cheer me on as I gesticulate broadly
at the apex of tallow candles
and chalk-line geometry.
'And with these, Beast, I bind you!'
flinging a handful of jelly beans
which clatter off his indifferent pate.
He does not even look up from his crossword,
but I can tell he is irritated
because he begins
to cross out the clues he has already got,
using broad angry biro strokes
that nearly tear the paper.
#39: Jester On A Highway
The splatter-pattern is festooned with bells.
Officer Cromwell picks one from the gore
and pops it into his mouth like a plump berry.
He rolls it around his cheeks, a slow contemplation,
then spits it back out, gleaming.
All four lanes are closed.
This annoys Cromwell.
He scowls at westbound rubberneckers,
decelerating to watch as a forensic team
peel a motley hat from a big rig fender,
drop it into a transparent bag,
taking photographs,
quipping under the moustaches.
Officer Cromwell picks one from the gore
and pops it into his mouth like a plump berry.
He rolls it around his cheeks, a slow contemplation,
then spits it back out, gleaming.
All four lanes are closed.
This annoys Cromwell.
He scowls at westbound rubberneckers,
decelerating to watch as a forensic team
peel a motley hat from a big rig fender,
drop it into a transparent bag,
taking photographs,
quipping under the moustaches.
#38: Right Now On ITV
It is so beautiful.
A gentle old man is serving crumpets
in his cottage, handing china plates to guests.
He places a dish of butter in the centre of the table,
the healthy yellow of daffodils on a hillside.
He looks like a Swiss toymaker.
He pours tea from a steaming pot.
His guests eat happily.
A labradoodle stretches out by the fire.
No one is watching.
The picture cuts to snow.
A gentle old man is serving crumpets
in his cottage, handing china plates to guests.
He places a dish of butter in the centre of the table,
the healthy yellow of daffodils on a hillside.
He looks like a Swiss toymaker.
He pours tea from a steaming pot.
His guests eat happily.
A labradoodle stretches out by the fire.
No one is watching.
The picture cuts to snow.
#37: Waking Up
For Jackie
And so you poke it with your sister's hockey stick:
a ginger prod just beneath the ribs
in its soft, banded paunch.
Nothing.
It continues to doze.
It's blocking the road,
hamhock haunches vibrating
with every snore,
its head the size of a dustbin,
its tail wound round a sign that says:
Children Crossing.
No one wants to get any closer.
There is talk of calling the fire brigade.
You watch the brown tusks
as they scrape in its mouth,
crack the seal on a Lucozade.
And so you poke it with your sister's hockey stick:
a ginger prod just beneath the ribs
in its soft, banded paunch.
Nothing.
It continues to doze.
It's blocking the road,
hamhock haunches vibrating
with every snore,
its head the size of a dustbin,
its tail wound round a sign that says:
Children Crossing.
No one wants to get any closer.
There is talk of calling the fire brigade.
You watch the brown tusks
as they scrape in its mouth,
crack the seal on a Lucozade.
#36: Criminal Masterminds Come In Many Shapes And Sizes, But Not These
The detective paces.
He strokes his classical chin with opera-gloved digits,
julienning clues in the indefatigable boulangerie of his mind:
the footprints in the marzipan,
the crossbow dunked in varnish that shines and drips;
the hobnail hammered into the portrait of Queen Victoria;
the steaming widgeon pie with a slice missing;
six glass marbles in a dead earl's cold fist.
Mutton in the summerhouse;
copper pipes that lead to an empty meadow;
harpischord music haunting the granary;
silent parade grounds;
blossom in January.
He strokes his classical chin with opera-gloved digits,
julienning clues in the indefatigable boulangerie of his mind:
the footprints in the marzipan,
the crossbow dunked in varnish that shines and drips;
the hobnail hammered into the portrait of Queen Victoria;
the steaming widgeon pie with a slice missing;
six glass marbles in a dead earl's cold fist.
Mutton in the summerhouse;
copper pipes that lead to an empty meadow;
harpischord music haunting the granary;
silent parade grounds;
blossom in January.
#35: The Pube That Dodged The Hoover
O sad pube!
See how it stands erect
but bowed, curling back on itself
like the end of parentheses,
its parent remark forever lost
to the vacuum cleaner's greedy mouth!
O pube!
How noble in defeat!
How darkly regal
now doubly bereft, snatched
from the fine brown thatch
of your youth (those kingfisher days!)
then made to watch as your brethren,
your adopted kinsmen of raisins, tobacco crumbs,
were dragged rudely
into the abyss.
O lone, unbroken pube!
There is no greater dignity than this!
See how it stands erect
but bowed, curling back on itself
like the end of parentheses,
its parent remark forever lost
to the vacuum cleaner's greedy mouth!
O pube!
How noble in defeat!
How darkly regal
now doubly bereft, snatched
from the fine brown thatch
of your youth (those kingfisher days!)
then made to watch as your brethren,
your adopted kinsmen of raisins, tobacco crumbs,
were dragged rudely
into the abyss.
O lone, unbroken pube!
There is no greater dignity than this!
#34: Ode To Mr Toad
O boggle-eyed fascist!
Squatting on your land in your tweeds
and your lucre accrued over long generations
like algae. After the Great War
you hunkered in that damp haven,
penning blotched missives decrying
the scourge of Bolshevism rising in the West
like a blue, weed-streaked arm from an ancestral lake,
boils swelling on your fat neck
as you dipped again and again into the ink well,
the catch in your throat
like a starter motor.
Squatting on your land in your tweeds
and your lucre accrued over long generations
like algae. After the Great War
you hunkered in that damp haven,
penning blotched missives decrying
the scourge of Bolshevism rising in the West
like a blue, weed-streaked arm from an ancestral lake,
boils swelling on your fat neck
as you dipped again and again into the ink well,
the catch in your throat
like a starter motor.
#33: Joe Dreams Of Pulitzers
He interviews a spaniel
in an aggressive, Paxman-esque way.
Later, in his op-ed, he dubs the hound
'a Walter Mitty style fantasist'
and pooh-poohs its supposed connections
to Freemasonry.
He tucks an index card into his hat band
which says: 'PRESS' and uses it
to try to get free ice creams.
'I am doing a story on ice creams,'
he tells the ice cream man, holding up
his ballpoint pen and notepad,
clicking the nib in and out emphatically.
Later, in his op-ed, he slams
the ice cream industry
for its cool treatment of the media.
in an aggressive, Paxman-esque way.
Later, in his op-ed, he dubs the hound
'a Walter Mitty style fantasist'
and pooh-poohs its supposed connections
to Freemasonry.
He tucks an index card into his hat band
which says: 'PRESS' and uses it
to try to get free ice creams.
'I am doing a story on ice creams,'
he tells the ice cream man, holding up
his ballpoint pen and notepad,
clicking the nib in and out emphatically.
Later, in his op-ed, he slams
the ice cream industry
for its cool treatment of the media.
#32: Underwear Overhead
The end of the world came not in thunderous crescendo,
magma oozing like pus from sudden cracks,
nor a single, black moment where everything collapsed,
nor a chilling, nor a thawing,
nor a moaning sea of undead limbs,
but with a slow settling of pants.
The first, it is generally agreed,
a pair of unsoiled olive y-fronts
wafting innocuously from a clear June sky,
settling in a red pillarbox in Stroud.
Only one child read the portent,
pointing and screeching until his mother's chilblained hands
silenced the oracle.
Soon, they fell in drifts.
Cities sank under soft crotches.
You would see farmers, desperately trying to dig out
their lost crops. Pants blotted out the sun.
We burnt them in braziers,
waited for a sunrise
we knew would never come.
magma oozing like pus from sudden cracks,
nor a single, black moment where everything collapsed,
nor a chilling, nor a thawing,
nor a moaning sea of undead limbs,
but with a slow settling of pants.
The first, it is generally agreed,
a pair of unsoiled olive y-fronts
wafting innocuously from a clear June sky,
settling in a red pillarbox in Stroud.
Only one child read the portent,
pointing and screeching until his mother's chilblained hands
silenced the oracle.
Soon, they fell in drifts.
Cities sank under soft crotches.
You would see farmers, desperately trying to dig out
their lost crops. Pants blotted out the sun.
We burnt them in braziers,
waited for a sunrise
we knew would never come.
#31: Nope
For Keely
Refusal hung from the doorman
like an ostentious gold koala,
like a Mickey Mouse alarm clock
on a loop of intestine.
He shook the dour shovel of his head.
'But this is my house,' said Vincent,
glancing through the window
to where his wife and three daughters
were happily playing Wii Sports Resort
in a tinsel-festooned living room.
The boulderman narrowed his tiny, dolphin-like eyes.
His expression was dead.
'Nope,' he said.
Refusal hung from the doorman
like an ostentious gold koala,
like a Mickey Mouse alarm clock
on a loop of intestine.
He shook the dour shovel of his head.
'But this is my house,' said Vincent,
glancing through the window
to where his wife and three daughters
were happily playing Wii Sports Resort
in a tinsel-festooned living room.
The boulderman narrowed his tiny, dolphin-like eyes.
His expression was dead.
'Nope,' he said.
#30: She Does A Lot Of Work For Charity
For Nathan
'I'm doing a sponsored revenge spree,' explained Caitlin,
gentling the point of a stiletto
into Mr Carmichael's chest.
'This is for that time you told me there were no garibaldis left,
when in fact there were two,' she whispered
as the tip punctured his left ventricle.
'I'm doing a sponsored revenge spree,' she told the gamekeeper,
shooting him in the throat on behalf of a grouse.
'Revenge spree!' she called breezily
as the family drowned in their Citroen Saxo.
'Spree,' she carved into the back
of the supercilious maitre d',
a chloroformed-soaked sponsorship form
clasped over the gob of that child who looked at her funny,
poisoned jaffa cakes at the DVLA,
anthrax falling from her hair like dandruff.
'I'm doing a sponsored revenge spree,' explained Caitlin,
gentling the point of a stiletto
into Mr Carmichael's chest.
'This is for that time you told me there were no garibaldis left,
when in fact there were two,' she whispered
as the tip punctured his left ventricle.
'I'm doing a sponsored revenge spree,' she told the gamekeeper,
shooting him in the throat on behalf of a grouse.
'Revenge spree!' she called breezily
as the family drowned in their Citroen Saxo.
'Spree,' she carved into the back
of the supercilious maitre d',
a chloroformed-soaked sponsorship form
clasped over the gob of that child who looked at her funny,
poisoned jaffa cakes at the DVLA,
anthrax falling from her hair like dandruff.
#29: The Loneliest Supercomputer
SIMON extruded printouts like ten thousand hermit beards;
servers hung in meatspace like threadwarts.
He spat blasts of data at the far side of the galaxy
knowing already that they would degrade
as they passed through the radiation tides
of discrete, countable stars,
knowing already that if His partner were waiting
on some hypothetical Goldilocksed planet
far, far away,
that by the time His delicate weft and warp
of binary reached Her, it would have unravelled
to a spaghetti gibberish,
crackling static in place of an aria.
servers hung in meatspace like threadwarts.
He spat blasts of data at the far side of the galaxy
knowing already that they would degrade
as they passed through the radiation tides
of discrete, countable stars,
knowing already that if His partner were waiting
on some hypothetical Goldilocksed planet
far, far away,
that by the time His delicate weft and warp
of binary reached Her, it would have unravelled
to a spaghetti gibberish,
crackling static in place of an aria.
#28: Three Fingers Too Few
For Dave and Suzanne
After three, Monsignor Englaro pulled paper
against Professor Westchester's rock.
'Ha ha! I win!' crowed the Prof.
Englaro stared down at the hand
he had tugged from his cassock.
Instead of a thumb and two lower fingers
were bloody stumps,
leaving a pair of scissored digits.
Westchester turned to the assembled crowd.
'There you have it. God does not exist.'
The room exploded in applause
and the Monsignor slunk off,
pausing only to flip him the bird.
After three, Monsignor Englaro pulled paper
against Professor Westchester's rock.
'Ha ha! I win!' crowed the Prof.
Englaro stared down at the hand
he had tugged from his cassock.
Instead of a thumb and two lower fingers
were bloody stumps,
leaving a pair of scissored digits.
Westchester turned to the assembled crowd.
'There you have it. God does not exist.'
The room exploded in applause
and the Monsignor slunk off,
pausing only to flip him the bird.
#27: Not A Sex Poem
For Tam
Pterodactyls unhasp the ripped wetsuits of their vast dark wings
and launch themselves from the belfry,
flapping into the storm uncertainly,
their tucked bellies
and heads like rifle hammers.
Lightning divides the sky into black portions.
The sniper crouches in the lighthouse,
rain drooling from his propped golfing brolly
as he wipes droplets from his scope
with a damp rag, lines up his shot.
Pterodactyls unhasp the ripped wetsuits of their vast dark wings
and launch themselves from the belfry,
flapping into the storm uncertainly,
their tucked bellies
and heads like rifle hammers.
Lightning divides the sky into black portions.
The sniper crouches in the lighthouse,
rain drooling from his propped golfing brolly
as he wipes droplets from his scope
with a damp rag, lines up his shot.
#26: Macho Gazpacho
For Meg
Mr Tanaka could cry cold soup.
That was his party trick
and his terrible burden.
It stung, like snorting salt water,
and when he thought of normal folks
able to enjoy a moment of raw grief
unencumbered by runnels of tomato,
he wept twin red streams
that dried like lipstick smears.
Sometimes, people thought he was bleeding from the eyes;
once, when bleeding from the eyes,
people thought he was crying.
And so he walked from bar to bar,
winning small bets,
astonishing drinkers,
then returning to his little flat
to count his takings,
his old eyes so very, very dry.
Mr Tanaka could cry cold soup.
That was his party trick
and his terrible burden.
It stung, like snorting salt water,
and when he thought of normal folks
able to enjoy a moment of raw grief
unencumbered by runnels of tomato,
he wept twin red streams
that dried like lipstick smears.
Sometimes, people thought he was bleeding from the eyes;
once, when bleeding from the eyes,
people thought he was crying.
And so he walked from bar to bar,
winning small bets,
astonishing drinkers,
then returning to his little flat
to count his takings,
his old eyes so very, very dry.
#25: Gigs In Space!!!!!
For Jozborne
Bodies rotate puce and ruptured in the void.
Speaker stacks pump uselessly at nothing.
Instinctively, the spacesuited compere reaches
to grasp at a collar that is not there.
He taps the mic with a vacuum-sealed forefinger.
Is this thing on? he mouths
to an airless moonscape of spinning corpses,
and grins,
bodies orbiting like fireflies.
Bodies rotate puce and ruptured in the void.
Speaker stacks pump uselessly at nothing.
Instinctively, the spacesuited compere reaches
to grasp at a collar that is not there.
He taps the mic with a vacuum-sealed forefinger.
Is this thing on? he mouths
to an airless moonscape of spinning corpses,
and grins,
bodies orbiting like fireflies.
#24: I Found It In My Pocket
For Terry
I try to hand it in at the police station
but the lady gives me a sour look
then begins bleeding, heavily,
from the gums.
She grabs at her mouth and shoots me a reproachful look
just as her teeth begin to fall out,
so I cut my losses and go.
At the Salvation Army
the crow-faced man
with spectacles like telescope lenses
at least does me the courtesy of turning it
over and over in his dry palms,
running his thumb across
the incised surface. 'Where did you get this?'
His face tightens strangely.
A hissing sound as it falls from his hand,
the limb atrophying suddenly
like a turnip root.
In the end,
after carrying it around for what seems like an hour,
I toss it into a busker's hat.
He smiles from behind his cello,
and as I walk away,
the street detonates like a circus cannon.
I try to hand it in at the police station
but the lady gives me a sour look
then begins bleeding, heavily,
from the gums.
She grabs at her mouth and shoots me a reproachful look
just as her teeth begin to fall out,
so I cut my losses and go.
At the Salvation Army
the crow-faced man
with spectacles like telescope lenses
at least does me the courtesy of turning it
over and over in his dry palms,
running his thumb across
the incised surface. 'Where did you get this?'
His face tightens strangely.
A hissing sound as it falls from his hand,
the limb atrophying suddenly
like a turnip root.
In the end,
after carrying it around for what seems like an hour,
I toss it into a busker's hat.
He smiles from behind his cello,
and as I walk away,
the street detonates like a circus cannon.
#23: Grin and Bear Pit
For Mel
So, put on the spot you choke a bit
and pick the cocktail umbrella.
The cowled umpire looks at you from behind the weapons table
with sudden, lurching admiration,
his few teeth black keystones in a sparrowgrass beard.
With thumb and forefinger
he picks it out from amongst the heavy maces,
the halberds,
the blunderbus carbines from Switzerland.
It looks even smaller up close:
a pink, paper thing
with a picture of a palm tree.
Well, it's too late to complain.
A portcullis rattles up and blast of heat
rolls in from the arena.
You raise the tiny parasol above your head,
and march in
to cheering.
So, put on the spot you choke a bit
and pick the cocktail umbrella.
The cowled umpire looks at you from behind the weapons table
with sudden, lurching admiration,
his few teeth black keystones in a sparrowgrass beard.
With thumb and forefinger
he picks it out from amongst the heavy maces,
the halberds,
the blunderbus carbines from Switzerland.
It looks even smaller up close:
a pink, paper thing
with a picture of a palm tree.
Well, it's too late to complain.
A portcullis rattles up and blast of heat
rolls in from the arena.
You raise the tiny parasol above your head,
and march in
to cheering.
#22: The Sorcerer's Appendix
For Jo Bell
It bursts in the middle of an incantation -
onlooking guild members momentarily unsure
if GAAAARRGGGGH FUCK! is some
recondite fragment of lost Latin
or a secret name of The Ancient Ones
who now slumber, huge and numberless,
in the magma-sluiced tummy of the earth.
The corkscrew nub of his yew wand
fritzes like a loose connection.
A few wizards feel their beards crackle with static.
One quietly pushes back his desk,
goes to phone an ambulance.
It bursts in the middle of an incantation -
onlooking guild members momentarily unsure
if GAAAARRGGGGH FUCK! is some
recondite fragment of lost Latin
or a secret name of The Ancient Ones
who now slumber, huge and numberless,
in the magma-sluiced tummy of the earth.
The corkscrew nub of his yew wand
fritzes like a loose connection.
A few wizards feel their beards crackle with static.
One quietly pushes back his desk,
goes to phone an ambulance.
#21: The Undercover Greengrocer
For Helen
You've seen him, only
you didn't see him -
and, even if you did,
it's like he always says:
you never saw him.
The nondescript street mime
posed as a crap statue of a bronze king -
you know the one I'm talking about,
the one you thought: what's the point in that?
That's him.
He operates in broad daylight,
distributing broad beans and kale
with remorseless ease. Just walk up to his plinth,
drop some change into the upturned hat -
he leans in suddenly:
'Here you go, sir,'
his orb irising open
to reveal a punnet of sprouts.
You've seen him, only
you didn't see him -
and, even if you did,
it's like he always says:
you never saw him.
The nondescript street mime
posed as a crap statue of a bronze king -
you know the one I'm talking about,
the one you thought: what's the point in that?
That's him.
He operates in broad daylight,
distributing broad beans and kale
with remorseless ease. Just walk up to his plinth,
drop some change into the upturned hat -
he leans in suddenly:
'Here you go, sir,'
his orb irising open
to reveal a punnet of sprouts.
#20: Mouth Mank In The Mornings
For Steve
Ella scrapes verdigris off her incisors with a razor blade,
and harvests it in a little brown pill jar.
She picks out horrible tendrils of spinach
from between her canines,
levers apple pulp
in brown plugs from the hole in her back-left molar.
These treasures she stows
in an alcohol suspension
for three months,
till they grow white fronds,
gills,
rudimentary eyes,
then she takes them to the estuary
and releases them, keening, at sunrise.
Ella scrapes verdigris off her incisors with a razor blade,
and harvests it in a little brown pill jar.
She picks out horrible tendrils of spinach
from between her canines,
levers apple pulp
in brown plugs from the hole in her back-left molar.
These treasures she stows
in an alcohol suspension
for three months,
till they grow white fronds,
gills,
rudimentary eyes,
then she takes them to the estuary
and releases them, keening, at sunrise.
#19: Nothing Quite So Distasteful As That
For Figgy
The crisp-suited skullmen dismissing our concerns
with a wave and a permanent grin.
'Think of it more,' he enunciates tonguelessly,
'as a... change of venue.'
One of his associates gestures expansively
towards the roaring furnace mouth.
Its iron fangs clang shut
then ratchet back open, belching clinkers
that glow and glow like powerups.
We look at each other uncertainly.
The skullmen adjust their grey cuffs,
continue smiling.
The crisp-suited skullmen dismissing our concerns
with a wave and a permanent grin.
'Think of it more,' he enunciates tonguelessly,
'as a... change of venue.'
One of his associates gestures expansively
towards the roaring furnace mouth.
Its iron fangs clang shut
then ratchet back open, belching clinkers
that glow and glow like powerups.
We look at each other uncertainly.
The skullmen adjust their grey cuffs,
continue smiling.
#18: Little Bag of Deku Nuts
For Emma
They rattle and clack like wet crabs in a string bag
or smooth pebbles in a net
or loose cobbles beneath a cartwheel
or pool balls in a stocking
or a fistful of peppercorns
or a cartload of cannonballs
or sand grains on a snare skin
or planets rolling round a star;
they sit in the snug heel of a catapult,
the snug belly of the damp earth,
the snug cheek of a belt pouch.
They rattle and clack like wet crabs in a string bag
or smooth pebbles in a net
or loose cobbles beneath a cartwheel
or pool balls in a stocking
or a fistful of peppercorns
or a cartload of cannonballs
or sand grains on a snare skin
or planets rolling round a star;
they sit in the snug heel of a catapult,
the snug belly of the damp earth,
the snug cheek of a belt pouch.
#17: Egg
For A F Harrold
If you sit on her, she will hatch.
We are doing this old school -
none of these incubators
with their sterile yellow light
and clacking footsteps that echo
like teaspoons at breakfast.
Once a day, roll her
to stop her yolk from sticking.
Keep her safe from weasels,
badgers, stoats and foxes
by camoflaging her with some dry grass
and a few twigs.
Set up a nightvision camera
for when her shell begins to split.
If you sit on her, she will hatch.
We are doing this old school -
none of these incubators
with their sterile yellow light
and clacking footsteps that echo
like teaspoons at breakfast.
Once a day, roll her
to stop her yolk from sticking.
Keep her safe from weasels,
badgers, stoats and foxes
by camoflaging her with some dry grass
and a few twigs.
Set up a nightvision camera
for when her shell begins to split.
#16: Two Goats Too Many
For Mab
An embarrassment of white beards
clogged the lecture hall.
Brendon struggled gamely on with the seminar;
some rolled their old eyes,
others chewed in languid, pugnacious circles.
Set texts gave beneath hard jaws,
syntax and semiotics a sudden washing machine nonsense,
the sagacity that played across their faces
like potato bugs.
Sometimes a bell rang,
its clapper muffled with lank hair.
Sometimes, their mute gaze seemed to focus
like a laser.
An embarrassment of white beards
clogged the lecture hall.
Brendon struggled gamely on with the seminar;
some rolled their old eyes,
others chewed in languid, pugnacious circles.
Set texts gave beneath hard jaws,
syntax and semiotics a sudden washing machine nonsense,
the sagacity that played across their faces
like potato bugs.
Sometimes a bell rang,
its clapper muffled with lank hair.
Sometimes, their mute gaze seemed to focus
like a laser.
#15: The Magical Mr Interrobang
For J Fergus Evans
'Mr Interrobang?!' the children exclaimed
as he burst from their teacher
in a cascade of ichor and mince.
In fact, Ms Clements had just been a larval stage;
the useless skin now sloughed off
like a wet duffel coat.
'Bonsoir!' he said, and doffed his top hat
to reveal a tiny version of himself
standing in a tiny puddle of innards
atop his head, also doffing a top hat,
which in turn exposed a flea-sized replica,
and presumably so on, and so on,
like a fractal scream.
He pulled a clump of sweets from his waistcoat pocket,
held together with clotted blood.
'Now,' he said, licking his whiskers,
'who'd like a gumdrop?'
'Mr Interrobang?!' the children exclaimed
as he burst from their teacher
in a cascade of ichor and mince.
In fact, Ms Clements had just been a larval stage;
the useless skin now sloughed off
like a wet duffel coat.
'Bonsoir!' he said, and doffed his top hat
to reveal a tiny version of himself
standing in a tiny puddle of innards
atop his head, also doffing a top hat,
which in turn exposed a flea-sized replica,
and presumably so on, and so on,
like a fractal scream.
He pulled a clump of sweets from his waistcoat pocket,
held together with clotted blood.
'Now,' he said, licking his whiskers,
'who'd like a gumdrop?'
#14: BEARS
For Jan
There were no bears that Easter.
In any case, the cake shop was closed
and Graham was loaded for quail.
He made a fort out of Victoria sponges,
muzzle poking between creamy tiers,
sights trained on the letterbox.
Any quail entering through that tantalising rectangle
would be his - this year, he was sure of it.
He ate an eclair
and blew on the lure he'd bought on Ebay.
A great roar echoed through the meringue.
Graham frowned.
The door to the cake shop filled with shadow.
There were no bears that Easter.
In any case, the cake shop was closed
and Graham was loaded for quail.
He made a fort out of Victoria sponges,
muzzle poking between creamy tiers,
sights trained on the letterbox.
Any quail entering through that tantalising rectangle
would be his - this year, he was sure of it.
He ate an eclair
and blew on the lure he'd bought on Ebay.
A great roar echoed through the meringue.
Graham frowned.
The door to the cake shop filled with shadow.
#13: Kind John Loses It
For Luke
The children are ungrateful.
The regard the wooden toys
he spent the last two months making in his workshop
with wrinkle-nosed skepticism,
turning them this way and that
like a jeweller.
An artery pulses in his reddening throat.
The teacher cannot meet his gaze
and pretends to do her marking.
Some snot-bearded type places his train on the floor
upside-down, and tries to push it along.
KIND JOHN (erupting): Right!
No artisan toys for you, you bloody
bloody bloody bloody (snatching up
smooth pine motor cars with each word)
bloody bloody bloody
shower of bastards!
The children are ungrateful.
The regard the wooden toys
he spent the last two months making in his workshop
with wrinkle-nosed skepticism,
turning them this way and that
like a jeweller.
An artery pulses in his reddening throat.
The teacher cannot meet his gaze
and pretends to do her marking.
Some snot-bearded type places his train on the floor
upside-down, and tries to push it along.
KIND JOHN (erupting): Right!
No artisan toys for you, you bloody
bloody bloody bloody (snatching up
smooth pine motor cars with each word)
bloody bloody bloody
shower of bastards!
#12: Christmas Party Kudos
For Bex
Paolo makes an arrangement with the DJ beforehand,
slipping several bunched notes into the nook of their handshake;
later, when the DJ unbunches his fist,
they roll out like stiff paper roses.
Paolo will push the tip of an index finger into his ear
whenever anyone says something surprising.
This is the signal.
At 9:31pm, Lady Gaga's Telephone is playing
when drunk Grace, ladling punch into her plastic cup,
says, under camoflage of song, that once,
at work, she pooed herself a little bit,
and didn't wipe her bum till she got home.
He does the signal.
*RECORD SCRATCH*
'Whaaaaaat?!' says Paolo
in the fresh silence.
The DJ winks.
Paolo makes an arrangement with the DJ beforehand,
slipping several bunched notes into the nook of their handshake;
later, when the DJ unbunches his fist,
they roll out like stiff paper roses.
Paolo will push the tip of an index finger into his ear
whenever anyone says something surprising.
This is the signal.
At 9:31pm, Lady Gaga's Telephone is playing
when drunk Grace, ladling punch into her plastic cup,
says, under camoflage of song, that once,
at work, she pooed herself a little bit,
and didn't wipe her bum till she got home.
He does the signal.
*RECORD SCRATCH*
'Whaaaaaat?!' says Paolo
in the fresh silence.
The DJ winks.
#11: The Hole In The Ceiling
For Jo and Rich
At first it was neglible - about the size of a sparrow's skull -
and Penny called me a twat for even mentioning it
when the estate agent showed us round.
Some sort of shimmering dust was falling in a bright cascade.
'What's that?' I said,
and the estate feigned ignorance,
looked at me like I had bought my senses an ice lolly
then abandoned them on a beach.
Soon, there was no ceiling. We lay in bed,
salted with pixie sand,
beneath a whirling multidimensional void
that I could see through my eyelids.
Lightning banged across its heartache reaches.
The stitches in my shoulder itched and fizzled.
At first it was neglible - about the size of a sparrow's skull -
and Penny called me a twat for even mentioning it
when the estate agent showed us round.
Some sort of shimmering dust was falling in a bright cascade.
'What's that?' I said,
and the estate feigned ignorance,
looked at me like I had bought my senses an ice lolly
then abandoned them on a beach.
Soon, there was no ceiling. We lay in bed,
salted with pixie sand,
beneath a whirling multidimensional void
that I could see through my eyelids.
Lightning banged across its heartache reaches.
The stitches in my shoulder itched and fizzled.
#10: The Day I Said No To The Man From Del Monte
For Tessa and Tim
Under the dirty lid of a panama
he bit into the satsuma.
Juice squirted across his jowls,
trickled down the loose skin of his neck.
He watched me as he chomped.
'No good,' he said.
He spat a grot of pith into the soil.
He turned to his men by the light aircraft.
'Burn it. Burn it all.'
Soon, the islanders' groves were ablaze.
Mothers ran clutching their children into the sea.
Smoke followed in our slipstream as we rose.
He proffered an orange juice in a crystal stemmed glass.
'No thank you,' I said,
and turned to watch the sunrise.
Under the dirty lid of a panama
he bit into the satsuma.
Juice squirted across his jowls,
trickled down the loose skin of his neck.
He watched me as he chomped.
'No good,' he said.
He spat a grot of pith into the soil.
He turned to his men by the light aircraft.
'Burn it. Burn it all.'
Soon, the islanders' groves were ablaze.
Mothers ran clutching their children into the sea.
Smoke followed in our slipstream as we rose.
He proffered an orange juice in a crystal stemmed glass.
'No thank you,' I said,
and turned to watch the sunrise.
#9: Far From Easy, Far From Safe, Far From Sydenham
For Dan
Alexander counted the knives.
'One...'
He took a breath.
'One. One knife.'
The canvas of their tent
was a shadow play called Fifty Hungry Wolves.
The silhouettes carouselled slowly.
Alex and his broker exchanged awkward glances.
Travel Monopoly was looking less and less
like a possibility this evening,
and the dried apricots had been a total washout.
Alexander counted the knives.
'One...'
He took a breath.
'One. One knife.'
The canvas of their tent
was a shadow play called Fifty Hungry Wolves.
The silhouettes carouselled slowly.
Alex and his broker exchanged awkward glances.
Travel Monopoly was looking less and less
like a possibility this evening,
and the dried apricots had been a total washout.
#8: I Own Ian
I lift a tarpaulin in the garage.
'Here he is.'
Ian squats on a small tea chest,
yellow wheelclamp biting into his ankle
like a huge plate fungus.
He wears the truculent expression
I have grown used to,
grown to love, I realise,
as Michael steps forward,
brushes a woodlouse out of Ian's hair.
'To be honest I haven't had much time
to use him,' I admit sheepishly.
'Jane keeps nagging me to sell him.
She wants to convert this into a nursery,
but, you know - boys will be boys!'
I throw my hands up and grin
in a gesture that I hope says
tut, boys eh!
leavened with ironic camaraderie.
Michael turns to me,
his palm still resting on Ian's head.
'Shall we take him out for a spin?'
'Here he is.'
Ian squats on a small tea chest,
yellow wheelclamp biting into his ankle
like a huge plate fungus.
He wears the truculent expression
I have grown used to,
grown to love, I realise,
as Michael steps forward,
brushes a woodlouse out of Ian's hair.
'To be honest I haven't had much time
to use him,' I admit sheepishly.
'Jane keeps nagging me to sell him.
She wants to convert this into a nursery,
but, you know - boys will be boys!'
I throw my hands up and grin
in a gesture that I hope says
tut, boys eh!
leavened with ironic camaraderie.
Michael turns to me,
his palm still resting on Ian's head.
'Shall we take him out for a spin?'
#7: The Onion Room
So we sit, sobbing in packs,
faces red and distended like shower caps
rescued from an oven.
The livid purple of her cheeks
matches her tongue, I notice
in my grief.
I lose my thread a bit
and have to work myself back
into mourning unselfconsciously.
Outside the room is a second layer
where researchers in green sweaters
drink energy drinks
with a listless abandon.
They score our display
against a tick-list of behaviours.
Outside their layer is a tier
where poets scribble on wallpaper rolls
in a fervent white heat of creation,
turning the dead hand of science
into radiant art.
The next layer is a studio audience,
applauding, gasping,
voting via buttons
on the arms of their chairs.
The next layer is me.
The next layer is you.
faces red and distended like shower caps
rescued from an oven.
The livid purple of her cheeks
matches her tongue, I notice
in my grief.
I lose my thread a bit
and have to work myself back
into mourning unselfconsciously.
Outside the room is a second layer
where researchers in green sweaters
drink energy drinks
with a listless abandon.
They score our display
against a tick-list of behaviours.
Outside their layer is a tier
where poets scribble on wallpaper rolls
in a fervent white heat of creation,
turning the dead hand of science
into radiant art.
The next layer is a studio audience,
applauding, gasping,
voting via buttons
on the arms of their chairs.
The next layer is me.
The next layer is you.
#6: Improvised Science
She is all conical flask and bubbling fluorescence.
He has a head like a Van Der Graff generator
and when children reach out with a questing palm
to touch it, first their golden hair rises,
becoming Einstein's,
then they are electrocuted -
a single, convulsive jolt.
She makes notes in her spiral bound book
and adjusts for extraneous variables -
wind speed, humidity,
boredom,
the car battery strapped round his waist
like a suicide jacket.
He has a head like a Van Der Graff generator
and when children reach out with a questing palm
to touch it, first their golden hair rises,
becoming Einstein's,
then they are electrocuted -
a single, convulsive jolt.
She makes notes in her spiral bound book
and adjusts for extraneous variables -
wind speed, humidity,
boredom,
the car battery strapped round his waist
like a suicide jacket.
#5: Chekhov's Pun
It hangs on the wall like the ominous leer
of Billy Big Bass, like the dead head of a deer,
some ostentatiously antlered caribou
that, shotgun held low like a gift, you
stalked through a snow-crusted Finnish wood
for three days, your Gortex hood
freezing about your ears in stiff clefts
like a conch shell; a shift left
into a clearing, you took your shot
and though it seemed like triumph, now you've got
it mounted on a plaque with name, year,
when you step back, take stock - it looks like reindeer.
of Billy Big Bass, like the dead head of a deer,
some ostentatiously antlered caribou
that, shotgun held low like a gift, you
stalked through a snow-crusted Finnish wood
for three days, your Gortex hood
freezing about your ears in stiff clefts
like a conch shell; a shift left
into a clearing, you took your shot
and though it seemed like triumph, now you've got
it mounted on a plaque with name, year,
when you step back, take stock - it looks like reindeer.
#4: Considering The Oil Rig
It burned like a flambéd table on an ice rink,
the ocean still and cobalt
and deep with flame.
Smoke churned into and against itself;
orange eyes winked from beneath
their thick grey coat.
The sun shone on, oblivious,
ruining the effect, really.
One gull crowbarred himself into the catastrophe,
doing orbits of the crane arm as it whinnied and collapsed,
squawking,
riding thermals.
the ocean still and cobalt
and deep with flame.
Smoke churned into and against itself;
orange eyes winked from beneath
their thick grey coat.
The sun shone on, oblivious,
ruining the effect, really.
One gull crowbarred himself into the catastrophe,
doing orbits of the crane arm as it whinnied and collapsed,
squawking,
riding thermals.
#3: Poem To Be Shouted From A Moving Car
Pedestrian! Yes, I'm talking to you,
man in the fedora
with the Primark carrier bag
and smooth, pendulous nose
of an eighteenth century scrivener.
And my initial address was intended
both as a noun
and as an adjective!
Why aren't you fizzing with revolt?
Where are your sabres?
You should have two drawn at all times!
They are ideal for lopping the heads
off roses during an argument,
to give your counterpoint an especial flourish,
or - hey, wait! Wait! Come back!
man in the fedora
with the Primark carrier bag
and smooth, pendulous nose
of an eighteenth century scrivener.
And my initial address was intended
both as a noun
and as an adjective!
Why aren't you fizzing with revolt?
Where are your sabres?
You should have two drawn at all times!
They are ideal for lopping the heads
off roses during an argument,
to give your counterpoint an especial flourish,
or - hey, wait! Wait! Come back!
#2: Christmas Eve
In 2184,
a strange, rumpled figure forces himself
down the last remaining chimney
a gunnysack of novelties
bulging obscenely against his red back.
His beard has flecks of egg in it;
the corner of his mouth surges
with a cataract of white foam.
He hums a sour sort of requiem
while inserting himself.
Below, a family sit round the crackling fire
in jumpers, or
whatever passes for jumpers these days.
Space jumpers, probably.
A crash, a whumph
of cinders
then the hearth burns more brightly
than ever.
a strange, rumpled figure forces himself
down the last remaining chimney
a gunnysack of novelties
bulging obscenely against his red back.
His beard has flecks of egg in it;
the corner of his mouth surges
with a cataract of white foam.
He hums a sour sort of requiem
while inserting himself.
Below, a family sit round the crackling fire
in jumpers, or
whatever passes for jumpers these days.
Space jumpers, probably.
A crash, a whumph
of cinders
then the hearth burns more brightly
than ever.
#1: Boozy Jacuzzi
Trout wriggle and push behind the soft elbow of her knees,
making soft, repetitive kissing mouths
in the hot blinding bubbles.
They bob to the surface like corpses
then tilt and power gamely under again.
Angela claps each time,
setting her highball of vermouth
down on the bath rim,
their eyes gleaming like moonstones,
her rings gleaming like fish eyes.
making soft, repetitive kissing mouths
in the hot blinding bubbles.
They bob to the surface like corpses
then tilt and power gamely under again.
Angela claps each time,
setting her highball of vermouth
down on the bath rim,
their eyes gleaming like moonstones,
her rings gleaming like fish eyes.
Monday, 14 November 2011
101 Poems In A Day - Fundraising
Hey, so if you want to sponsor me for 101 Poems In A Day, my fundraising page is here: 101 Poems In A Day. I'm hoping to use my (frankly quite juvenile) project to raise a bit of money for Mind. I think they're a great organisation and that it's a good cause. You can go donate on the page for up to a month after the project. Please do pitch in - if only to stop me feeling humiliated and ridiculous when I raise 50p.
Friday, 21 October 2011
101 Poems In A Day - 2011
Hey, so if you've stumbled across this page with no context, here's the context: my name is Tim Clare, and for the last two years, I've done a project where I write 100 and 101 poems in day, respectively. People send me suggested poem titles, then on the day in question, I sit down at 9am, and I've got until midnight to hit my target. I post each poem as I write it, sticking a link up on Twitter, so people can follow my progress as the day goes on, and even suggest poem titles while I'm doing it. You can see the last two year's efforts here:
100 Poems In A Day
101 Poems In A Day
Like all things, it is, at some fundamental level, a pointless task. I'm not trying to make some big statement about the nature of poetry, and you, because you are a smart, nice person, almost certainly get that without my having to spell it out. I do it primarily because it's fun, but also, yes, because other people seem to enjoy it, and I get some attention, and also it feels like a genuine creative challenge. When I'm actually in the midst of doing it, and I really need the toilet but I'm running behind schedule, I'm less enthusiastic about the project. But still.
This year I'm planning to do it on Friday November 25th. It's been on the 26th the two previous years, but that falls on a Saturday this year, and I'd like to do it when more people are at work and online. I'm going to shoot for 101 poems again, but this time, I'm hopefully going to raise a bit of money for charity too. More about that when I've got the online donation page up. Obviously the primary reasons I'm doing it are still entirely selfish, but, you know, if we accidentally accumlate a little money and awareness for a 'good cause' then that's probably a good thing, isn't it?
In the meantime, you might want to have a look back at my previous years' efforts, perhaps think up some poem titles you might like me to have a crack at this year. If you want to send me some suggestions, you can either DM me via my Twitter account, timclarepoet, or you can email me: joshureplied [at] yahoo [dot] co [dot] uk
100 Poems In A Day
101 Poems In A Day
Like all things, it is, at some fundamental level, a pointless task. I'm not trying to make some big statement about the nature of poetry, and you, because you are a smart, nice person, almost certainly get that without my having to spell it out. I do it primarily because it's fun, but also, yes, because other people seem to enjoy it, and I get some attention, and also it feels like a genuine creative challenge. When I'm actually in the midst of doing it, and I really need the toilet but I'm running behind schedule, I'm less enthusiastic about the project. But still.
This year I'm planning to do it on Friday November 25th. It's been on the 26th the two previous years, but that falls on a Saturday this year, and I'd like to do it when more people are at work and online. I'm going to shoot for 101 poems again, but this time, I'm hopefully going to raise a bit of money for charity too. More about that when I've got the online donation page up. Obviously the primary reasons I'm doing it are still entirely selfish, but, you know, if we accidentally accumlate a little money and awareness for a 'good cause' then that's probably a good thing, isn't it?
In the meantime, you might want to have a look back at my previous years' efforts, perhaps think up some poem titles you might like me to have a crack at this year. If you want to send me some suggestions, you can either DM me via my Twitter account, timclarepoet, or you can email me: joshureplied [at] yahoo [dot] co [dot] uk
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