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.
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