comes shrieking out of the mist,
a havoc of papery skin stretched tight
over chitin and doom. The hull
gongs like a dungeon door;
in the empty skull a slave galley
drives the infernal engines below.
Fell lights glow in the occular cavities,
black smoke trailing
from a trepanned scalp.
She clatters out of London, chewing through
the Midlands, steaming North;
her breath like coal and soured milk.
She is iron and brass and the gut ropes of the Forever Lost.
She salts the earth and makes birds drop from the sky.
And still, the lash cracks somewhere deep in her throat.
Bronzed men pull on oars.
She advances, seething.
Friday 30 November 2012
#99 - The Tinfoil Hat That Saved My Cat
Chemtrails left his Whiskas with a metallic aftertaste;
the output of HAARP set his fur on edge.
Oh, he had heard the 'explanations' of counter-intelligence agents,
the crackle of static and backmasking behind
their every utterance and, yes, what with the flouride
in the water he had once believed them,
curling up by the hearth like a hairy prawn,
docile, obedient.
But lately, he has stiffened like a croquet hoop,
hacking up listening devices:
thick wet balls,
bristling with antennae.
the output of HAARP set his fur on edge.
Oh, he had heard the 'explanations' of counter-intelligence agents,
the crackle of static and backmasking behind
their every utterance and, yes, what with the flouride
in the water he had once believed them,
curling up by the hearth like a hairy prawn,
docile, obedient.
But lately, he has stiffened like a croquet hoop,
hacking up listening devices:
thick wet balls,
bristling with antennae.
#98 - The Untying Of Rodney O'Flanagan
His legs were in a Flemish bend
His spleen was knotted end to end
Unmesh his whiskers? Hell forfend!
Untying Rod O'Flanagan
His tongue was in a granny knot
His arms had mostly been forgot
Was Roddy kinkless? He was not!
Untying Rod O'Flanagan
His veins were in a rolling hitch
His brains unspooling in a ditch
His hair was, frankly, quite a bitch
Untying Rod O'Flanagan
His spleen was knotted end to end
Unmesh his whiskers? Hell forfend!
Untying Rod O'Flanagan
His tongue was in a granny knot
His arms had mostly been forgot
Was Roddy kinkless? He was not!
Untying Rod O'Flanagan
His veins were in a rolling hitch
His brains unspooling in a ditch
His hair was, frankly, quite a bitch
Untying Rod O'Flanagan
#97 - Down With Victims!
'How many times must I show you?' barks Ranulph,
a rhetorical question but honestly felt,
'it's stab and then drag and then twist and then drag,'
and his dagger withdraws as he peels off the pelt.
'But uncle!' cries Spedwin, distressed by the violence,
'o must we slay paupers and harvest their skins?'
'You are stupid,' says Ranulph, and guts his drab nephew,
'did nobody tell you child? He who scares, wins.'
a rhetorical question but honestly felt,
'it's stab and then drag and then twist and then drag,'
and his dagger withdraws as he peels off the pelt.
'But uncle!' cries Spedwin, distressed by the violence,
'o must we slay paupers and harvest their skins?'
'You are stupid,' says Ranulph, and guts his drab nephew,
'did nobody tell you child? He who scares, wins.'
#96 - The Reaper's Lonely Pint
With the cowl pushed back from his bowling ball scalp,
he didn't look much of anything.
His talon tinked on the rim of the glass,
and as he sank his suds
the note dropped.
On the ceiling above,
there was a scythe just like his,
but sharper.
He saw his future in the horse brasses.
He brushed crisps from his robe,
for a moment entranced,
by that briefest of novelties:
a lap.
he didn't look much of anything.
His talon tinked on the rim of the glass,
and as he sank his suds
the note dropped.
On the ceiling above,
there was a scythe just like his,
but sharper.
He saw his future in the horse brasses.
He brushed crisps from his robe,
for a moment entranced,
by that briefest of novelties:
a lap.
#95 - Before The Aftershow Party
Lewis drove his Citroen Saxo through the plate glass front
of a Cash & Carry, and later claimed it was all part of the show.
He drank Tennants Super two cans at a time,
punching blowholes with screwdrivers - told me God was alive
but in hiding, a wild-eyed old man
with thunder in his digits and no place to go.
When he stepped onto stage, Lewis looked like a bull:
red, unfeasible, snorting with karma.
The audience shutterbugged, rippled and popped -
they lapped that shit up; they were rapt.
of a Cash & Carry, and later claimed it was all part of the show.
He drank Tennants Super two cans at a time,
punching blowholes with screwdrivers - told me God was alive
but in hiding, a wild-eyed old man
with thunder in his digits and no place to go.
When he stepped onto stage, Lewis looked like a bull:
red, unfeasible, snorting with karma.
The audience shutterbugged, rippled and popped -
they lapped that shit up; they were rapt.
#94 - How To Break An Owl
'Don't fuck with me.' The barn owl pulls a luger
as she backs towards the door. 'I shit mouse skulls.'
The owl has a head that winds like a clockspring.
It is cruel and delightful; a porcelain gallows.
Every year the same routine; the stand-off,
the armed escape. She wears her beak like a ventilator.
Sometimes we applaud as she leaves.
Today, she puts a bullet through the signed photo
of Lonny Donegan over the fireplace.
'For Eric,' she whispers,
confusingly.
as she backs towards the door. 'I shit mouse skulls.'
The owl has a head that winds like a clockspring.
It is cruel and delightful; a porcelain gallows.
Every year the same routine; the stand-off,
the armed escape. She wears her beak like a ventilator.
Sometimes we applaud as she leaves.
Today, she puts a bullet through the signed photo
of Lonny Donegan over the fireplace.
'For Eric,' she whispers,
confusingly.
#93 - Tiny Giants
Gary and Standfast live on the lip of the rail bridge,
under which the Flying Scotsman passes
every 46 seconds, before fluming into a tunnel.
N gauge pedestrians cluster on the station platform;
each one comes up to their knee.
Standfast likes to lie on his side in the village,
gazing into the painted window
of the sub-post office, squinting at little boxes of Force,
black-red daubs he imagines are Mars bars.
At night, they follow the battleship grey road
up to the hillside, curl up beneath elms,
with cheeks pressed to the sunrise.
under which the Flying Scotsman passes
every 46 seconds, before fluming into a tunnel.
N gauge pedestrians cluster on the station platform;
each one comes up to their knee.
Standfast likes to lie on his side in the village,
gazing into the painted window
of the sub-post office, squinting at little boxes of Force,
black-red daubs he imagines are Mars bars.
At night, they follow the battleship grey road
up to the hillside, curl up beneath elms,
with cheeks pressed to the sunrise.
#92 - Tires That Grip Drama
Peeling down B-roads in a filched milk float
necking silver tops and yoghurt,
singing the good old songs where men were men
and goats bloated suddenly before exploding.
We hit a pheasant; it shoots a confetti of brown feathers
while expiring. OJ all round and another shanty.
Crossing the border into Surrey,
we whistle at farm girls
as they gather the mangelwurzels.
A stranger takes pot shots,
killing Peter, my dear friend.
We guzzle more yoghurts
and drive for the sunrise,
chiming like billy-o.
I can't stop crying.
necking silver tops and yoghurt,
singing the good old songs where men were men
and goats bloated suddenly before exploding.
We hit a pheasant; it shoots a confetti of brown feathers
while expiring. OJ all round and another shanty.
Crossing the border into Surrey,
we whistle at farm girls
as they gather the mangelwurzels.
A stranger takes pot shots,
killing Peter, my dear friend.
We guzzle more yoghurts
and drive for the sunrise,
chiming like billy-o.
I can't stop crying.
#91 - Better Than First
Silver medals are chocolate wrapped in tin foil.
'42% cocoa solids,' reads Agatha,
'and a good thing too,'
biting through the sweet locus of her penultimacy.
She has a tiny bite radius.
She has the blunt and useless teeth
of an alpaca.
One day, a javelin will find her windpipe,
and for the first time,
her coach will be pleased with her result.
'42% cocoa solids,' reads Agatha,
'and a good thing too,'
biting through the sweet locus of her penultimacy.
She has a tiny bite radius.
She has the blunt and useless teeth
of an alpaca.
One day, a javelin will find her windpipe,
and for the first time,
her coach will be pleased with her result.
#90 - Discount Solutions Warehouse
She looks like the girl next door.
Next door is an empty hangar
filled with burning sex dolls.
The smell is like creosote and
the inside of tennis balls.
Sometimes I slit a tennis ball
and push in a love note
before gluing it shut.
This week, every note read:
I think of you while bleeding from the eyes -
just two of the reasons why you should marry me
x
Next door is an empty hangar
filled with burning sex dolls.
The smell is like creosote and
the inside of tennis balls.
Sometimes I slit a tennis ball
and push in a love note
before gluing it shut.
This week, every note read:
I think of you while bleeding from the eyes -
just two of the reasons why you should marry me
x
#89 - Paddy Saves The Day
Lo! Here he comes! The ubermensch,
as sudden as a thunder clap!
With braces covering his nips
and buttocks that are fun to slap!
O, look out #oil and #gordonbrown -
it's time the people's minds were freed.
He'll tear the right wing system down
and open hearts with #vibes and #weed
So tremble fat cats, big wigs, pigs,
The day of truth cannot be far.
This humble Jesus, rolling cigs,
then breaking out some air guitar.
*sweet 12 minute solo*
as sudden as a thunder clap!
With braces covering his nips
and buttocks that are fun to slap!
O, look out #oil and #gordonbrown -
it's time the people's minds were freed.
He'll tear the right wing system down
and open hearts with #vibes and #weed
So tremble fat cats, big wigs, pigs,
The day of truth cannot be far.
This humble Jesus, rolling cigs,
then breaking out some air guitar.
*sweet 12 minute solo*
#88 - The Movie Premiere
Tickets bunched in grubby mitts
and a red carpet like a lolling tongue -
these are the totems of my success.
Does THIS Answer Your Question, Jasper?
is a box office smash - so many people
go to see it that there is no projectionist
to play the film; empty aeroplanes
plunge from a violet skyline
while heart monitors echo a long, flat tone
through abandoned burns units.
I trudge through a ghost city,
no one around even to pitch
a milk bottle at my head
and call me bastard.
This trash-blown alley is a fisheye lens,
my despair comes apart like a soundstage.
and a red carpet like a lolling tongue -
these are the totems of my success.
Does THIS Answer Your Question, Jasper?
is a box office smash - so many people
go to see it that there is no projectionist
to play the film; empty aeroplanes
plunge from a violet skyline
while heart monitors echo a long, flat tone
through abandoned burns units.
I trudge through a ghost city,
no one around even to pitch
a milk bottle at my head
and call me bastard.
This trash-blown alley is a fisheye lens,
my despair comes apart like a soundstage.
#87 - Rebel Dream
Sometimes we muster by the millpond
with broomhandles, storming imaginary desert compounds,
moving room to room - everybody on the floor! -
dispatching hostiles.
We are very nice;
we pay our taxes on time and in full.
We post Christmas cards to people
who post Christmas cards back.
We hand in lost wallets
and do not expect rewards.
And sometimes,
we pretend to kick shit through society,
the Lord Mayor dropping in a geyser of ichor,
helicopters circling town hall
like fat bluebottles.
with broomhandles, storming imaginary desert compounds,
moving room to room - everybody on the floor! -
dispatching hostiles.
We are very nice;
we pay our taxes on time and in full.
We post Christmas cards to people
who post Christmas cards back.
We hand in lost wallets
and do not expect rewards.
And sometimes,
we pretend to kick shit through society,
the Lord Mayor dropping in a geyser of ichor,
helicopters circling town hall
like fat bluebottles.
#86 - Cone Of Indifference
Those around Michael stop caring.
You can see their eyelids droop as they close in:
at 10 metres, a mild malaise sags their features;
coversation drops off, coffee cups return to saucers
with a clink;
at 5, breathing is arrested to a faint sluicing
through the lips; pupils no longer respond
to light;
at 1, they flatline, slumped in their chairs,
while Michael continues to monologue
about rearwheel drive and the A534,
his mother's healthcentre visits,
Game Of Thrones, and on
and on
and ugh
You can see their eyelids droop as they close in:
at 10 metres, a mild malaise sags their features;
coversation drops off, coffee cups return to saucers
with a clink;
at 5, breathing is arrested to a faint sluicing
through the lips; pupils no longer respond
to light;
at 1, they flatline, slumped in their chairs,
while Michael continues to monologue
about rearwheel drive and the A534,
his mother's healthcentre visits,
Game Of Thrones, and on
and on
and ugh
#85 - Don't Cough On My Pasta Fatso
A morbidly obese maitre'd lifts silver cloches
from pasta shells steaming with mozzarella grease,
tagliatelle like a dead spinster's tresses,
a diorama of the Seige of Leningrad
made from sausagemeat and spaghetti,
a tiny maitre'd, screaming, (he slams the lid
back down on this one, flustered)
cold carbonara with capers,
a vortex, dragging at the tablecloth
like a tubercular baronet clawing at his bedclothes,
meatballs.
from pasta shells steaming with mozzarella grease,
tagliatelle like a dead spinster's tresses,
a diorama of the Seige of Leningrad
made from sausagemeat and spaghetti,
a tiny maitre'd, screaming, (he slams the lid
back down on this one, flustered)
cold carbonara with capers,
a vortex, dragging at the tablecloth
like a tubercular baronet clawing at his bedclothes,
meatballs.
#84 - The Grey Room
This is where they take the victims.
You get a round of applause and a choice.
One door's handle is mother-of-pearl
and mewls when you touch it; the other
is worn down like a hag's nose
or a horrible toe - it gives beneath fingers
like dough.
They say one gives paradise,
say one gives paramours,
say one gives parrot eyes,
say one gives parrot maws,
say one gives a pair of dice,
say one gives parrot caws,
they tell you, they clap you,
they clap you, they wait.
You get a round of applause and a choice.
One door's handle is mother-of-pearl
and mewls when you touch it; the other
is worn down like a hag's nose
or a horrible toe - it gives beneath fingers
like dough.
They say one gives paradise,
say one gives paramours,
say one gives parrot eyes,
say one gives parrot maws,
say one gives a pair of dice,
say one gives parrot caws,
they tell you, they clap you,
they clap you, they wait.
#83 - Fidel's Casserole
The old soldier stands above his pot,
stirring.
Turkey, paprika, sweet peppers,
double cream; a rich, thick pink.
Pig's feet, a bay
leaf; heat.
He strums his beard,
remembering the poisoned chocolate milkshake,
the sudden piquancy against his tongue,
incredible sweetness.
stirring.
Turkey, paprika, sweet peppers,
double cream; a rich, thick pink.
Pig's feet, a bay
leaf; heat.
He strums his beard,
remembering the poisoned chocolate milkshake,
the sudden piquancy against his tongue,
incredible sweetness.
#82 - Tomorrow's JFK Theory
In the book depository there is a sweet apologia
for what Lee Harvey Oswald is about to do,
plus, in the addendum, a recipe to remake
Mr Kennedy's brain. This time,
he can be a dolphin, clicking and squealing
through the Taiwan straits,
the surface a distant rumour above his blowhole,
refracting moonlight when the phases are right,
frilling in the monsoon winds.
for what Lee Harvey Oswald is about to do,
plus, in the addendum, a recipe to remake
Mr Kennedy's brain. This time,
he can be a dolphin, clicking and squealing
through the Taiwan straits,
the surface a distant rumour above his blowhole,
refracting moonlight when the phases are right,
frilling in the monsoon winds.
#81 - Don't Go To Sleep
Klaus capers about the waterbed like a monkey on elastic,
guffing in his niece's ear as she dozes off,
slapping his young nephew round the chops
and crowing the theme to Thundercats
until both children are crying.
He plays the spoons and yodels
till the veins stand out on his brow.
He flings open the wardrobe, shrieking:
'Out, you bastards! I'll touch you up
with a stanley knife! I'll spell your wives' names
with armpit farts!' thrashing at cagoules,
hockey sticks, a heap of shoeboxes.
guffing in his niece's ear as she dozes off,
slapping his young nephew round the chops
and crowing the theme to Thundercats
until both children are crying.
He plays the spoons and yodels
till the veins stand out on his brow.
He flings open the wardrobe, shrieking:
'Out, you bastards! I'll touch you up
with a stanley knife! I'll spell your wives' names
with armpit farts!' thrashing at cagoules,
hockey sticks, a heap of shoeboxes.
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#79 - Albert
A tiny gentleman with fiddling legs
and dim, fathomless eyes of a newt:
this was Albert, and he knew it.
He rubbed his palms before a brazierful
of burning toupees and said nothing,
melting marshmallows on the end of a coathanger,
sometimes offering his neighbour
a swig from a brown glass bottle
wrapped in newspaper.
Once, he said: 'Where do the ladybirds go?'
and another time: 'Another answer, please.
Another answer,' talking to the flames perhaps,
or the bottle, or his twitching right hand.
and dim, fathomless eyes of a newt:
this was Albert, and he knew it.
He rubbed his palms before a brazierful
of burning toupees and said nothing,
melting marshmallows on the end of a coathanger,
sometimes offering his neighbour
a swig from a brown glass bottle
wrapped in newspaper.
Once, he said: 'Where do the ladybirds go?'
and another time: 'Another answer, please.
Another answer,' talking to the flames perhaps,
or the bottle, or his twitching right hand.
#78 - Nothing To Lose But Our Mixtapes
Twee bellends of the world untie
your sneaker laces, lope onward
in dirty gamboge courdroys!
When you go over the top,
make sure that you are understated:
if the Vickers fire fails to fell you
fall instead in a hail of apathy.
Never have so many given so little
in the service of so what.
your sneaker laces, lope onward
in dirty gamboge courdroys!
When you go over the top,
make sure that you are understated:
if the Vickers fire fails to fell you
fall instead in a hail of apathy.
Never have so many given so little
in the service of so what.
#77 - When I Video Call You I Stare At Myself
On cameraphone, everyone looks pallid.
The living dead cluster round my porchlight,
all hipster shambles and bad dentistry.
I am at my attic window with a PSG1
and all the time in the world, baby.
Let's talk. When I ask your sign,
I can hear your atrophied higher brain functions
syruping like earthworms, trying to recall
old pathways and failing, blinded.
One of these days I will pinch you off
like a threadwart - the immaculate kick,
the punch-through, the drop.
The living dead cluster round my porchlight,
all hipster shambles and bad dentistry.
I am at my attic window with a PSG1
and all the time in the world, baby.
Let's talk. When I ask your sign,
I can hear your atrophied higher brain functions
syruping like earthworms, trying to recall
old pathways and failing, blinded.
One of these days I will pinch you off
like a threadwart - the immaculate kick,
the punch-through, the drop.
#76 - How To Break A Poet
technique a)
canister of liquid nitrogen
and a croquet mallet -
try a slow, underarm swing
towards the crotch
for best results
technique b)
a fingerquotes real job endfingerquotes -
this one requires patience,
though the first stress fractures
ought to show after one or two
days; check beneath the eyes,
around the soul
technique c)
a quick, surgical incision
in the wallet region -
moths likely collateral
canister of liquid nitrogen
and a croquet mallet -
try a slow, underarm swing
towards the crotch
for best results
technique b)
a fingerquotes real job endfingerquotes -
this one requires patience,
though the first stress fractures
ought to show after one or two
days; check beneath the eyes,
around the soul
technique c)
a quick, surgical incision
in the wallet region -
moths likely collateral
#75 - The Police
A surfeit of jurisprudence:
stunned magistrates pop
like woodlice put to matches.
The local constabulary turn helmets upward
to catch drips from melting infrastructure;
police whistles wilt between lips
and stretch like hot toffee.
Prisons pool round the ankles of wardens;
miscreants caper like children.
Some wander lost, hunting for cages -
squat behind railings,
grounded at last.
stunned magistrates pop
like woodlice put to matches.
The local constabulary turn helmets upward
to catch drips from melting infrastructure;
police whistles wilt between lips
and stretch like hot toffee.
Prisons pool round the ankles of wardens;
miscreants caper like children.
Some wander lost, hunting for cages -
squat behind railings,
grounded at last.
#74 - Girth And The Hurtling
Gunther rattles apart on re-entry,
his paunch turning to blancmange
as the ground crew stab frantically
at iPads.
Somewhere over Norway,
Gunther opens like a crocus:
look, say parents, pointing at the skylight,
the fat astronaut is reborn,
and children watch in wonder
as he breaks into glowing segments,
hot fat oozing like tallow,
like dreams.
his paunch turning to blancmange
as the ground crew stab frantically
at iPads.
Somewhere over Norway,
Gunther opens like a crocus:
look, say parents, pointing at the skylight,
the fat astronaut is reborn,
and children watch in wonder
as he breaks into glowing segments,
hot fat oozing like tallow,
like dreams.
#73 - Knitting Myself Dignity
I knit five companions - snappy dressers all -
then word balloons rising from their competent mouths:
'Well observed, Jeremy.'
'I quite agree, Jeremy.'
'You, Jeremy, are a man of vigour and poise.'
'What a wonderfully dignified utterance or action, Jeremy.'
'Oh Jeremy, I am glad to have you as a friend.'
I regard the quintet coldly.
'Well then?' I demand. 'Who's this "Jeremy"?
Who's Jeremy, you bastards,'
wool unspooling in bright snarls.
then word balloons rising from their competent mouths:
'Well observed, Jeremy.'
'I quite agree, Jeremy.'
'You, Jeremy, are a man of vigour and poise.'
'What a wonderfully dignified utterance or action, Jeremy.'
'Oh Jeremy, I am glad to have you as a friend.'
I regard the quintet coldly.
'Well then?' I demand. 'Who's this "Jeremy"?
Who's Jeremy, you bastards,'
wool unspooling in bright snarls.
#72 - The Wonderful Giraffe That Never Saw The Sun
Euphrosene spun golden cloaks
in the dank safety of her grotto;
she grew mushrooms in neat rows.
When guests arrived, she set a kettle
in the hearth and laid out jam, biscuits.
If you liked your tea strong,
you had it strong; if you preferred weak,
you got weak, and she never thought
to sneer at someone's choice.
When people talked about the sun,
she nodded politely (and at great distance)
then changed the subject, shivering.
in the dank safety of her grotto;
she grew mushrooms in neat rows.
When guests arrived, she set a kettle
in the hearth and laid out jam, biscuits.
If you liked your tea strong,
you had it strong; if you preferred weak,
you got weak, and she never thought
to sneer at someone's choice.
When people talked about the sun,
she nodded politely (and at great distance)
then changed the subject, shivering.
#71 - Wallpaper
Embossed trefoil ash leaves - pearl on crimson -
between stylised Ionic columns; Aldo slips
the scraper underneath, steams each sheet free.
The next layer is toy soldiers on eggshell blue;
they bulge and sigh as they fall, at ease at last,
collecting in soft folds at his feet.
The next layer is complicated mathematical patterns
that seem to spin off into impossible geometries;
Aldo feels as if he stands above a deep and spiralling well.
The next layer is scenes from Passchendaele.
The next layer is a blood platelet so huge
that it seems like a planet.
The next layer is bare plaster, like sunburnt skin.
The next layer is brickwork.
The next layer is forest, wind, birdsong.
between stylised Ionic columns; Aldo slips
the scraper underneath, steams each sheet free.
The next layer is toy soldiers on eggshell blue;
they bulge and sigh as they fall, at ease at last,
collecting in soft folds at his feet.
The next layer is complicated mathematical patterns
that seem to spin off into impossible geometries;
Aldo feels as if he stands above a deep and spiralling well.
The next layer is scenes from Passchendaele.
The next layer is a blood platelet so huge
that it seems like a planet.
The next layer is bare plaster, like sunburnt skin.
The next layer is brickwork.
The next layer is forest, wind, birdsong.
#70 - [parp]
This is for the sly guffers,
the clandestine cheese-squeezers
lifting one cheek in a restaurant
and pushing out a rank one -
not even blinking.
This is for the elevator trumpers,
the po-faced sphincter-dumpers,
the no-noise at the movies
ass-gas releasers who didn't even need to go,
but still set their jaws and pressed.
Never let them say the gates
to thy rotten intestine shalt not open.
Never let them glare you
into odourless obedience.
May your buttocks ripple
their reminder that if the world
will not see nor hear you,
you can always
make a stink.
the clandestine cheese-squeezers
lifting one cheek in a restaurant
and pushing out a rank one -
not even blinking.
This is for the elevator trumpers,
the po-faced sphincter-dumpers,
the no-noise at the movies
ass-gas releasers who didn't even need to go,
but still set their jaws and pressed.
Never let them say the gates
to thy rotten intestine shalt not open.
Never let them glare you
into odourless obedience.
May your buttocks ripple
their reminder that if the world
will not see nor hear you,
you can always
make a stink.
#69 - Post-It Notes Of My Youth
I adhere them to the faces of family and friends:
'Be kind to this person,' each says.
Sometimes the warning falls off,
and I forget.
As time goes on, I spread the tag to more
and more people: bus conductors,
the elderly, toddlers.
By the end of it all, I am pasting them
on thugs as they kick me to the pavement,
shocked they seem unflattered,
trying to make it stick.
'Be kind to this person,' each says.
Sometimes the warning falls off,
and I forget.
As time goes on, I spread the tag to more
and more people: bus conductors,
the elderly, toddlers.
By the end of it all, I am pasting them
on thugs as they kick me to the pavement,
shocked they seem unflattered,
trying to make it stick.
#68 - Nobody Uses That Anymore
The first: a door that opens onto a warehouse
sibilant with antlered cultists.
The second: a certain obsolete term
for tax collector that, when muttered
into the middle gargoyle's ear,
activates a red tide in the hindbrain,
the world suddenly shifting astern
as capillaries creep and sinuate across stonework.
The third: a groat walked across the knuckles,
flashing by lamplight - a lesson for the wary,
and for the dullard, a baffling prank.
sibilant with antlered cultists.
The second: a certain obsolete term
for tax collector that, when muttered
into the middle gargoyle's ear,
activates a red tide in the hindbrain,
the world suddenly shifting astern
as capillaries creep and sinuate across stonework.
The third: a groat walked across the knuckles,
flashing by lamplight - a lesson for the wary,
and for the dullard, a baffling prank.
#67 - Bunch Of Cripes
Jockeying through the quad on clockwork camels
swatting at each other's throats with broom handles,
penny rockets marked with eldritch runes
then fired into the cemetary come midnight,
open and unpunished murder on the streets of Kent,
riding into the town square carrying the heads of our enemies,
busking for humbugs with glockenspiels
and the manifolds screams of the damned,
egging pensioners, egging paupers, egging ourselves
with dog eggs, with human eggs, cracking the head
of the form master - his head is an egg,
his skull laden with prizes.
swatting at each other's throats with broom handles,
penny rockets marked with eldritch runes
then fired into the cemetary come midnight,
open and unpunished murder on the streets of Kent,
riding into the town square carrying the heads of our enemies,
busking for humbugs with glockenspiels
and the manifolds screams of the damned,
egging pensioners, egging paupers, egging ourselves
with dog eggs, with human eggs, cracking the head
of the form master - his head is an egg,
his skull laden with prizes.
#66 - I Could Go On
so then he says
well you know what he says cos you was there
but anyway he says
andrew
he says
andrew if you don't shut up i swear to g_d
he says i swear to g_d i'm going to wade through that orchestra pit
and ram that bassoon so far up your
and i says vicar
i says vicar
and he says i'm not a bloody vicar
and i says oh yes you bloody are
he says i'm not
and i says what's this then
jabbing a finger at his dog collar
and his big pine crucifix
and his light up badge that says
cool vicar
and he says they could be anyone's
and i says you're wearing them
and he says not anymore i'm bloody not
and before you know it everybody's naked
well you know what he says cos you was there
but anyway he says
andrew
he says
andrew if you don't shut up i swear to g_d
he says i swear to g_d i'm going to wade through that orchestra pit
and ram that bassoon so far up your
and i says vicar
i says vicar
and he says i'm not a bloody vicar
and i says oh yes you bloody are
he says i'm not
and i says what's this then
jabbing a finger at his dog collar
and his big pine crucifix
and his light up badge that says
cool vicar
and he says they could be anyone's
and i says you're wearing them
and he says not anymore i'm bloody not
and before you know it everybody's naked
#65 - RIP Dancing Myrtle
'When I die, I want to die dancing,'
that was her motto,
so we erected a gallows
beside the old bandstand
and Myrtle, still dancing,
dragged there by a pair of us,
still kicking and writhing,
still singing: 'Release me!'
was slipped through the noose,
was gagged by the gallowsboy,
was bound by the wrists
with her feet hanging free,
was cheered by the townsfolk,
door swinging wide under her,
died dancing on thin air,
a jubilant jig.
that was her motto,
so we erected a gallows
beside the old bandstand
and Myrtle, still dancing,
dragged there by a pair of us,
still kicking and writhing,
still singing: 'Release me!'
was slipped through the noose,
was gagged by the gallowsboy,
was bound by the wrists
with her feet hanging free,
was cheered by the townsfolk,
door swinging wide under her,
died dancing on thin air,
a jubilant jig.
#64 - The Teddy Bears Arm
The cache of KGP-9s in the lock-up in Minsk is just the beginning.
All round the globe, teddy bears slit their plush bellies with straight razors,
retrieving Astra A-75s, slamming home full clips of 9mm ammo,
drawing a bead on the family mutt.
Picnic's over, motherfuckers.
Screams before breakfast - little Timmy
slumped against the chest of drawers with his skull ventilated.
They hide under wheel arches; they pick off SWAT teams
and vanish like childhood.
Do they win?
Does a teddy bear shit in the woods?
All round the globe, teddy bears slit their plush bellies with straight razors,
retrieving Astra A-75s, slamming home full clips of 9mm ammo,
drawing a bead on the family mutt.
Picnic's over, motherfuckers.
Screams before breakfast - little Timmy
slumped against the chest of drawers with his skull ventilated.
They hide under wheel arches; they pick off SWAT teams
and vanish like childhood.
Do they win?
Does a teddy bear shit in the woods?
#63 - I've Just Thrown Up In A...
i. string bag
the marketplace's Gallic charm
and panoply of magnificent fromage
fail to cushion the blow
ii. series of small and valuable urns
the stop-start nature of this strategem
lends my chundering a happy rhythm;
children watch and applaud;
domino-playing pensioners smile
at secret wisdom
iii. coquettish manner
thumbing a rope of vomit
from the corner of my mouth
and winking at the rector
the marketplace's Gallic charm
and panoply of magnificent fromage
fail to cushion the blow
ii. series of small and valuable urns
the stop-start nature of this strategem
lends my chundering a happy rhythm;
children watch and applaud;
domino-playing pensioners smile
at secret wisdom
iii. coquettish manner
thumbing a rope of vomit
from the corner of my mouth
and winking at the rector
#62 - Shop Window Trilogy
In the pet shop, a chinchilla expires with aplomb.
A little puff of vapour exits her chest
and rises through the mesh of the cage,
before slewing apart as it hits the ceiling fan.
In the tobacconists, Gerald models
the latest cigar - a smoke so potent
it makes your eyeballs grow hair.
He inhales; his irises vanish beneath bristles.
And in the window of second-hand bookshop,
sun-blanched spines unpeel from old paperbacks,
pages come ungummed; brown age spots
join together to spell a new ending.
A little puff of vapour exits her chest
and rises through the mesh of the cage,
before slewing apart as it hits the ceiling fan.
In the tobacconists, Gerald models
the latest cigar - a smoke so potent
it makes your eyeballs grow hair.
He inhales; his irises vanish beneath bristles.
And in the window of second-hand bookshop,
sun-blanched spines unpeel from old paperbacks,
pages come ungummed; brown age spots
join together to spell a new ending.
#61 - Wednesday Mourning
Dressed in black and glum as mutton,
Tuesday's cadaver on our shoulders
as we trudge down the line of houses.
The dawn throws lanky shadows
like tripwires; like tripwires, we hang
between yesterday and tomorrow,
snagging ankles, rattling clappers
in old, old bells. A spaniel perks up,
mistaking our burden for a giant bone,
or then again, perhaps the mistake
is not his, but ours.
Tuesday's cadaver on our shoulders
as we trudge down the line of houses.
The dawn throws lanky shadows
like tripwires; like tripwires, we hang
between yesterday and tomorrow,
snagging ankles, rattling clappers
in old, old bells. A spaniel perks up,
mistaking our burden for a giant bone,
or then again, perhaps the mistake
is not his, but ours.
#60 - Our Benefactors
The Learned Gentlemen hover round the fringes of the dance,
occasionally lifting their coat tails to squeeze out a fart.
They are mysterious and benevolent
in their frock coats and their velveteen breeches
with windows cut in the seats.
They say nothing, simply stroke vanilla whiskers,
squinting through opera glasses,
ruminating to the waltz's slow churn.
And so, we do not question, lest they sigh and leave.
And so, we dance.
occasionally lifting their coat tails to squeeze out a fart.
They are mysterious and benevolent
in their frock coats and their velveteen breeches
with windows cut in the seats.
They say nothing, simply stroke vanilla whiskers,
squinting through opera glasses,
ruminating to the waltz's slow churn.
And so, we do not question, lest they sigh and leave.
And so, we dance.
#59 - The Fat Tuxedo Cat
Sheaves of blubber droop
over his bowtie. His monocle drops
into the Go Kat and he laps it clean.
I have watched him orbiting his anuerism
for years now; he arrives in London
at the start of each season,
more corpulent than before,
furious at the world
for what he has become:
a brain trapped inside a huge pillow,
drowning on dry land,
riding his litter,
sneezing gravy.
over his bowtie. His monocle drops
into the Go Kat and he laps it clean.
I have watched him orbiting his anuerism
for years now; he arrives in London
at the start of each season,
more corpulent than before,
furious at the world
for what he has become:
a brain trapped inside a huge pillow,
drowning on dry land,
riding his litter,
sneezing gravy.
#58 - Sell Yourself, Sell Yourself, Why Don't You Sell Yourself
'Piss-poor personal hygiene
prevents Percy penetrating punani,'
recited Chet as he soaped his armpits
and balls. He was big on mantras.
'Don't defecate on Donald's doorstep,'
he muttered as he strolled past Donald's house,
and again, the mantra worked its magic.
'Say sexy subliminals so Sasha succumbs swiftly,'
whispered into his martini, before he switched
the conversation to Bedknobs & Broomsticks.
prevents Percy penetrating punani,'
recited Chet as he soaped his armpits
and balls. He was big on mantras.
'Don't defecate on Donald's doorstep,'
he muttered as he strolled past Donald's house,
and again, the mantra worked its magic.
'Say sexy subliminals so Sasha succumbs swiftly,'
whispered into his martini, before he switched
the conversation to Bedknobs & Broomsticks.
#57 - I Sleep Well
Drugged on cough mixture, fatigue
and a white hot belief
that good things come to those who wait,
Morgan slept through bomb drop.
Yes, yes, houses blown to matchwood,
dogs whistling off towards the horizon
their leashes fluttering behind them,
etc, etc - you know the song.
When he awoke, his moustache was missing;
everything smelt of licorice, and
the sky above the port was the colour of television,
tuned to Ghostbusters II.
and a white hot belief
that good things come to those who wait,
Morgan slept through bomb drop.
Yes, yes, houses blown to matchwood,
dogs whistling off towards the horizon
their leashes fluttering behind them,
etc, etc - you know the song.
When he awoke, his moustache was missing;
everything smelt of licorice, and
the sky above the port was the colour of television,
tuned to Ghostbusters II.
#56 - She Did It
The finger of blame fell squarely on Eleanor,
killing her, outright, a postmodern tragedy;
'Actually, Daddy,' her sister said (Julia),
'awfully funny to think of her, struggling,
under God's forefinger, squashed like a centipede.'
Julia felt fate would never prostrate her.
Later that week she was mown down by irony,
returned to sender (to whit: her Creator).
killing her, outright, a postmodern tragedy;
'Actually, Daddy,' her sister said (Julia),
'awfully funny to think of her, struggling,
under God's forefinger, squashed like a centipede.'
Julia felt fate would never prostrate her.
Later that week she was mown down by irony,
returned to sender (to whit: her Creator).
#55 - Whereas The Ground
flexed like a trampoline skin,
it gave like a memory, accepting hand prints
that crosshatched, that built into constellations;
it promised, its fingers crossed,
and when it shook
we lay gobsmacked, at last alive;
is a floor untamed,
is a pitch in the raw,
take-as-you-find me, liminal, sly;
followed each person as they left the path,
rising to catch their boots,
supporting, not steering.
it gave like a memory, accepting hand prints
that crosshatched, that built into constellations;
it promised, its fingers crossed,
and when it shook
we lay gobsmacked, at last alive;
is a floor untamed,
is a pitch in the raw,
take-as-you-find me, liminal, sly;
followed each person as they left the path,
rising to catch their boots,
supporting, not steering.
#54 - Success, Relationships and Sleight Of Hand
Karl makes his penis disappear and pretends this is normal.
He snaps the cuff of his opera glove and gives Maragret
a saucy wink. He drops into a practised spiel: 'It is said
that the sorcerers of ancient Persia could transport
a man's most sacred treasure from one point in space,'
he flourishes his hand like a dove, 'to another, and so,
in this way, they kept the favour of sultans.'
Margaret wears an expression of horrified approval.
'Now,' says Karl, ever-consummate, 'look behind your ear.'
He snaps the cuff of his opera glove and gives Maragret
a saucy wink. He drops into a practised spiel: 'It is said
that the sorcerers of ancient Persia could transport
a man's most sacred treasure from one point in space,'
he flourishes his hand like a dove, 'to another, and so,
in this way, they kept the favour of sultans.'
Margaret wears an expression of horrified approval.
'Now,' says Karl, ever-consummate, 'look behind your ear.'
#53 - Fridge Not Narnia
In the ice chest, Meredith is finally alone with her thoughts.
The peas caress her cheek like a compress,
the fur of frost around the seal, soft as a lion's mane.
Better than anyone, she understands the vicissitudes of transport;
the way home fades like the Gainsborough Lady,
the way years roar as they pass.
And if her lips turn purple? Who's to say
whether it's the fault of the cold she finds around her,
or the Fab lolly trembling in her grasp?
The peas caress her cheek like a compress,
the fur of frost around the seal, soft as a lion's mane.
Better than anyone, she understands the vicissitudes of transport;
the way home fades like the Gainsborough Lady,
the way years roar as they pass.
And if her lips turn purple? Who's to say
whether it's the fault of the cold she finds around her,
or the Fab lolly trembling in her grasp?
#52 - We Need To Commoditise This Space
Larch spinneys give way to coin slots,
touchscreen menus for birdsong:
rock pipit,
wood pigeon,
quail.
A timer counts down tranquility remaining
and flashes a warning to add more credits.
Beneath the moss is a hatch vending mini-pizzas.
The squirrels are sponsored by Talk Talk.
Beneath a flat, damp rock,
slugs squirl into the dirt,
dragging their price tags.
touchscreen menus for birdsong:
rock pipit,
wood pigeon,
quail.
A timer counts down tranquility remaining
and flashes a warning to add more credits.
Beneath the moss is a hatch vending mini-pizzas.
The squirrels are sponsored by Talk Talk.
Beneath a flat, damp rock,
slugs squirl into the dirt,
dragging their price tags.
#51 - That Ham Was Bad
Pigs - billions of pigs.
A wretched sunburnt tide
toppling Cleethorpes, Tring,
Welwyn Garden City,
and the gentlefolk of Clevedon.
Piqued rustics impale hogs on pitchforks:
piss-all use! One stab
and the tines stick, then you're stuck
wielding a sort of giant bacon Mjölnir.
The plebs retreat to castles,
roll up the drawbridges,
and watch, helpless,
as the pigs move into Westminster,
Fleet Street, start tagging themselves on Facebook,
ordering Thai online.
A wretched sunburnt tide
toppling Cleethorpes, Tring,
Welwyn Garden City,
and the gentlefolk of Clevedon.
Piqued rustics impale hogs on pitchforks:
piss-all use! One stab
and the tines stick, then you're stuck
wielding a sort of giant bacon Mjölnir.
The plebs retreat to castles,
roll up the drawbridges,
and watch, helpless,
as the pigs move into Westminster,
Fleet Street, start tagging themselves on Facebook,
ordering Thai online.
#50 - 100 Watt Lightbulb In A 40 Watt Box
'I am underappreciated!' said Candice,
aghast at the close of yet another musical
just days into its run.
Louse! had gone the way of Mr Peritonitus Goes To Washington,
The Gooly Brothers, Fart When You're Spoken To,
Theatre Closed For Repairs and her magnum opus,
Mr Singh Singing In Sing-Sing: A Tragedy
In Fifteen Parts - Part Two.
'They can board up the theatre,' she said aloud,
'but they can't board up my face!'
and just like that, she had the title of her new masterpiece.
aghast at the close of yet another musical
just days into its run.
Louse! had gone the way of Mr Peritonitus Goes To Washington,
The Gooly Brothers, Fart When You're Spoken To,
Theatre Closed For Repairs and her magnum opus,
Mr Singh Singing In Sing-Sing: A Tragedy
In Fifteen Parts - Part Two.
'They can board up the theatre,' she said aloud,
'but they can't board up my face!'
and just like that, she had the title of her new masterpiece.
#49 - The Howl Of Contentment
The madness is beautiful.
It stands on the clifftop
and stares, silent, at the city below,
at the cars moving through streets
like bubbles in oil,
at the pinball table tenements,
at the lakes.
It would sooner lay eggs
through its eye sockets
than cut loose its freedom
and kick it away from the pier.
The wind drags its cloak
into something like a gas flare.
Madness howls.
It stands on the clifftop
and stares, silent, at the city below,
at the cars moving through streets
like bubbles in oil,
at the pinball table tenements,
at the lakes.
It would sooner lay eggs
through its eye sockets
than cut loose its freedom
and kick it away from the pier.
The wind drags its cloak
into something like a gas flare.
Madness howls.
#48 - Everyone Has A Mate Called Dave
He grows from our throats,
head the size of a cricket ball,
continually screaming.
I have tried to close his rheum-gluey eyes
but they do not seem to have lids.
In the end, I settle for mirror shades;
he looks like a baby traffic cop.
At parties, we compare our Daves
like caesarian scars, nodding
in sympathy, and each night,
I sing to him, nonsense mostly,
till his screams and mine
harmonise.
head the size of a cricket ball,
continually screaming.
I have tried to close his rheum-gluey eyes
but they do not seem to have lids.
In the end, I settle for mirror shades;
he looks like a baby traffic cop.
At parties, we compare our Daves
like caesarian scars, nodding
in sympathy, and each night,
I sing to him, nonsense mostly,
till his screams and mine
harmonise.
#47 - Gin In A Teacup
Today is a day for clothespegs
and shawls and gin in a teacup;
it's a day for not unpacking,
for leaving paperclips unused
except for elaborate new desk sports.
Today is a day for learning jacks
or Mahjong or 3 Card Brag;
it's a day for ordering pizza
then drawing a ouija board
in sharpie on the back of the box
and asking: 'Is anybody there?'
knowing there isn't,
hoping, of course,
for John Lennon,
or Tosh from The Bill.
and shawls and gin in a teacup;
it's a day for not unpacking,
for leaving paperclips unused
except for elaborate new desk sports.
Today is a day for learning jacks
or Mahjong or 3 Card Brag;
it's a day for ordering pizza
then drawing a ouija board
in sharpie on the back of the box
and asking: 'Is anybody there?'
knowing there isn't,
hoping, of course,
for John Lennon,
or Tosh from The Bill.
#46 - Foam Finger, Fizzy Fish
The anglerfish is rabid; its foaming chops
make it look a little like Santa
and thus, Franklin feels the fatal temptation
to stay his hand
which, in the next instant, he loses
to the fish's champing jaws.
Years later, in the retirement home,
he tells this story to a crowd of skeptical residents,
patting the giant foam WWE prosthetic,
poking Gabriel when he appears to doze off,
a trail of slobber oozing from his chin
like a lure.
make it look a little like Santa
and thus, Franklin feels the fatal temptation
to stay his hand
which, in the next instant, he loses
to the fish's champing jaws.
Years later, in the retirement home,
he tells this story to a crowd of skeptical residents,
patting the giant foam WWE prosthetic,
poking Gabriel when he appears to doze off,
a trail of slobber oozing from his chin
like a lure.
#45 - I Know A Secret
Everyone is made of vapour.
Walk directly into a nun.
Do not blink.
She will ruffle and part
like butcher's strips.
When you are safely round the corner,
stop. Consider what you have learned.
Walk directly into butcher's strips.
Do not blink.
They will ruffle and part
like a nun.
You will find a world of unwrapped presents
like an imploded zoo.
Stop. Consider what you have learned.
Walk directly into a nun.
Do not blink.
She will ruffle and part
like butcher's strips.
When you are safely round the corner,
stop. Consider what you have learned.
Walk directly into butcher's strips.
Do not blink.
They will ruffle and part
like a nun.
You will find a world of unwrapped presents
like an imploded zoo.
Stop. Consider what you have learned.
#44 - The Bastard Cake
Everybody took a slice, then regretted it.
The cake smelt of Christmas, but tasted of anus.
'This isn't a cake at all!' said Lucy,
spitting out hair, mouse bones,
the Rules to Speculation Whist.
But it was, of course -
a government white paper said as much.
It was a cake and everybody had to have some.
Some people ladled on custard.
'That's your solution to everything,' said Lucy,
remembering the fire at the orphanage,
the 10 year affair,
the tinker with his grubby palms outstretched.
The cake smelt of Christmas, but tasted of anus.
'This isn't a cake at all!' said Lucy,
spitting out hair, mouse bones,
the Rules to Speculation Whist.
But it was, of course -
a government white paper said as much.
It was a cake and everybody had to have some.
Some people ladled on custard.
'That's your solution to everything,' said Lucy,
remembering the fire at the orphanage,
the 10 year affair,
the tinker with his grubby palms outstretched.
#43 - Corrugated Dog
Chao-chao spots her master Dominick in the bath,
and by the time he shouts: 'No, Chao-chao! Stay!'
the die has been cast. Chao-chao is an origami-
papernese crossbreed, rare as mercy on a Tory.
Dominick dashes bollocko through the apartment,
his genitals nodding in the attitude
of an oleaginous quisling. He drapes Chao-chao
over the radiator; her white coat
glistens like the skin of a mackerel.
And yes, she lives,
after a fashion - a streak of frozen lightning,
a flicker at the nightstand,
weaving in and out of legs.
and by the time he shouts: 'No, Chao-chao! Stay!'
the die has been cast. Chao-chao is an origami-
papernese crossbreed, rare as mercy on a Tory.
Dominick dashes bollocko through the apartment,
his genitals nodding in the attitude
of an oleaginous quisling. He drapes Chao-chao
over the radiator; her white coat
glistens like the skin of a mackerel.
And yes, she lives,
after a fashion - a streak of frozen lightning,
a flicker at the nightstand,
weaving in and out of legs.
#42 - Landmine Pie
Terrence loses a foot to a cherry and sultana;
the crack of the pressure plate lid,
the steam, the aroma. Before he can stop them,
his squad mates are gnawing his ankle
down to the bone.
They are hirsute with sinew,
lapping hot fruit from the blast crater,
chewing the cauterised stump
as he thrusts and thrusts with his bayonet,
trying to carve out a slice.
the crack of the pressure plate lid,
the steam, the aroma. Before he can stop them,
his squad mates are gnawing his ankle
down to the bone.
They are hirsute with sinew,
lapping hot fruit from the blast crater,
chewing the cauterised stump
as he thrusts and thrusts with his bayonet,
trying to carve out a slice.
#41 - Flag Badger
O plucky musteline asshole of the English hedgerow!
Grumpy when disturbed, vomiting carrion
and rolling in horse excrement - truly,
the petty proprieties of the wittering classes
are but gnats ghosting the salt and pepper roll
of your stately buttocks. Go then, old friend,
mince partridge eggs in your stinking gob
and regurgitate the remains; stroll the hedgerows
like a drunk and senile Duke, wear your gout
like chainmail. If we were to cull you,
you would only flow together: mercurial,
phlegmatic, a bum made flesh, a legend.
Grumpy when disturbed, vomiting carrion
and rolling in horse excrement - truly,
the petty proprieties of the wittering classes
are but gnats ghosting the salt and pepper roll
of your stately buttocks. Go then, old friend,
mince partridge eggs in your stinking gob
and regurgitate the remains; stroll the hedgerows
like a drunk and senile Duke, wear your gout
like chainmail. If we were to cull you,
you would only flow together: mercurial,
phlegmatic, a bum made flesh, a legend.
#40 - Blisters Of Newcastle
Blisters of Newcastle,
ulcers of Ulster,
carbuncles of Cambridge,
popped polyps of Poole,
boils of Bolingbroke,
cankers of Canterbury,
threadwarts of Warminster,
goitres of Goole,
bruises of Shrewbury,
cold sores of Salisbury,
tartar of Tewksbury,
piles of Pill
eczema of Exmouth,
diarrhea of Doncaster,
my body is Britain.
(I'm feeling quite ill)
ulcers of Ulster,
carbuncles of Cambridge,
popped polyps of Poole,
boils of Bolingbroke,
cankers of Canterbury,
threadwarts of Warminster,
goitres of Goole,
bruises of Shrewbury,
cold sores of Salisbury,
tartar of Tewksbury,
piles of Pill
eczema of Exmouth,
diarrhea of Doncaster,
my body is Britain.
(I'm feeling quite ill)
#39 - What Dust Really Means
Running a finger along the mantelpiece,
I think of my testes, and Lent.
This year, I decide, I will give up verbs,
committing to a month of rich
and static portraits.
But not yet.
'This,' I declare, showing my smutted whorl
to the assembled murder suspects, 'is not dust -
it's powdered eggshell!' My elecution
is terse but sexy. I let the implied denunciation hang.
'And where does one find powdered eggshell?'
I asked, rhetorical as hell, 'In an hourglass!'
all eyes now on Old Father Time,
that gobshite, you bastard, I've got you.
I think of my testes, and Lent.
This year, I decide, I will give up verbs,
committing to a month of rich
and static portraits.
But not yet.
'This,' I declare, showing my smutted whorl
to the assembled murder suspects, 'is not dust -
it's powdered eggshell!' My elecution
is terse but sexy. I let the implied denunciation hang.
'And where does one find powdered eggshell?'
I asked, rhetorical as hell, 'In an hourglass!'
all eyes now on Old Father Time,
that gobshite, you bastard, I've got you.
#38 - Gah!
Disappointment rained down on Rutherford
like a stickbombed cowpat;
the Octochrist had been a complete fiasco.
Pews lay desecrated amongst disembowelled parishoners;
through gaps in stained glass he heard the whoop of sirens,
shrieks and hosannas and the tickertape of gunfire.
His new-minted hymns spread unsung across pavements,
soaking up blood,
while on the hill behind the city,
carpenters finished a cross like a shoetree.
like a stickbombed cowpat;
the Octochrist had been a complete fiasco.
Pews lay desecrated amongst disembowelled parishoners;
through gaps in stained glass he heard the whoop of sirens,
shrieks and hosannas and the tickertape of gunfire.
His new-minted hymns spread unsung across pavements,
soaking up blood,
while on the hill behind the city,
carpenters finished a cross like a shoetree.
#37 - Wrinkled Knees
Butter-coloured skin hung in bunches over the Colonel's patellas;
he spat into the sand and hiked up his britches.
'Now, as sure as god made little apples,' he flipped through the folds
like a Rolodex, 'you'll find one of the buggers feeding.
They like the damp, d'you see? Ha!' - a puckered, lucent grub;
he craned it loose, and dropped it in the merchant's
waiting palm. 'There you are,' he rapped his swagger stig
against the cast iron rim of a rain barrel, satisfied,
'money for jam.'
he spat into the sand and hiked up his britches.
'Now, as sure as god made little apples,' he flipped through the folds
like a Rolodex, 'you'll find one of the buggers feeding.
They like the damp, d'you see? Ha!' - a puckered, lucent grub;
he craned it loose, and dropped it in the merchant's
waiting palm. 'There you are,' he rapped his swagger stig
against the cast iron rim of a rain barrel, satisfied,
'money for jam.'
#36 - What Frozen Fingers Need
On windscreens and bonnets, ice forms white feathers,
spined and veined and silent. Autumn is knuckling under;
Winter comes with its sickle and its black fire,
an abrupt change in register, stinging the balls off
robins then sticking round for donkey's years,
belligerent, huffing breaths that curl like white feathers,
that hang like unclosed speech marks,
waiting for the thaw.
spined and veined and silent. Autumn is knuckling under;
Winter comes with its sickle and its black fire,
an abrupt change in register, stinging the balls off
robins then sticking round for donkey's years,
belligerent, huffing breaths that curl like white feathers,
that hang like unclosed speech marks,
waiting for the thaw.
#35 - Why I Write Poetry
Graham made a rash promise to Satan
in exchange for some really lovely trousers.
I hearby swear to pen moving, intelligent verse
from this day forth for the duration of my life;
failure to do so will result in defaulting my soul,
an object which, incidentally, will feature strongly
in every poem I write,
signed,
Cool Graham x
(Graham signed everything 'Cool Graham' - it was his thing;
he had started when he was six and he sure as Hell
wasn't going to stop now - stopping would imply doubt,
and he never doubted anything, especially not
his really lovely trousers)
You should have seen him in those trousers,
promenading up and down the seafront,
duchesses fainting left, right and centre,
in pairs, dozens even.
in exchange for some really lovely trousers.
I hearby swear to pen moving, intelligent verse
from this day forth for the duration of my life;
failure to do so will result in defaulting my soul,
an object which, incidentally, will feature strongly
in every poem I write,
signed,
Cool Graham x
(Graham signed everything 'Cool Graham' - it was his thing;
he had started when he was six and he sure as Hell
wasn't going to stop now - stopping would imply doubt,
and he never doubted anything, especially not
his really lovely trousers)
You should have seen him in those trousers,
promenading up and down the seafront,
duchesses fainting left, right and centre,
in pairs, dozens even.
#34 - I'll Sing You Duncan
Diane was forever boasting about her 'excellent pipes';
'I have excellent pipes!' she would say, thumping her breastbone,
shutting down banter like a circuit breaker.
For years, her colleagues thought she meant
that she had good bladder control, or well-maintained
plumbing, till karaoke one Christmas party -
'The thing about Stars in Your Eyes,' she breathed
into the mic, 'is they burn your retinas out.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrgggghhhhhhhh!
Aaaarrrrgggghhhh christ my eyes! My eyes!'
Clawing at her fake lashes,
her tights laddering, the lights coming up,
hesitant applause, curtain.
'I have excellent pipes!' she would say, thumping her breastbone,
shutting down banter like a circuit breaker.
For years, her colleagues thought she meant
that she had good bladder control, or well-maintained
plumbing, till karaoke one Christmas party -
'The thing about Stars in Your Eyes,' she breathed
into the mic, 'is they burn your retinas out.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrgggghhhhhhhh!
Aaaarrrrgggghhhh christ my eyes! My eyes!'
Clawing at her fake lashes,
her tights laddering, the lights coming up,
hesitant applause, curtain.
#33 - Slow Barge To Malaise
And you shall know us by our trail of seagulls:
noisy chevrons against a lemon sunrise.
The canal water parts with reluctance.
Some Fridays, the pollution is so bad
that you can stare right at the midday sun
and it doesn't even hurt - like watching
Pac-Man emerge through fog.
I am Charon sans tariff, sans Styx,
the heaped refuse behind me that fizzes and hums;
would that I could forget it.
We have no country. I have no shoreleave.
I am poor at banter - four ringpulls, my knuckleduster.
noisy chevrons against a lemon sunrise.
The canal water parts with reluctance.
Some Fridays, the pollution is so bad
that you can stare right at the midday sun
and it doesn't even hurt - like watching
Pac-Man emerge through fog.
I am Charon sans tariff, sans Styx,
the heaped refuse behind me that fizzes and hums;
would that I could forget it.
We have no country. I have no shoreleave.
I am poor at banter - four ringpulls, my knuckleduster.
#32 - Everything Is Bad For You
Altruism makes me go on fire, repeatedly.
Through the inferno I scream
that this was my plan all along.
I eat a peach sorbet and my wife leaves me.
I visit the disappointing novelty garment shop
and I get is this lousy T-shirt.
The multiseed bread plumps up in my petrol tank
and causes the engine to fail; I walk home in the rain,
and when I open my grey-brown umbrella,
a passing pterodactyl mistakes me for portabello mushroom,
swoops.
Through the inferno I scream
that this was my plan all along.
I eat a peach sorbet and my wife leaves me.
I visit the disappointing novelty garment shop
and I get is this lousy T-shirt.
The multiseed bread plumps up in my petrol tank
and causes the engine to fail; I walk home in the rain,
and when I open my grey-brown umbrella,
a passing pterodactyl mistakes me for portabello mushroom,
swoops.
#31 - Leaking Stars
The bright knuckles of Ursa Major
begin to bleed into one another,
and I realise we are in trouble.
The sky turns to milk; planets hang
like smoked teal marbles
while the oceans boil away,
revealing crazied trenches
and the grand ribs of whales.
The apocalypse smells minty.
I can hear the voices behind the horizon.
When I peel back my skin,
I am surprised at the tallow,
the tendrils, the flax.
begin to bleed into one another,
and I realise we are in trouble.
The sky turns to milk; planets hang
like smoked teal marbles
while the oceans boil away,
revealing crazied trenches
and the grand ribs of whales.
The apocalypse smells minty.
I can hear the voices behind the horizon.
When I peel back my skin,
I am surprised at the tallow,
the tendrils, the flax.
#30 - Séance On A Wet Afternoon In Bournemouth
And here, the clairvoyant pauses,
his face a glob of wet putty dusted with icing sugar,
his collar an inverted horseshoe;
'You,' he points to a saxophonist in the third row,
(he is not playing the saxophone at this moment,
but it lies in a black monogrammed case at his feet)
'have lost someone.'
The acknowledgement, when it comes,
is a slow, sad nod,
like the tug on a thread.
'Well,' says the clairvoyant,
'here she is!' and the curtain at the back compresses
to reveal a haggard revenant, scribbly with flies,
lumbering onto the stage, tracking seaweed,
mulched grey flesh,
the rusted links of an anklet.
his face a glob of wet putty dusted with icing sugar,
his collar an inverted horseshoe;
'You,' he points to a saxophonist in the third row,
(he is not playing the saxophone at this moment,
but it lies in a black monogrammed case at his feet)
'have lost someone.'
The acknowledgement, when it comes,
is a slow, sad nod,
like the tug on a thread.
'Well,' says the clairvoyant,
'here she is!' and the curtain at the back compresses
to reveal a haggard revenant, scribbly with flies,
lumbering onto the stage, tracking seaweed,
mulched grey flesh,
the rusted links of an anklet.
#29 - Worrying New Trends In Alliteration
Lately letters lend less levity,
like lickspittle lackeys loudly lauding Leveson:
'Lo! Let lucre-loaded Lords lay Lefties low!'
Lurid laments lost - losers leak liquid,
lachrymose. 'Less lunacy, lest
LOLcats loom like large lanterns,
lest laurel-leaves legitimise
largesse-larded loafers.'
La la la, laughs Leveson,
listening, lugless.
like lickspittle lackeys loudly lauding Leveson:
'Lo! Let lucre-loaded Lords lay Lefties low!'
Lurid laments lost - losers leak liquid,
lachrymose. 'Less lunacy, lest
LOLcats loom like large lanterns,
lest laurel-leaves legitimise
largesse-larded loafers.'
La la la, laughs Leveson,
listening, lugless.
#28 - The Consequences Of Falling
This is the quintessence of puppetry -
the arrested drop that looks like a glide,
that looks natural, even as hinged joints
wink in the stagelights; a great black X
that hovers over the action, whispering
ignore me, ignore me.
Watch the marionette, how it must maintain
a continual palsy of denial,
even as strings pull it limp
from the gutter,
its glazed pine head rattling
no, no, no.
the arrested drop that looks like a glide,
that looks natural, even as hinged joints
wink in the stagelights; a great black X
that hovers over the action, whispering
ignore me, ignore me.
Watch the marionette, how it must maintain
a continual palsy of denial,
even as strings pull it limp
from the gutter,
its glazed pine head rattling
no, no, no.
#27 - Sausages Aren't The Only Fruit
On the outskirts of Tripoli, we ran smack
into a hambush;
Lorenz dropped like a trollop's garters,
forcemeat streaming from his ears.
'Fall back! Fall back!' I yelled
through a shower of frankfurters,
our shell crater filling with gravy;
Private Prothero took a pasty to the privates;
he was still alive, but after that, what's a chap
to live for? I mercy-plugged him -
a quick guff to the face and he was at rest.
'Sleep well, dear Taff,' I eulogized,
then we were off across a moonscape
of low smoke and shrieking bacon twists,
the chill of the night putting meat on our bones,
meat on our bones.
into a hambush;
Lorenz dropped like a trollop's garters,
forcemeat streaming from his ears.
'Fall back! Fall back!' I yelled
through a shower of frankfurters,
our shell crater filling with gravy;
Private Prothero took a pasty to the privates;
he was still alive, but after that, what's a chap
to live for? I mercy-plugged him -
a quick guff to the face and he was at rest.
'Sleep well, dear Taff,' I eulogized,
then we were off across a moonscape
of low smoke and shrieking bacon twists,
the chill of the night putting meat on our bones,
meat on our bones.
#26 - Mountainous Molehill
Dad waits at the edge of the cricket pitch
with a Walther PPK and a grudge,
loading 7.65mm cartridges like little lipsticks,
training the muzzle on the nearest mound.
He knows what he will say -
he has practised his lines;
revenge is a dish best served
surreptitiously spunked-on.
He will chamber a round:
'You rogered my wife,
you bastard,' enuciated coolly,
but with a hard glare, 'well roger this.'
A pinch of the trigger, a kick;
nasal ganglia bursting
like a party favour.
with a Walther PPK and a grudge,
loading 7.65mm cartridges like little lipsticks,
training the muzzle on the nearest mound.
He knows what he will say -
he has practised his lines;
revenge is a dish best served
surreptitiously spunked-on.
He will chamber a round:
'You rogered my wife,
you bastard,' enuciated coolly,
but with a hard glare, 'well roger this.'
A pinch of the trigger, a kick;
nasal ganglia bursting
like a party favour.
#25 - That Trick With The Phone
Alice dials herself three years previously
and recommends not sleeping with the yeti.
When her past self asks who's calling,
she replies: 'A friend,' then adds,
'who can see three years into the future,'
before hanging up.
She wonders whether she has done enough.
She has heard the old canards about
everything happening for a reason
and learning from your mistakes,
but she is proud of her regrets.
Only a sociopath would not change anything,
deliberately walking into low beams,
eating the bad prawns.
And then:
the room begins to fold away
like a magicians stall,
her fingers dissolving,
the lights on her phone thudding out.
and recommends not sleeping with the yeti.
When her past self asks who's calling,
she replies: 'A friend,' then adds,
'who can see three years into the future,'
before hanging up.
She wonders whether she has done enough.
She has heard the old canards about
everything happening for a reason
and learning from your mistakes,
but she is proud of her regrets.
Only a sociopath would not change anything,
deliberately walking into low beams,
eating the bad prawns.
And then:
the room begins to fold away
like a magicians stall,
her fingers dissolving,
the lights on her phone thudding out.
#24 - There Are Also Other Beaches
What is the exact minimum number of pebbles needed
to turn a pile into a beach?
This and other troubling riddles go unanswered
as I drown my husband in a rockpool,
gripping him by the nape of his duffel coat,
glancing round for tourists.
I sing hits from Now 29 to muffle the splashing -
'Parklife', 'Sure' by Take That - and I am sure
that no court in the land would convict me
for ending this wretched bastard,
with his asthma and his questions,
his shaving foam, his coffee rings,
his long, unbroken stares,
his love.
to turn a pile into a beach?
This and other troubling riddles go unanswered
as I drown my husband in a rockpool,
gripping him by the nape of his duffel coat,
glancing round for tourists.
I sing hits from Now 29 to muffle the splashing -
'Parklife', 'Sure' by Take That - and I am sure
that no court in the land would convict me
for ending this wretched bastard,
with his asthma and his questions,
his shaving foam, his coffee rings,
his long, unbroken stares,
his love.
#23 - Top Five Deaths / Cool Tattoos
A leering skull, ex-face in background,
snagged on the branch of a sycamore in silhouette,
hanging like a flubbed pancake;
She Rolls In Thumbtacks - a shifting pangolin
with scales of dirty gold;
trebuchet arrival and the kerosene overcoat,
best viewed at midnight, sickle moon
top right, like a stamp;
Mr Wolfbreakfast -
sometimes the simple ones are best;
Death Comes To Waitrose,
gore straddling the pasta aisle,
red and purple organs
and a yellow plastic A-board
with a man, slipping.
snagged on the branch of a sycamore in silhouette,
hanging like a flubbed pancake;
She Rolls In Thumbtacks - a shifting pangolin
with scales of dirty gold;
trebuchet arrival and the kerosene overcoat,
best viewed at midnight, sickle moon
top right, like a stamp;
Mr Wolfbreakfast -
sometimes the simple ones are best;
Death Comes To Waitrose,
gore straddling the pasta aisle,
red and purple organs
and a yellow plastic A-board
with a man, slipping.
#22 - A Most Palatable Worm
Beelzebub eats Sheldrake feet first,
verrucas cracking beneath infernal incisors,
yellowed toenails splintering like puff pastry.
Sheldrake lists the reasons he is unworthy of damnation:
gave a tramp some rice pudding and encouraged him to 'dig in';
walked around with a Lego spaceman, calling him Peter
and referring to him as 'my familiar';
ate a whole box of Frosted Shreddies, dry, for a bet;
spent winnings from bet on whippet;
released whippet in sheltered accomodation,
wreathed in Chinese fireworks;
discharged crossbow at apprehending officer;
bit down on cyanide capsule inside molar;
spat cyanide in gob of second officer;
watched the moon through clouds while dying;
listed exploits while Prince of Darkness gnawed through
yard after yard of small intenstines;
excellent dolphin impression -
listen.
verrucas cracking beneath infernal incisors,
yellowed toenails splintering like puff pastry.
Sheldrake lists the reasons he is unworthy of damnation:
gave a tramp some rice pudding and encouraged him to 'dig in';
walked around with a Lego spaceman, calling him Peter
and referring to him as 'my familiar';
ate a whole box of Frosted Shreddies, dry, for a bet;
spent winnings from bet on whippet;
released whippet in sheltered accomodation,
wreathed in Chinese fireworks;
discharged crossbow at apprehending officer;
bit down on cyanide capsule inside molar;
spat cyanide in gob of second officer;
watched the moon through clouds while dying;
listed exploits while Prince of Darkness gnawed through
yard after yard of small intenstines;
excellent dolphin impression -
listen.
#21 - How To Flies Do It?
Barely three dessertspoonfuls into the turd,
and already I am regretting my hubris.
My colleagues expressions do not speak of
gobsmacked anticipation; Julie in particular
looks flushed and angry, as if
I have wronged her. The sheer effrontery!
Oliver is on the phone - I presume
to the papers, singing my praises -
tears breaking the severe contours of his face.
He is learning not to doubt me.
I push down another tongueful;
it tastes of cinders and hair
and hard-won respect.
and already I am regretting my hubris.
My colleagues expressions do not speak of
gobsmacked anticipation; Julie in particular
looks flushed and angry, as if
I have wronged her. The sheer effrontery!
Oliver is on the phone - I presume
to the papers, singing my praises -
tears breaking the severe contours of his face.
He is learning not to doubt me.
I push down another tongueful;
it tastes of cinders and hair
and hard-won respect.
#20 - The Rush Goalie's Cheese Nightmare
In the post-dolcelatte, pre-delta wave lull,
he sees footballs big as hayricks
approach over a pitch of endless blue.
They whisper like voles under sackcloth.
He watches the centre-forward topple,
go under, an entire inverted Christmas tree
Katamari Damacy'd
into its bulging latitudes.
He sees seas and continents turn;
he leaves his mark, the whiff of sod
acrid in his flaring nostrils.
He holds his gloves up; they are withered
as budget burgers on a griddle.
The stanchions fall into shadow.
He backs away, the ball before him,
behind,
the net.
he sees footballs big as hayricks
approach over a pitch of endless blue.
They whisper like voles under sackcloth.
He watches the centre-forward topple,
go under, an entire inverted Christmas tree
Katamari Damacy'd
into its bulging latitudes.
He sees seas and continents turn;
he leaves his mark, the whiff of sod
acrid in his flaring nostrils.
He holds his gloves up; they are withered
as budget burgers on a griddle.
The stanchions fall into shadow.
He backs away, the ball before him,
behind,
the net.
#19 - The Festival Generator
So we slot the handle into the hexagonal socket
and crank it: one revolution,
two revolutions,
and a sour microtonal calliope dirge begins,
like the Emmerdale theme played backwards
through a bullhorn. Flaccid tents
belly out and fill, struts stiffening under canvas;
the stink of beef on hotplates,
the plunging splash of longdrops,
rain.
Bands come last,
roadies spitting 'two, two,'
into reverb-heavy trumpet mics,
pennants snapping in a westerly wind,
the crunch of beer cans under wellies,
the distant crowds like frogspawn.
and crank it: one revolution,
two revolutions,
and a sour microtonal calliope dirge begins,
like the Emmerdale theme played backwards
through a bullhorn. Flaccid tents
belly out and fill, struts stiffening under canvas;
the stink of beef on hotplates,
the plunging splash of longdrops,
rain.
Bands come last,
roadies spitting 'two, two,'
into reverb-heavy trumpet mics,
pennants snapping in a westerly wind,
the crunch of beer cans under wellies,
the distant crowds like frogspawn.
#18 - A Joke That Was Really Goodbye
The whoopee cushion sobbed.
The fake excrement (listed in the catalogue as 'Richard The Turd:
a nice little pile, brown and horrible')
had a sticker on the underside that read:
'I've been having an affair.'
The bucket balanced on top of the door
was red and empty; when it hit his head
it rang like a carillon.
The rubber spider turned out to be
a knot of pubic hair tugged from the plughole.
The farting gnome
had 8 noises, all farts,
all tinny, distant,
like a collect call from Uzbekistan.
The fake excrement (listed in the catalogue as 'Richard The Turd:
a nice little pile, brown and horrible')
had a sticker on the underside that read:
'I've been having an affair.'
The bucket balanced on top of the door
was red and empty; when it hit his head
it rang like a carillon.
The rubber spider turned out to be
a knot of pubic hair tugged from the plughole.
The farting gnome
had 8 noises, all farts,
all tinny, distant,
like a collect call from Uzbekistan.
#17 - Perhaps You Have Mistaken Me For This Traditional Breakfast
Perhaps you have mistaken me for this traditional breakfast;
why not tuck in while I divest you of your trousers.
Perhaps you have mistaken my courtesy for lechery;
exhaust your rage against this potato likeness of Her Majesty, the Queen.
Perhaps you have mistaken my craftsmanship for iconoclasm;
relive your error in this fine commemorative plate.
Perhaps you have mistaken my sentimentality for sarcasm;
fasten electrodes to my nipples, watch the polygraph, flat as Norfolk.
Perhaps you have mistaken me for a cyborg;
smell the bacon hanging from my jowls, my mushroom ears,
my gobful of beans.
why not tuck in while I divest you of your trousers.
Perhaps you have mistaken my courtesy for lechery;
exhaust your rage against this potato likeness of Her Majesty, the Queen.
Perhaps you have mistaken my craftsmanship for iconoclasm;
relive your error in this fine commemorative plate.
Perhaps you have mistaken my sentimentality for sarcasm;
fasten electrodes to my nipples, watch the polygraph, flat as Norfolk.
Perhaps you have mistaken me for a cyborg;
smell the bacon hanging from my jowls, my mushroom ears,
my gobful of beans.
#16 - The Lost Child All-Night Disco
They stare across disco squares,
mirrorballs churning in their pupils,
bunched just shy of the sweeping searchlights,
pallid, fungal.
They huddle in blankets, barefoot and lank-haired.
They do not hear the music.
Occasionally, one turns, as if tapped on the shoulder,
but there is nobody there,
except a DJ under glass,
one palm pressed to his ear,
as if staunching his jugular.
mirrorballs churning in their pupils,
bunched just shy of the sweeping searchlights,
pallid, fungal.
They huddle in blankets, barefoot and lank-haired.
They do not hear the music.
Occasionally, one turns, as if tapped on the shoulder,
but there is nobody there,
except a DJ under glass,
one palm pressed to his ear,
as if staunching his jugular.
#15 - December 32nd
We are down to the shittiest Quality Street,
the ones that nobody loves, sad orphans
lost in the cracks between jurisdictions.
'Jelly Babies used to be called Unclaimed Babies,'
I say, brushing pie crumbs from my jumpered gut,
but Carla isn't listening. 'What's wrong?
Do you need more trivia?'
Like a mesmerist, she is touching fingertips to temples,
watching her reflection in a magenta bauble.
'Something's off,' she tells me. 'I feel like
we're in some offshoot reality, like all of this,'
she gestures broadly at the tinsel, the muted plasma screen,
the meteors and burning wasteland outside,
'should not exist.' I shake my head and smile and slide
a fig across the coffee table
with one slippered toe.
the ones that nobody loves, sad orphans
lost in the cracks between jurisdictions.
'Jelly Babies used to be called Unclaimed Babies,'
I say, brushing pie crumbs from my jumpered gut,
but Carla isn't listening. 'What's wrong?
Do you need more trivia?'
Like a mesmerist, she is touching fingertips to temples,
watching her reflection in a magenta bauble.
'Something's off,' she tells me. 'I feel like
we're in some offshoot reality, like all of this,'
she gestures broadly at the tinsel, the muted plasma screen,
the meteors and burning wasteland outside,
'should not exist.' I shake my head and smile and slide
a fig across the coffee table
with one slippered toe.
#14 - The Book Of Common Curses
Frederik carries the grimoire in a carpet bag,
heaving it out at apposite moments,
popping the hasp on the bronze cover
and reading from whatever page
clutches his fancy.
'Lobe fiddler!' The epithet hangs
in the cold, dry air
of the playgroup. 'Meringue fancier!'
The reprimanding forefinger
trembling with opprobrium.
'Tiny stallion! Knob mushroom!
Carp smeller! Many-fingered bottom picker!'
Leafing through yellowed pages,
licking his thick digits.
heaving it out at apposite moments,
popping the hasp on the bronze cover
and reading from whatever page
clutches his fancy.
'Lobe fiddler!' The epithet hangs
in the cold, dry air
of the playgroup. 'Meringue fancier!'
The reprimanding forefinger
trembling with opprobrium.
'Tiny stallion! Knob mushroom!
Carp smeller! Many-fingered bottom picker!'
Leafing through yellowed pages,
licking his thick digits.
#13 - The Suitcase Contained A False Bottom
In the cheap suite in Manila, Drenton flipped the brass latches
and prayed. A ceiling fan churned the dead wet air;
if I wanted a gecko I would have paid for one,
he thought. A gecko lay by the telephone,
spooning the black plastic receiver and winking.
Inside the tan case with tartan lining
were a pair of vacuum-moulded latex buttocks,
English as hollyhocks,
pale as a new widow.
He strapped them on.
In the wardrobe mirror he was transformed.
He patted the right cheek
and it honked like a goose.
and prayed. A ceiling fan churned the dead wet air;
if I wanted a gecko I would have paid for one,
he thought. A gecko lay by the telephone,
spooning the black plastic receiver and winking.
Inside the tan case with tartan lining
were a pair of vacuum-moulded latex buttocks,
English as hollyhocks,
pale as a new widow.
He strapped them on.
In the wardrobe mirror he was transformed.
He patted the right cheek
and it honked like a goose.
#12 - Brunch Ghoul
He has the roast chestnut and pumpkin bake,
I have dhal and the flaxseed flatbread.
We discuss wearing your organs on the outside
like papoosed triplets, the ethics of clawhammers,
talon care, love - its existence and possible exploits.
During dessert his wings fan and he thumps into the air,
hovering for a time. My serviette trembles
in the downdraft. He smells like a toddler's head.
I have dhal and the flaxseed flatbread.
We discuss wearing your organs on the outside
like papoosed triplets, the ethics of clawhammers,
talon care, love - its existence and possible exploits.
During dessert his wings fan and he thumps into the air,
hovering for a time. My serviette trembles
in the downdraft. He smells like a toddler's head.
#11 - Fortune Biscuit
Biting into the garibaldi, I discover my future.
'You will become obsessed with the prognostications
of biscuits,' says the furled tiny scroll.
Bollocks, I think - and not for the first time -
and then, to disprove the hypothesis,
I break a jaffa cake down the middle.
'Gutless turncoats bloody the regatta.'
I blanch, my cox's megaphone bracketed
above the fireplace. I crack a brandy snap:
'Nurturing buboes, you are admired by no one.'
A bourbon: 'The fire bucket swirls with kerosene.'
A pink wafer: 'Temporary dysphasia muddies
the spell pool.' Fifty-two digestives, all
glowing runes that curl and smoulder
like prayers.
'You will become obsessed with the prognostications
of biscuits,' says the furled tiny scroll.
Bollocks, I think - and not for the first time -
and then, to disprove the hypothesis,
I break a jaffa cake down the middle.
'Gutless turncoats bloody the regatta.'
I blanch, my cox's megaphone bracketed
above the fireplace. I crack a brandy snap:
'Nurturing buboes, you are admired by no one.'
A bourbon: 'The fire bucket swirls with kerosene.'
A pink wafer: 'Temporary dysphasia muddies
the spell pool.' Fifty-two digestives, all
glowing runes that curl and smoulder
like prayers.
#10 - The Annoying Colleague
Lawrence bounds into the office with a spoon and a megaphone,
singing:
'I am the pubic man, I come from down your way,
and I can spay! What can you spay?
I spay Christine in outbound sales.'
Christine has already opened her top drawer and pulled out a butterfly knife
she keeps for this express purpose.
'Lawrence if you come near me I will take your eyes,'
she says, without looking up from her scattergram.
'I will take your fucking eyes and do the jail time
and every minute of it will feel like Christmas.'
Lawrence pulls an ooh face, mugging to the rest of the room,
who open their drawers with a unified shuk,
bringing out blades that flash
like Morse by torchlight.
singing:
'I am the pubic man, I come from down your way,
and I can spay! What can you spay?
I spay Christine in outbound sales.'
Christine has already opened her top drawer and pulled out a butterfly knife
she keeps for this express purpose.
'Lawrence if you come near me I will take your eyes,'
she says, without looking up from her scattergram.
'I will take your fucking eyes and do the jail time
and every minute of it will feel like Christmas.'
Lawrence pulls an ooh face, mugging to the rest of the room,
who open their drawers with a unified shuk,
bringing out blades that flash
like Morse by torchlight.
#9 - Eggs, And How I Like Them
Sometimes a roc omlette's all that'll hit the spot.
You know the way it goes:
you execute a yak, tip it onto its side
and unzip its belly while it's still hot,
scooping viscera onto the grass,
red and wet up to your elbows.
Then you slice off the hide, tug it tight
around your shoulders and wait for the near-sighted griffins -
the talons sunk into loose, gusseted flanks,
the lift,
the vertigo.
I have soared through mistrals, over grey straits
and wetlands and rolling tundra,
to the jag-ringed island where the great mother waits,
warming her egg like a forge hammer,
a pizza stone.
You know the way it goes:
you execute a yak, tip it onto its side
and unzip its belly while it's still hot,
scooping viscera onto the grass,
red and wet up to your elbows.
Then you slice off the hide, tug it tight
around your shoulders and wait for the near-sighted griffins -
the talons sunk into loose, gusseted flanks,
the lift,
the vertigo.
I have soared through mistrals, over grey straits
and wetlands and rolling tundra,
to the jag-ringed island where the great mother waits,
warming her egg like a forge hammer,
a pizza stone.
#8 - He's Not A Real Poet
Halfway through the recital, a panel clangs open
in his sternum, revealing escapements,
meshed gears, columns of miniature pistons arpeggiating
like a player piano, crimson lung-bags
swelling, pressing against clockwork ribs,
deflating. He glances down from a slightly foxed
self-published volume luminous with post-its.
Behind the counter in the café, the glass-washer
kicks in with a low, oscillating hum.
A widower coughs into a vein-mapped fist.
Outside, people walk past
in neat, unthinking contraflow.
in his sternum, revealing escapements,
meshed gears, columns of miniature pistons arpeggiating
like a player piano, crimson lung-bags
swelling, pressing against clockwork ribs,
deflating. He glances down from a slightly foxed
self-published volume luminous with post-its.
Behind the counter in the café, the glass-washer
kicks in with a low, oscillating hum.
A widower coughs into a vein-mapped fist.
Outside, people walk past
in neat, unthinking contraflow.
#7 - Christmas Number One
I open the door to find Papa dressed as Santa,
trousers round his pale, freckled ankles,
bellowing a loose instrumental pastiche of Jingle Bells
while urinating into the fireplace.
He peers over his shoulder,
eyes like electrical fires:
'I'm sober as a fucking judge,' he breaths,
unsmiling, his piss striking the hearth,
sending up flames purple as cracker hats.
trousers round his pale, freckled ankles,
bellowing a loose instrumental pastiche of Jingle Bells
while urinating into the fireplace.
He peers over his shoulder,
eyes like electrical fires:
'I'm sober as a fucking judge,' he breaths,
unsmiling, his piss striking the hearth,
sending up flames purple as cracker hats.
#6 - History For The Vague At Heart
Things trudge onto the beach from an algae-thickened sea,
webbing snapping as fingers flex; they lean back
with fists on hips and regard lush mangrove swamps,
deep fossils pulsing with fuel like a gut heart,
a world of hidden tarmac. They spew macadam.
They pluck Sten guns from the trees,
rub off the grease and plug Jesus
as he runs from the undergrowth, arms open,
clutching blueprints, a flick-comb,
the antidote.
webbing snapping as fingers flex; they lean back
with fists on hips and regard lush mangrove swamps,
deep fossils pulsing with fuel like a gut heart,
a world of hidden tarmac. They spew macadam.
They pluck Sten guns from the trees,
rub off the grease and plug Jesus
as he runs from the undergrowth, arms open,
clutching blueprints, a flick-comb,
the antidote.
#5 - The Day I Found That Cold Lizard
She strums her red gills and tells me she loves me.
I blow into my hands and say nothing.
In the ice house, beef carcasses pivot like catwalk models.
She eats a live mouse and asks if I have read Kierkegaard.
I watch the bulge in her throat.
A white tail hangs through the gap in her teeth,
swiping back and forth across her sleek jaw.
She watches me - gulps, gulps,
swallows.
I blow into my hands and say nothing.
In the ice house, beef carcasses pivot like catwalk models.
She eats a live mouse and asks if I have read Kierkegaard.
I watch the bulge in her throat.
A white tail hangs through the gap in her teeth,
swiping back and forth across her sleek jaw.
She watches me - gulps, gulps,
swallows.
#4 - Fish Without Names
O to be a shanny,
a lookdown, a turbot,
a grouper, a snapper,
a clownfish - what dreams!
To be named like a snipefish,
a brittlestar, pipefish,
harlequin rasbora,
a lungfish or bream!
Even white crappie
would make me feel happy,
or a royal tang
(that's my first wish)
but on the deck of this smack,
I'm not salmon nor sprat,
I'm just fish, I'm just fish,
I'm just 'fish'
a lookdown, a turbot,
a grouper, a snapper,
a clownfish - what dreams!
To be named like a snipefish,
a brittlestar, pipefish,
harlequin rasbora,
a lungfish or bream!
Even white crappie
would make me feel happy,
or a royal tang
(that's my first wish)
but on the deck of this smack,
I'm not salmon nor sprat,
I'm just fish, I'm just fish,
I'm just 'fish'
#3 - Daisy: Unrequited
The nosegay of chrysanthemums sags
like an accountant at his adding machine,
like the grey flab pooling round a Prohibitionist's throat,
like a pedlar at midsummer.
'So that's a tentative... no?' he says,
but Daisy's face is a whirlygig of disapproval;
Donatello smirks through the gap in her bath robe.
So Colin bought her a Turtles T-shirt, thinks the suitor;
of course he did, the priggish ninny. The scrape of gumboot on gravel,
the grind of the automatic gate as it jaws open
like a beetle's black mandibles.
like an accountant at his adding machine,
like the grey flab pooling round a Prohibitionist's throat,
like a pedlar at midsummer.
'So that's a tentative... no?' he says,
but Daisy's face is a whirlygig of disapproval;
Donatello smirks through the gap in her bath robe.
So Colin bought her a Turtles T-shirt, thinks the suitor;
of course he did, the priggish ninny. The scrape of gumboot on gravel,
the grind of the automatic gate as it jaws open
like a beetle's black mandibles.
#2 - Sniffing Men
And then there was the parson with the unsightly proboscis,
nuzzling into the armpit of bomber jackets for a good old honk -
steepling his fingers on the bus before leaning forward piously
and inhaling the scent of a blond scalp that smelt of rusks
and old light.
He collected musks on silk handkerchiefs,
distracting marks with an illustrated tract on the sin of
'grief busking' - their momentary confusion an unlocked skylight
through which he would rappel, skimasked, beautiful,
gall tangy as aftershave, singing, singing.
nuzzling into the armpit of bomber jackets for a good old honk -
steepling his fingers on the bus before leaning forward piously
and inhaling the scent of a blond scalp that smelt of rusks
and old light.
He collected musks on silk handkerchiefs,
distracting marks with an illustrated tract on the sin of
'grief busking' - their momentary confusion an unlocked skylight
through which he would rappel, skimasked, beautiful,
gall tangy as aftershave, singing, singing.
#1 - When You Wake Up In The Dark
Breath feathering the toughened glass,
the sob of pistons,
green readouts blinking beneath a lake of condensation;
the lurch -
till the amniotic goo drains from your earholes
and you rehear the slow thrum
of the ship's engines.
It was always there,
like your nose, so that when you notice it,
it is suddenly huge and distracting,
and you have to spend hours
unlearning its lesson.
the sob of pistons,
green readouts blinking beneath a lake of condensation;
the lurch -
till the amniotic goo drains from your earholes
and you rehear the slow thrum
of the ship's engines.
It was always there,
like your nose, so that when you notice it,
it is suddenly huge and distracting,
and you have to spend hours
unlearning its lesson.
Thursday 29 November 2012
100 Poems In A Day Build-Up
So, it's less than 24 hours before we start and I'm starting to feel nervous. Yes, I've managed to do it before, but each time it was really hard. This year, the target is higher than ever before. At the last count, five poets are going to attempt to write a total of 500 poems. Intense!
And probably a little bit stupid, but it will definitely be fun. I'll be posting my poems here, as I write them. You can read Mark Grist's poems here. You can read Jamie Doughty's poems here. You can read Mixy's poems here. On Twitter you can follow all the chatter with the hashtag #100poems
Perhaps most importantly, we're using the opportunity to maybe raise a few quid for a good cause. This year, Mark suggested The Ministry of Stories, a creative writing and mentoring centre for young people in East London. I've done a reading there - it's such a cool, inspiring place, giving young people incredible experiences that help build self-esteem and confidence in self-expression. Anyway, there's a Just Giving page we've set up, here. If you enjoy our poems, please consider chucking a quid into the bucket and helping support a cause that makes the world a better place.
Right. Food. Sleep. Then, to war!
And probably a little bit stupid, but it will definitely be fun. I'll be posting my poems here, as I write them. You can read Mark Grist's poems here. You can read Jamie Doughty's poems here. You can read Mixy's poems here. On Twitter you can follow all the chatter with the hashtag #100poems
Perhaps most importantly, we're using the opportunity to maybe raise a few quid for a good cause. This year, Mark suggested The Ministry of Stories, a creative writing and mentoring centre for young people in East London. I've done a reading there - it's such a cool, inspiring place, giving young people incredible experiences that help build self-esteem and confidence in self-expression. Anyway, there's a Just Giving page we've set up, here. If you enjoy our poems, please consider chucking a quid into the bucket and helping support a cause that makes the world a better place.
Right. Food. Sleep. Then, to war!
Saturday 17 November 2012
So this is going to be the page for my fourth run of 100 Poems In A Day, on Friday 30th November 2012. If you want to find out more about me, check out my website. Here's my 101 poems from last year, which has links to the two years before. If you're feeling masochistic, by all means go and read 302 hastily-scrawled poems in a single sitting.
Every year, I try to build on the year before, to make 100 Poems bigger and better. This year, I'm genuinely excited to say, I won't be doing it alone! The talented, funny and devastatingly handsome poets Mark Grist and Mixy are both going to be joining me for the marathon. I'll post up links to their blogs once they've put them up. We may well have more poets joining us, and if you're a poet and fancy getting involved, please do. All you need is a blog, a twitter account, and some friends willing to foist 100+ poem titles upon you.
I'll be kicking off at 9am on Friday 30th November, attempting to write 100 poems in a single day. Mark and Mixy will be doing so as well, so potentially, we're going to be creating 300+ poems in a day. In the time you've taken to read this, another poem will have been born. And they will keep on being born across the day. And you can get involved. Even if you're not a poet, suggest titles! You can post titles in the comments section of this blog, or email me via the link on my website, or you can tweet us @timclarepoet @montygristo or @mixyric and suggest poem titles. We'll use our favourites (and, to be honest, even ones we don't like - after all, we need 100 each) and you can read each poem mere seconds after it's written.
I don't know if any of us will be successful in writing the full 100 poems. Technical problems, brain fade or the pressure of competing may bring us down. But I bet it'll be pretty odd, and fun, and entertaining.
Every year, I try to build on the year before, to make 100 Poems bigger and better. This year, I'm genuinely excited to say, I won't be doing it alone! The talented, funny and devastatingly handsome poets Mark Grist and Mixy are both going to be joining me for the marathon. I'll post up links to their blogs once they've put them up. We may well have more poets joining us, and if you're a poet and fancy getting involved, please do. All you need is a blog, a twitter account, and some friends willing to foist 100+ poem titles upon you.
I'll be kicking off at 9am on Friday 30th November, attempting to write 100 poems in a single day. Mark and Mixy will be doing so as well, so potentially, we're going to be creating 300+ poems in a day. In the time you've taken to read this, another poem will have been born. And they will keep on being born across the day. And you can get involved. Even if you're not a poet, suggest titles! You can post titles in the comments section of this blog, or email me via the link on my website, or you can tweet us @timclarepoet @montygristo or @mixyric and suggest poem titles. We'll use our favourites (and, to be honest, even ones we don't like - after all, we need 100 each) and you can read each poem mere seconds after it's written.
I don't know if any of us will be successful in writing the full 100 poems. Technical problems, brain fade or the pressure of competing may bring us down. But I bet it'll be pretty odd, and fun, and entertaining.
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