It is Bill's funeral
and I cannot wait to get your clothes off.
Your eyes flicker at me
from behind black mesh, your black hat
at a rakish angle, a black carnation
perched on the brim
like an oil fire
caught in a tornado.
Bill's casket lies
to the right of the vicar,
a perfect ingot.
Bill will be buried in it.
In light of his injuries,
cremation seemed
inappropriate.
The service is easing towards
its inevitable end,
like all of us, I suppose,
when we begin to detect
the faintest tinny warble,
like a ringtone going off
in someone's pocket.
Ears prick, hackles rise
at the disrespect.
Who the fuck forgets
to switch their phone off
for a funeral?
I think, casting
dirty looks about the church.
Then, a pounding on the lid.
From the inside.
The vicar looks startled, and,
to his eternal credit, tries
to keep going, then the coffin pops
like a vault
and it's Bill, standing,
peeling off fake burns like crepes,
dropping trou and mooning
as a 30-second wav of Monster Mash
loops over
and over
Friday, 26 November 2010
#100: All The Pretty Corpses
Howard does their smiles
with a rivet gun -pfft pfft-
two studs in either cheek.
At last, he's found his metier.
He combs still-growing hair
over exit wounds, cooing in a slight
subvocal manner like his mother
used to. He finds it soothing
and, in some strange way, he imagines
they do too. He's never been allowed
to look after someone before -
folks sneered as if it a bad smell,
sometimes literally (building that manse
out of dung left him pungent
for a full month) -
he finds he likes it.
He runs a hand across their cold arms,
holds them in their blindness.
Most would call it creepy.
Howard calls it kindness.
with a rivet gun -pfft pfft-
two studs in either cheek.
At last, he's found his metier.
He combs still-growing hair
over exit wounds, cooing in a slight
subvocal manner like his mother
used to. He finds it soothing
and, in some strange way, he imagines
they do too. He's never been allowed
to look after someone before -
folks sneered as if it a bad smell,
sometimes literally (building that manse
out of dung left him pungent
for a full month) -
he finds he likes it.
He runs a hand across their cold arms,
holds them in their blindness.
Most would call it creepy.
Howard calls it kindness.
#99: My Garden Shed Is Bigger Than This
Callum regards St Michael's Basilica
with fists on hips, shaking his head.
'Well gay,' he says, kicking off
a domino run of face palming
right down the line of mortified acquaintances.
He turns away. 'Well,
I wouldn't want to live here.
Let's go get some tapas
and sangria, eh padre?'
slapping the bishop
on his cassocked back
the way you might
encourage a horse.
Suddenly, this whole trip
seems a very bad idea.
with fists on hips, shaking his head.
'Well gay,' he says, kicking off
a domino run of face palming
right down the line of mortified acquaintances.
He turns away. 'Well,
I wouldn't want to live here.
Let's go get some tapas
and sangria, eh padre?'
slapping the bishop
on his cassocked back
the way you might
encourage a horse.
Suddenly, this whole trip
seems a very bad idea.
#98: The Long Limp Home
Endurance tests yield a shameful sort of victory -
slightly sickened praise, that asks
now was that clever, really?
Like shitting enough broken glass
to fill a fancy handbag
or toasting a bagel
with only lit farts
Not everyone can do it, sure, but why would they?
Come on now, son - is it art?
slightly sickened praise, that asks
now was that clever, really?
Like shitting enough broken glass
to fill a fancy handbag
or toasting a bagel
with only lit farts
Not everyone can do it, sure, but why would they?
Come on now, son - is it art?
#97: Turnip Wars (The Latent Era)
The Separatists would leave one
on your pillow, with a cheeky little face
carved into it, as a warning.
The Federalists responded
with a release of turnip moths
so vast, they blackened the sky.
Spuds were just collateral damage.
That was how crazy things got.
Fields lay fallow for seasons,
ploughshafts collapsed with dry rot.
on your pillow, with a cheeky little face
carved into it, as a warning.
The Federalists responded
with a release of turnip moths
so vast, they blackened the sky.
Spuds were just collateral damage.
That was how crazy things got.
Fields lay fallow for seasons,
ploughshafts collapsed with dry rot.
#96: Danielle, You Go Girl!
We cheer her on, though,
strictly speaking,
this is probably going to get her killed.
I have made a banner
with help from my girlfriend.
It says: 'WOOHOO! DANIELLE
CAN DEFINITELY FLY
UNAIDED! x' There is glitter
and some stars I cut out
from tinfoil.
As she poises on the cusp
of the bridge, adjusting
her goggles, (decorated
with lightning bolts she painted
on herself, the talented
thing) looking up
I think I detect
the slightest hint
of hesitation.
'Come on Danielle!' I bellow
through cupped hands.
'Jump!
Jump!
Jump!'
strictly speaking,
this is probably going to get her killed.
I have made a banner
with help from my girlfriend.
It says: 'WOOHOO! DANIELLE
CAN DEFINITELY FLY
UNAIDED! x' There is glitter
and some stars I cut out
from tinfoil.
As she poises on the cusp
of the bridge, adjusting
her goggles, (decorated
with lightning bolts she painted
on herself, the talented
thing) looking up
I think I detect
the slightest hint
of hesitation.
'Come on Danielle!' I bellow
through cupped hands.
'Jump!
Jump!
Jump!'
#95: The Dog And The Man And The Other Dog (The Disappointment Thereof)
Nothing really happened.
No understanding passed between them,
no flicker of kinship leapt synaptic sparkwise
from one hound's eyes to the other's.
The man smoked a cigar he'd found in an old jacket
and thought no smart thoughts,
just turning over the possibility of taking his car
in for an MOT, his mind a tumble dryer,
the dogs like tofu facsimiles of dogs,
the big top behind them
burning to the ground.
No understanding passed between them,
no flicker of kinship leapt synaptic sparkwise
from one hound's eyes to the other's.
The man smoked a cigar he'd found in an old jacket
and thought no smart thoughts,
just turning over the possibility of taking his car
in for an MOT, his mind a tumble dryer,
the dogs like tofu facsimiles of dogs,
the big top behind them
burning to the ground.
#94: Billy's Cart
He'd wheel it up just before sunrise,
slip a wooden wedge beneath a wheel
to keep it steady, then unbutton
the dew-damp tarpaulin.
Nothing was for sale:
not the clamp jars with wolf fetuses in vinegar
nor the conical hats made from pasta;
not the clockwork smelting plant
nor the incontinent scrimshaw ballerina;
not the godshoes
nor the primping stick;
not the hasped mouth
nor the candlegun;
not the impossible radio
nor the compendium of improprieties bound in hogsflesh.
He'd just stand there,
gloating over it,
hissing like a goose.
slip a wooden wedge beneath a wheel
to keep it steady, then unbutton
the dew-damp tarpaulin.
Nothing was for sale:
not the clamp jars with wolf fetuses in vinegar
nor the conical hats made from pasta;
not the clockwork smelting plant
nor the incontinent scrimshaw ballerina;
not the godshoes
nor the primping stick;
not the hasped mouth
nor the candlegun;
not the impossible radio
nor the compendium of improprieties bound in hogsflesh.
He'd just stand there,
gloating over it,
hissing like a goose.
#93: My Life As A Goldfish
I liked the castle best.
It gifted my tank
a sense of history.
Some nights, I'd settle
on the battlements
and look out across
fluxing weed fronds,
coloured gravel,
waiting for the day
when gravity inverted,
and I'd turn my burnished belly
to the ceiling.
It gifted my tank
a sense of history.
Some nights, I'd settle
on the battlements
and look out across
fluxing weed fronds,
coloured gravel,
waiting for the day
when gravity inverted,
and I'd turn my burnished belly
to the ceiling.
#92: Sexy Sexy Time
I dance into the classroom
in my crotchless pants
and do a little finger-jive.
'Sex for you, sex for me,'
I sing, shooting the gun
and the wink at Alfonso,
who looks absolutely baffled
with sexy feelings.
'Sex for two, sex for three,'
pointing first at Miriam,
then at Lionel, who is crying
with arousal.
I am ad-libbing the song
as I go along,
and this spontaneity
gives it a sexy edge.
I throw in a few made-up words,
slap my bumcheeks
then bow.
The silence is sexy as hell.
in my crotchless pants
and do a little finger-jive.
'Sex for you, sex for me,'
I sing, shooting the gun
and the wink at Alfonso,
who looks absolutely baffled
with sexy feelings.
'Sex for two, sex for three,'
pointing first at Miriam,
then at Lionel, who is crying
with arousal.
I am ad-libbing the song
as I go along,
and this spontaneity
gives it a sexy edge.
I throw in a few made-up words,
slap my bumcheeks
then bow.
The silence is sexy as hell.
#91: The Big Scene
Edgar runs through his lines for months.
He videotapes himself
pacing and gesticulating
in the living room. He writes
notes on each performance. When he's pleased,
a simple 'good' and the time pencilled
into the margin. When he believes
some intonation or off-guard pose
falls below par, whole rows of 'NO!
NO! NO! NO! NO!' underscored, then
white hot screeds, castigating
his ineptitude. 'Sometimes
I think you don't want
to be Captain Hook,' he writes,
pressing so hard
the lead snaps.
He videotapes himself
pacing and gesticulating
in the living room. He writes
notes on each performance. When he's pleased,
a simple 'good' and the time pencilled
into the margin. When he believes
some intonation or off-guard pose
falls below par, whole rows of 'NO!
NO! NO! NO! NO!' underscored, then
white hot screeds, castigating
his ineptitude. 'Sometimes
I think you don't want
to be Captain Hook,' he writes,
pressing so hard
the lead snaps.
#90: Fingers McGinty And The Naughty Bot
Fingers fed a punchcard
into the back of the Naughty Bot's head.
The plan was simple as an egg.
Naughty Bot would pootle into the bank foyer,
make cute, synthesised poop noises,
expose lady's bloomers and other darling antics
while Fingers used the distraction
to sneak past security,
shoot the bank manager (against whom
he had a personal grudge)
and crack the safe.
You've guessed the end -
it didn't work like that,
Naughty Bot hacking at children's ears
with its steel pincers,
gunned down as the police arrived
Fingers running off down a backstreet,
already composing his complaint letter.
into the back of the Naughty Bot's head.
The plan was simple as an egg.
Naughty Bot would pootle into the bank foyer,
make cute, synthesised poop noises,
expose lady's bloomers and other darling antics
while Fingers used the distraction
to sneak past security,
shoot the bank manager (against whom
he had a personal grudge)
and crack the safe.
You've guessed the end -
it didn't work like that,
Naughty Bot hacking at children's ears
with its steel pincers,
gunned down as the police arrived
Fingers running off down a backstreet,
already composing his complaint letter.
#89: Total Destruction To Those Who Laughed At Me And Failed To Heed My Warnings
My sky ark rumbles
through the parting cloudbank
dropping parachute bombs
through a trapdoor in the timber hull
and playing ragtime
through several banks of loudspeakers,
overlaid by invocations
to various minor interventionist deities
and shoutouts.
'You, Deborah Nesmith! Who continued to park
in my spot after a polite note
tucked under your windscreen wiper!
You, Horace Golightly! Sprinkling Trill
in my hair during the test match
and believing I would not notice!
You, Lincoln Coops! Who built several effigies
of me in Lego then kicked them in,
laughing all the while, well
who's laughing now you bastard,'
roofs exploding, etc, etc.
through the parting cloudbank
dropping parachute bombs
through a trapdoor in the timber hull
and playing ragtime
through several banks of loudspeakers,
overlaid by invocations
to various minor interventionist deities
and shoutouts.
'You, Deborah Nesmith! Who continued to park
in my spot after a polite note
tucked under your windscreen wiper!
You, Horace Golightly! Sprinkling Trill
in my hair during the test match
and believing I would not notice!
You, Lincoln Coops! Who built several effigies
of me in Lego then kicked them in,
laughing all the while, well
who's laughing now you bastard,'
roofs exploding, etc, etc.
#88: The Porcelain Father
Laurence and Oliver knew only too well
Mum never sat them down in the front room
to hear good news.
'Boys,' she began nervously,
'I'd like you to meet Gerald.
Gerald and I are very much in love and...
well, you know how lonely I've been since
your father passed and I'd never think
to replace him, God rest his soul,
but, well,' she took off her spectacles,
'it would mean an awful lot to Gerald
if one day, the two of you
could come to call him father,'
and she glanced to her left, removing all doubt
that the toilet now plumbed into the corner
of the living room
was now her lover.
'YOU'RE NOT MY DAD!' Lawrence bawled
and ran from the room, leaving Olly,
sheepish as ever, to pick up the pieces.
Mum never sat them down in the front room
to hear good news.
'Boys,' she began nervously,
'I'd like you to meet Gerald.
Gerald and I are very much in love and...
well, you know how lonely I've been since
your father passed and I'd never think
to replace him, God rest his soul,
but, well,' she took off her spectacles,
'it would mean an awful lot to Gerald
if one day, the two of you
could come to call him father,'
and she glanced to her left, removing all doubt
that the toilet now plumbed into the corner
of the living room
was now her lover.
'YOU'RE NOT MY DAD!' Lawrence bawled
and ran from the room, leaving Olly,
sheepish as ever, to pick up the pieces.
#87: Enjoy Your Headache
Meadows scroll past in an ugly parallax,
blurring in the mid-distance.
He clasps his brow and feels
a rush of something close to rapture.
Cud-munching cows in nearby pasture
have horrible eyes that swivel
in their outsized heads,
but he cannot see them for migraine stars,
colour palette cycling as he presses on.
The stile glows like rare treasure.
blurring in the mid-distance.
He clasps his brow and feels
a rush of something close to rapture.
Cud-munching cows in nearby pasture
have horrible eyes that swivel
in their outsized heads,
but he cannot see them for migraine stars,
colour palette cycling as he presses on.
The stile glows like rare treasure.
#86: Meet Me In Marigolds
I buy a cone of chips from the van
then walk all the way along the coastpath
to the lighthouse, where we first met.
The chips go cold (I didn't really
want them) so I spend twenty minutes
throwing them to seagulls
who caw and swoop and snap.
I sort of wonder if I'd got it wrong.
About the love, and that.
All at once, a pair of hands
land on my shoulders like parrots.
I turn - you're beaming
in rubber gloves (you know this bit
of course). You wiggle your fingers
and do that half-smirk
you know I love.
'My hands were cold,' you shrug,
'and I've lost my mittens.'
And just like that, we hug,
we're back.
then walk all the way along the coastpath
to the lighthouse, where we first met.
The chips go cold (I didn't really
want them) so I spend twenty minutes
throwing them to seagulls
who caw and swoop and snap.
I sort of wonder if I'd got it wrong.
About the love, and that.
All at once, a pair of hands
land on my shoulders like parrots.
I turn - you're beaming
in rubber gloves (you know this bit
of course). You wiggle your fingers
and do that half-smirk
you know I love.
'My hands were cold,' you shrug,
'and I've lost my mittens.'
And just like that, we hug,
we're back.
#85: Little Fixit-Man
When he gets home,
the first thing he does is
switch on the little radio.
Then, in the time it takes the little kettle to boil
he changes out of his little work clothes
into a little dressing gown, returning
to pour himself a little mug of fruit tea.
Then he runs a little bath
while he listens to the news.
He likes it very hot,
to soak off the dirt.
His little routine is important to him,
especially since his little wife passed away.
On Fridays he used to go to a little support group,
but it wound down when the little group leader
moved to Chepstow, and he doesn't feel
like setting up another one himself.
Before he gets into his little bed,
he says a little prayer,
not because he believes in God
(he doesn't, really,
and rarely thinks about it)
but because his little wife used to
and he knows if he stopped
she would be sad.
the first thing he does is
switch on the little radio.
Then, in the time it takes the little kettle to boil
he changes out of his little work clothes
into a little dressing gown, returning
to pour himself a little mug of fruit tea.
Then he runs a little bath
while he listens to the news.
He likes it very hot,
to soak off the dirt.
His little routine is important to him,
especially since his little wife passed away.
On Fridays he used to go to a little support group,
but it wound down when the little group leader
moved to Chepstow, and he doesn't feel
like setting up another one himself.
Before he gets into his little bed,
he says a little prayer,
not because he believes in God
(he doesn't, really,
and rarely thinks about it)
but because his little wife used to
and he knows if he stopped
she would be sad.
#84: The Best Way To Kill A Chicken
is, Ted asserts, by making it look like an accident.
It's very easy, he continues, getting a bit of a swagger
about him as he warms to his subject.
That chicken who died snorkeling last week, for instance?
Murdered, says Ted.
By who? Emma asks, face a portrait of irritated confusion.
Ted prods his chest with a thumb.
No, Raoul shoots back, better to drape your actions
in the fine regalia of justice. Invite the chicken
to a whist drive or some such, then lock the door,
dim lights, and inform him, coldly, of his crimes
and consequent punishment.
Death? says Emma.
By murder, no less, says Raoul.
It's very easy, he continues, getting a bit of a swagger
about him as he warms to his subject.
That chicken who died snorkeling last week, for instance?
Murdered, says Ted.
By who? Emma asks, face a portrait of irritated confusion.
Ted prods his chest with a thumb.
No, Raoul shoots back, better to drape your actions
in the fine regalia of justice. Invite the chicken
to a whist drive or some such, then lock the door,
dim lights, and inform him, coldly, of his crimes
and consequent punishment.
Death? says Emma.
By murder, no less, says Raoul.
#83: Step On The Gas
Our safari takes us deep into Chipping Sodbury,
where slow, dough-faced men mow
the same patch of lawn over and over.
They scythe bald patches then, as if
breaking loose of some ancient trance
gaze upon their works and lament,
clutching at their own grey hair,
tearing at it. Cecil Fipps (who, between you
and me, I don't much care for)
is writing a piece for National Geographic,
snapping away with his Canon
off the back of the Jeep.
We stop near the fire station
when the engine overheats.
Our driver hands me the gun.
'If in doubt, shoot,' he tells me,
then cautiously, quietly,
steps out, while I sit on the roof,
watching for milkmen.
where slow, dough-faced men mow
the same patch of lawn over and over.
They scythe bald patches then, as if
breaking loose of some ancient trance
gaze upon their works and lament,
clutching at their own grey hair,
tearing at it. Cecil Fipps (who, between you
and me, I don't much care for)
is writing a piece for National Geographic,
snapping away with his Canon
off the back of the Jeep.
We stop near the fire station
when the engine overheats.
Our driver hands me the gun.
'If in doubt, shoot,' he tells me,
then cautiously, quietly,
steps out, while I sit on the roof,
watching for milkmen.
#82: Lacking Functional Sex
It's been two months now, and you haven't touched me.
Not really, anyhow.
I place my hands on your shoulders while you wash-up
and you stiffen, the clank of plates
sudddenly loud as a heartbeat heard through a cold stethoscope.
It's as if
we need to keep to different rooms
or something terrible will happen
like young Jennifer
and old Jennifer
in Back To The Future 2.
I know you still love me -
I've seen the way you look
at the pics of us together on the dining room shelf -
but ever since, you know,
what happened with Bill
it's just been different,
distant.
I sometimes want to say,
'Let's visit him,' but I'm scared
I'll only make you worse.
Not really, anyhow.
I place my hands on your shoulders while you wash-up
and you stiffen, the clank of plates
sudddenly loud as a heartbeat heard through a cold stethoscope.
It's as if
we need to keep to different rooms
or something terrible will happen
like young Jennifer
and old Jennifer
in Back To The Future 2.
I know you still love me -
I've seen the way you look
at the pics of us together on the dining room shelf -
but ever since, you know,
what happened with Bill
it's just been different,
distant.
I sometimes want to say,
'Let's visit him,' but I'm scared
I'll only make you worse.
#81: 34 Reasons Why I Am The Worst Human Being That Ever Lived
I pay a low-income mother
to have them tattooed on her child's face
in a thick, gothic script,
which adds a compelling 35th.
As part of our agreement,
the child is contractually obliged to wear
a tabard that reads: I AM AN ART PROJECT
until her 18th birthday
if she reaches it.
After all, she needs
a new lung -
that's what the money's towards.
I unveil her to rapturous applause.
We pose for photos after
the press junket,
me doing peace signs behind her head.
to have them tattooed on her child's face
in a thick, gothic script,
which adds a compelling 35th.
As part of our agreement,
the child is contractually obliged to wear
a tabard that reads: I AM AN ART PROJECT
until her 18th birthday
if she reaches it.
After all, she needs
a new lung -
that's what the money's towards.
I unveil her to rapturous applause.
We pose for photos after
the press junket,
me doing peace signs behind her head.
#80: It Was The Wind That Disturbed Him
He pootled into the foyer on a stolen golf buggy
generously dishing out a thumbs up to the concierge
before driving straight through the double-doors
into the wedding reception, where the bride
and groom had just taken to the floor
for the first dance. 'Stop the wedding!'
he quipped, dismounting with audible rip
of his checked trousers then lighting
a big doobie. 'I am a posterboy for
zany non-conformity,' he informed
the two constables as they dragged him
away, dappled with sick,
then a zephyr howled through the naked oak
and he trembled.
generously dishing out a thumbs up to the concierge
before driving straight through the double-doors
into the wedding reception, where the bride
and groom had just taken to the floor
for the first dance. 'Stop the wedding!'
he quipped, dismounting with audible rip
of his checked trousers then lighting
a big doobie. 'I am a posterboy for
zany non-conformity,' he informed
the two constables as they dragged him
away, dappled with sick,
then a zephyr howled through the naked oak
and he trembled.
#79: Godforsaken Stomach Bug
20 guests go down with it,
the Queen goes down with it,
live during her speech, a frown,
a quiver, then huey
splattering over the lectern
in a viscous ochre cascade,
every dog goes down with it,
poor mites, but they recover
to a hound, full of appetite
and scoffing chow like never before,
a sixth form in the Greater Manchester area goes down with it,
(they later produce a play which features
on the local news, called 'The Bug',
an allegorical tale with an obvious debt
to Eugene Ionesco's Rhinoceros)
Lord Sugar goes down with it
and dies,
prompting tributes,
Howard goes down with it,
experiences a sextet of sink-clenching bowl evacuations,
phones his mum afterwards
and tells her he's okay.
the Queen goes down with it,
live during her speech, a frown,
a quiver, then huey
splattering over the lectern
in a viscous ochre cascade,
every dog goes down with it,
poor mites, but they recover
to a hound, full of appetite
and scoffing chow like never before,
a sixth form in the Greater Manchester area goes down with it,
(they later produce a play which features
on the local news, called 'The Bug',
an allegorical tale with an obvious debt
to Eugene Ionesco's Rhinoceros)
Lord Sugar goes down with it
and dies,
prompting tributes,
Howard goes down with it,
experiences a sextet of sink-clenching bowl evacuations,
phones his mum afterwards
and tells her he's okay.
#78: Apparently So, Arthur Said
Twiddling the farthest tip of his waxed tache
all conspiratorial like, eyes twinkling
behind his spectacles.
'Eric is in a relationship with a jigsaw.
Every night the same routine:
he breaks it apart and yells at it -
we hear him through the walls -
then just as he reaches his furious crescendo
guilt swamps him like floodwater
and he starts to reconstruct it,
gulping back sobs, howling his stupid,
stupid remorse
as if she cares.
He keeps her in a padded case,
under the stairs.
all conspiratorial like, eyes twinkling
behind his spectacles.
'Eric is in a relationship with a jigsaw.
Every night the same routine:
he breaks it apart and yells at it -
we hear him through the walls -
then just as he reaches his furious crescendo
guilt swamps him like floodwater
and he starts to reconstruct it,
gulping back sobs, howling his stupid,
stupid remorse
as if she cares.
He keeps her in a padded case,
under the stairs.
#77: Vital Signs
So you visit Bill
in the serious burns ward
sort of hiding behind the huge bunch
of chrysanthemums
like a colossal, awkward bee.
Inside the oxygen tent
Bill looks much smaller,
like a sickly schoolboy.
Maybe because he's lost
his moustache.
You put a hand over your open mouth
and something like anger
catches in your throat.
We realise at the same time
that we love him
the irritating bastard.
We stay for half an hour
and watch him breathing.
in the serious burns ward
sort of hiding behind the huge bunch
of chrysanthemums
like a colossal, awkward bee.
Inside the oxygen tent
Bill looks much smaller,
like a sickly schoolboy.
Maybe because he's lost
his moustache.
You put a hand over your open mouth
and something like anger
catches in your throat.
We realise at the same time
that we love him
the irritating bastard.
We stay for half an hour
and watch him breathing.
#76: Should I Go To New Zealand?
The audience are asked to decide
after a brief presentation
summarising my crimes
and contributions
thus far in life. In the 'plus' column:
the time I made a really competent coffee cake
and ate none of it myself
the time I admitted I didn't know where
The Granary was when the man
stopped to ask me directions
the time I put a two pound coin
in the collection tin for the Lifeboat Appeal
On the 'minus' side:
the hundreds I slew with my legion
of bipedal scimitar-bots
the child I blinded for asking 'why'
too many times
(I later repaired his vision
but the trauma was irreversible)
the bus conductor I shot into the sun
'Vote with your keypads now,' says the charming presenter,
and I flash what I hope
is a winning grin.
after a brief presentation
summarising my crimes
and contributions
thus far in life. In the 'plus' column:
the time I made a really competent coffee cake
and ate none of it myself
the time I admitted I didn't know where
The Granary was when the man
stopped to ask me directions
the time I put a two pound coin
in the collection tin for the Lifeboat Appeal
On the 'minus' side:
the hundreds I slew with my legion
of bipedal scimitar-bots
the child I blinded for asking 'why'
too many times
(I later repaired his vision
but the trauma was irreversible)
the bus conductor I shot into the sun
'Vote with your keypads now,' says the charming presenter,
and I flash what I hope
is a winning grin.
#75: You Had Been Singing
A shanty, I think it was, some saucy
ditty involving the lonely life of a sailor
and all the concommitant tension
from caulking lusts over long voyages,
you know the type, and it was right then
as you hit the last filthy bridge
with more than ample gusto,
that the meteor hit,
concentric crump of displaced dirt,
blast wave,
you tossed off your feet
headfirst into a paling.
Hence the amnesia
and the lump on your head
and the concertina
clasped in your lovely hands.
ditty involving the lonely life of a sailor
and all the concommitant tension
from caulking lusts over long voyages,
you know the type, and it was right then
as you hit the last filthy bridge
with more than ample gusto,
that the meteor hit,
concentric crump of displaced dirt,
blast wave,
you tossed off your feet
headfirst into a paling.
Hence the amnesia
and the lump on your head
and the concertina
clasped in your lovely hands.
#74: Something, Something, Alan Sugar
Lord Sugar
reads some Blake Morrison, nodding at bits he likes
revs imaginary handlebars while waiting in the boardroom
mutters under his breath while tying his shoe
avoids elevators whenever possible
Like an angry cauliflower given voice
Lord Sugar
tries out a new recipe from his Vietnamese cookbook
crosses his fingers while he sleeps
suddenly remembers a friend's birthday and rings them
eats raw mushrooms from a paper bag
finally finds a pair of swimming goggles he likes
reads some Blake Morrison, nodding at bits he likes
revs imaginary handlebars while waiting in the boardroom
mutters under his breath while tying his shoe
avoids elevators whenever possible
Like an angry cauliflower given voice
Lord Sugar
tries out a new recipe from his Vietnamese cookbook
crosses his fingers while he sleeps
suddenly remembers a friend's birthday and rings them
eats raw mushrooms from a paper bag
finally finds a pair of swimming goggles he likes
#73: Broken Soul Shards: The Agony Of Living Without Death
So Satan's first collection
wasn't well-received as he'd hoped.
Associates grinned tautly
at the launch, looking a little like
their smiles were stapled on
(which in several cases
was literally true)
while Satan tried to win them back
with 'a funny one',
apologising between poems,
licking his crimson thumb
as he flicked through for one
'I can't seem to find now,
ha ha, there's so many, ha ha,'
wishing he'd used colour-coded post-its
like he'd seen Roger McGough do.
wasn't well-received as he'd hoped.
Associates grinned tautly
at the launch, looking a little like
their smiles were stapled on
(which in several cases
was literally true)
while Satan tried to win them back
with 'a funny one',
apologising between poems,
licking his crimson thumb
as he flicked through for one
'I can't seem to find now,
ha ha, there's so many, ha ha,'
wishing he'd used colour-coded post-its
like he'd seen Roger McGough do.
#72: The Secret Life Of A Baked Bean
9:30am - the bean rolls into a gallery
and begins loudly criticising
(to no one in particular)
an installation that involves receipts
taped to coathangers
other people at the gallery
shuffle and look uncomfortable
but do not confront him
unaware that he is in fact
part of the installation
a stooge
4:30pm - the bean knocks off
and heads to local independent bookshop
greys
where his friend is doing a reading
from her new book on local ghost stories
bean did some of the illustrations
he drinks some bad wine
and impresses a girl from fife
with his knowledge of tartan
which is prodigious
9pm - back at home
the bean settles down in bed
with a bowl of hot broth
and listens to radio 4
he is an early to bed
early to rise sort of person
though he pretends to be a night owl
and begins loudly criticising
(to no one in particular)
an installation that involves receipts
taped to coathangers
other people at the gallery
shuffle and look uncomfortable
but do not confront him
unaware that he is in fact
part of the installation
a stooge
4:30pm - the bean knocks off
and heads to local independent bookshop
greys
where his friend is doing a reading
from her new book on local ghost stories
bean did some of the illustrations
he drinks some bad wine
and impresses a girl from fife
with his knowledge of tartan
which is prodigious
9pm - back at home
the bean settles down in bed
with a bowl of hot broth
and listens to radio 4
he is an early to bed
early to rise sort of person
though he pretends to be a night owl
#71: Not Technically A Poem
Jessica's student submits a family of prairie dogs
dressed as ex-Presidents.
'Here's Lincoln in his little stovepipe hat and beard,'
says the pupil, tapping on the front of the terrarium,
'this one's Woodrow, and the one with wooden teeth
is Washington.'
'Well naturally,' says Jessica.
'Nacho,' says her student, doing a rapid hand jive
apparently of her own devising.
Jessica is secretly jealous.
The Presidents start chirping.
dressed as ex-Presidents.
'Here's Lincoln in his little stovepipe hat and beard,'
says the pupil, tapping on the front of the terrarium,
'this one's Woodrow, and the one with wooden teeth
is Washington.'
'Well naturally,' says Jessica.
'Nacho,' says her student, doing a rapid hand jive
apparently of her own devising.
Jessica is secretly jealous.
The Presidents start chirping.
#70: Debt
The capybara arrives in a charcoal suit jacket
and says he's here to collect.
That is, he says as much, scoffing all the quinces
growing in your front garden, even the rotten ones
gone hard and puckered amongst the dead leaves
and crisp packets.
He leaves his car stereo on, playing Radio 2
so loud that Jeremy Vine's voice distorts
as he asks a teacher about the state of
religious education.
The capybara's ears prick up
when the Four Tops come on.
and says he's here to collect.
That is, he says as much, scoffing all the quinces
growing in your front garden, even the rotten ones
gone hard and puckered amongst the dead leaves
and crisp packets.
He leaves his car stereo on, playing Radio 2
so loud that Jeremy Vine's voice distorts
as he asks a teacher about the state of
religious education.
The capybara's ears prick up
when the Four Tops come on.
#69: I've Totally Lost It
Howard pats down his pockets
for the wedding ring,
wearing his sheepishness like a force field
as the ceremony slowly runs aground.
Unable to find it on the second pass,
he passes wind in a loud, echoing way,
which - with the benefit of hindsight,
watching back on video three months later -
only makes the situation worse,
the bride disguising her tears
by cleverly gagging at the smell
which tells Howard he's followed through
then the ring turns up - top pocket,
tucked behind the button. That's why
he couldn't find it. Sort of funny,
really, or at least, bittersweet.
for the wedding ring,
wearing his sheepishness like a force field
as the ceremony slowly runs aground.
Unable to find it on the second pass,
he passes wind in a loud, echoing way,
which - with the benefit of hindsight,
watching back on video three months later -
only makes the situation worse,
the bride disguising her tears
by cleverly gagging at the smell
which tells Howard he's followed through
then the ring turns up - top pocket,
tucked behind the button. That's why
he couldn't find it. Sort of funny,
really, or at least, bittersweet.
#68: My Cathedral Face
It may be our best, biggest evidence
for God's existence,
my haughty visage,
emerging from mists like some sexy
humungous Brigadoon,
shooting black lightning
from the huge inverted cupolas of my ears.
On the windward side
is a fresco depicting apocryphal scenes
from Rentaghost, Timothy Claypole
riding a tank into the gob of a sperm whale
while tracer fire punctuates a velvet sky.
It has suffered over the years
from natural wear and tear, accentuated by tourism,
and efforts are underway
to preserve it for future generations.
Sometimes, an archangel, Michael perhaps,
pops out my nostril like a cuckoo.
Devotees travel miles, hoping for a glimpse,
but almost always leave disappointed.
for God's existence,
my haughty visage,
emerging from mists like some sexy
humungous Brigadoon,
shooting black lightning
from the huge inverted cupolas of my ears.
On the windward side
is a fresco depicting apocryphal scenes
from Rentaghost, Timothy Claypole
riding a tank into the gob of a sperm whale
while tracer fire punctuates a velvet sky.
It has suffered over the years
from natural wear and tear, accentuated by tourism,
and efforts are underway
to preserve it for future generations.
Sometimes, an archangel, Michael perhaps,
pops out my nostril like a cuckoo.
Devotees travel miles, hoping for a glimpse,
but almost always leave disappointed.
#67: Leverage
Raymond chose this moment in proceedings
to lift a silver closh, revealing
a VHS cassette on a platter.
'You've probably all just stopped wondering
why I asked you here this evening,' said Raymond,
mugging to a camera only he could see.
'I don't think I need to tell you
what's on this video.'
His audience, some half a dozen in number,
shuffled uncomfortably on their milking stools.
Chet McCafferty glanced about at the others.
'You do realise we could just rise en masse
and grab it from you, don't you Raymond?
Six against one. You can't fancy those odds,
can you, you saucy rascal?'
'Not ordinarily,' says Raymond,
'which is why I'm appearing to you
as a hologram,' the image flickering suddenly,
just another revelation in an evening
chock-full with them,
what with the trifle and all.
to lift a silver closh, revealing
a VHS cassette on a platter.
'You've probably all just stopped wondering
why I asked you here this evening,' said Raymond,
mugging to a camera only he could see.
'I don't think I need to tell you
what's on this video.'
His audience, some half a dozen in number,
shuffled uncomfortably on their milking stools.
Chet McCafferty glanced about at the others.
'You do realise we could just rise en masse
and grab it from you, don't you Raymond?
Six against one. You can't fancy those odds,
can you, you saucy rascal?'
'Not ordinarily,' says Raymond,
'which is why I'm appearing to you
as a hologram,' the image flickering suddenly,
just another revelation in an evening
chock-full with them,
what with the trifle and all.
#66: Being Candid
'We have never liked you, Bill,
and, in all likelihood,
we never will,'
you write in his birthday card,
with a palpable
sense of accomplishment.
You seal the envelope
with long, slow licks;
there's something sensual to it,
you're tasting victory perhaps.
You write his address with the best
handwriting I have ever seen.
We walk to the postbox together
then go home and spend
the whole night in each other's arms,
reborn by candlelight
in copper and bronze.
I'm woken round 5am
by a text.
'Did you hear about Bill?'
it says. 'So sad.'
and, in all likelihood,
we never will,'
you write in his birthday card,
with a palpable
sense of accomplishment.
You seal the envelope
with long, slow licks;
there's something sensual to it,
you're tasting victory perhaps.
You write his address with the best
handwriting I have ever seen.
We walk to the postbox together
then go home and spend
the whole night in each other's arms,
reborn by candlelight
in copper and bronze.
I'm woken round 5am
by a text.
'Did you hear about Bill?'
it says. 'So sad.'
#65: The Art Of Dovemaking
It's all in the talons,
I tell my evening class,
clicking on the next slide
in my Powerpoint presentation,
the word 'talons' in bold
beside a bulletpoint.
Also, choosing the right
venom delivery system
is pivotal ('venom - pivotal'
getting its own bulletpointed
place on the list) if
they're really going to
do some lasting damage.
I run briefly through some
basic designs: the kamikaze,
the raptor, the wasp,
the stealth bomber.
I tell my evening class,
clicking on the next slide
in my Powerpoint presentation,
the word 'talons' in bold
beside a bulletpoint.
Also, choosing the right
venom delivery system
is pivotal ('venom - pivotal'
getting its own bulletpointed
place on the list) if
they're really going to
do some lasting damage.
I run briefly through some
basic designs: the kamikaze,
the raptor, the wasp,
the stealth bomber.
#64: Mesmerised
The spinning bowtie was a knockout success.
Dogs would lope around with me, faithful
as hair, wet-eyed with dunderheaded awe.
Humans were even better. At parties
I made a name for myself hypnotising
the hostess, then moulding her like drunk putty,
sculpting her perhaps into some daft tableau,
her arms thrown dramatically back,
fingers splayed, jaw locked in a scowl.
Guests would gather round, lifting
their phones to take snaps, the way
we used to lift our passports
to border guards,
another favourite target of mine.
Dogs would lope around with me, faithful
as hair, wet-eyed with dunderheaded awe.
Humans were even better. At parties
I made a name for myself hypnotising
the hostess, then moulding her like drunk putty,
sculpting her perhaps into some daft tableau,
her arms thrown dramatically back,
fingers splayed, jaw locked in a scowl.
Guests would gather round, lifting
their phones to take snaps, the way
we used to lift our passports
to border guards,
another favourite target of mine.
#63: Roland and Shoo-Shoo
Halfway through their beach day,
Shoo-Shoo dips into the cool bag
and lets out a gasp.
'Roland?' he splutters,
'have you eaten six Rocky bars?'
Roland blinks back at him, blankly,
wearing a look of almost convincing innocence.
'What do you mean?' he says.
'There's only two left! I haven't had one yet,
so that must mean you've had six!'
'No!' says Roland, indignant.
A few metres away, a beachball
thumps into the hot sand.
'Oh Roland.' Shoo-Shoo shakes his head,
laughing now. 'How could you?'
Shoo-Shoo dips into the cool bag
and lets out a gasp.
'Roland?' he splutters,
'have you eaten six Rocky bars?'
Roland blinks back at him, blankly,
wearing a look of almost convincing innocence.
'What do you mean?' he says.
'There's only two left! I haven't had one yet,
so that must mean you've had six!'
'No!' says Roland, indignant.
A few metres away, a beachball
thumps into the hot sand.
'Oh Roland.' Shoo-Shoo shakes his head,
laughing now. 'How could you?'
#62: Penguin Despair: Pete's Story
'They'd just come at me, in threes and fours,'
Pete explains to the sympathetic presenter,
leaning forward on the comfy red sofa,
taking a slurp of water. 'Always with some trivial
gripe about the state of the roads,
or the price of bread, or fishing quotas.
And the eggs!' He clutches at the tuft of hair
above his brow. 'Always with the eggs
between their feet, asking me to mind them
while they pop to the disco, asking me
to warm them with a hairdryer,
forever wheedling.' He doubles up,
and begins crying.
The presenter reaches over and smooths his back.
'Come on now, you're okay.' He looks to the audience,
past his autocue.
'I don't think there's anyone here
who doesn't understand your pain.
Thank you so much for sharing that with us.'
Pete explains to the sympathetic presenter,
leaning forward on the comfy red sofa,
taking a slurp of water. 'Always with some trivial
gripe about the state of the roads,
or the price of bread, or fishing quotas.
And the eggs!' He clutches at the tuft of hair
above his brow. 'Always with the eggs
between their feet, asking me to mind them
while they pop to the disco, asking me
to warm them with a hairdryer,
forever wheedling.' He doubles up,
and begins crying.
The presenter reaches over and smooths his back.
'Come on now, you're okay.' He looks to the audience,
past his autocue.
'I don't think there's anyone here
who doesn't understand your pain.
Thank you so much for sharing that with us.'
#61: The Weather Of Blood
In the galleon hold, we played cards on a packing crate;
Brag, mostly, while the oil lamp swung above us,
making red shadows sluice first starboard, then to port.
We heard the pelting storm and pretended we didn't,
Captain on deck braying orders into the gale,
gums smacking wetly over the worn-down headstones of his teeth.
The ship listed and heeled, heeled and listed,
our stomachs surging as we tried to concentrate
on the next hand. Me clutching my three kings,
squinting at their swords, as if they were the horizon,
as if they were dry land.
Brag, mostly, while the oil lamp swung above us,
making red shadows sluice first starboard, then to port.
We heard the pelting storm and pretended we didn't,
Captain on deck braying orders into the gale,
gums smacking wetly over the worn-down headstones of his teeth.
The ship listed and heeled, heeled and listed,
our stomachs surging as we tried to concentrate
on the next hand. Me clutching my three kings,
squinting at their swords, as if they were the horizon,
as if they were dry land.
#60: I Lie To My Friends And Say I Can Cry Milk, But I Can't Really
I am quite the fruity accordion of lies,
stretching myself out like a fishing boast
only to huff down in noisy protest
when pals bookend me in pubs,
querying my latest claim.
The thing is, my right hand unscrews at the wrist.
I once drank a bottle of liquid soap
then retched glistening mineral water.
I have ridden an elephant into a wedding reception,
clicked my fingers at the bridesmaids
and carried them off, shuddering with anticipation,
their dresses heaped with cake.
stretching myself out like a fishing boast
only to huff down in noisy protest
when pals bookend me in pubs,
querying my latest claim.
The thing is, my right hand unscrews at the wrist.
I once drank a bottle of liquid soap
then retched glistening mineral water.
I have ridden an elephant into a wedding reception,
clicked my fingers at the bridesmaids
and carried them off, shuddering with anticipation,
their dresses heaped with cake.
#59: Your Opinion Melts
when you get off the ghost train
and meet some cthulu-esque abomination of thrashing ganglia
and ooze-slick suckers, calmly stewarding
some disabled children onto the merry-go-round,
holding onto their balloons while they ride
frozen, beaming horses in lurching circles.
The tootling calliope music makes a boy in callipers
wail anxiously, but the horrid conglomeration
soothes him, swiping away tears with a wet-wipe
deftly produced from a leather satchel.
You walk home feeling guilty,
tearing out swatches of candy floss
with your teeth.
and meet some cthulu-esque abomination of thrashing ganglia
and ooze-slick suckers, calmly stewarding
some disabled children onto the merry-go-round,
holding onto their balloons while they ride
frozen, beaming horses in lurching circles.
The tootling calliope music makes a boy in callipers
wail anxiously, but the horrid conglomeration
soothes him, swiping away tears with a wet-wipe
deftly produced from a leather satchel.
You walk home feeling guilty,
tearing out swatches of candy floss
with your teeth.
#58: Ear Removal
People queued for hours, days,
to get it done. Strictly backstreet,
a kind of nod and a wave type job
then you'd be led through a curtain
of butcher's strips into a sort of arena,
earless dozens jostling shoulder to shoulder
to watch you standing knock-kneed in the sawdust,
shoulder gripped by a man in a velveteen hood,
craft knife balanced like a quill in his free hand.
The lights would dim, your heart fighting
to escape your chest. Finally, a drum roll
that only you could hear.
to get it done. Strictly backstreet,
a kind of nod and a wave type job
then you'd be led through a curtain
of butcher's strips into a sort of arena,
earless dozens jostling shoulder to shoulder
to watch you standing knock-kneed in the sawdust,
shoulder gripped by a man in a velveteen hood,
craft knife balanced like a quill in his free hand.
The lights would dim, your heart fighting
to escape your chest. Finally, a drum roll
that only you could hear.
#57: Missing: Kettle
So he goes from tree, to telegraph pole,
to fencepost, nailing or tacking up
his badly spelt posters.
'Mising: 1 blovid ketal
reward if fond'
The hermit nervously holding nails
between his lips like a shoemaker
while he hammers another one to a wall.
He pictures his kettle sitting alone
in a skip under a caul of grime,
capped with hoarfrost,
unloved, perishing.
to fencepost, nailing or tacking up
his badly spelt posters.
'Mising: 1 blovid ketal
reward if fond'
The hermit nervously holding nails
between his lips like a shoemaker
while he hammers another one to a wall.
He pictures his kettle sitting alone
in a skip under a caul of grime,
capped with hoarfrost,
unloved, perishing.
#56: My Old Faithful Cattleprod
You wade into the fancy dress party
made up like a lumberjack and cackling your philosophy,
which seems to be one of
'peace be upon he who jerks his way through strife'
punctuating the end of every sentence
with a jab of the prod into someone's ribs
and a shot of Ouzo,
'Ha har!' your brazen laughter
masking the zap,
the host dropping a dish of sausage rolls
when you step up behind him
and aim one right in the nape.
made up like a lumberjack and cackling your philosophy,
which seems to be one of
'peace be upon he who jerks his way through strife'
punctuating the end of every sentence
with a jab of the prod into someone's ribs
and a shot of Ouzo,
'Ha har!' your brazen laughter
masking the zap,
the host dropping a dish of sausage rolls
when you step up behind him
and aim one right in the nape.
#55: Do Not Lurk Loudly, Oh My Brothers
We make our way down to the churchyard
in matching snoods,
arpeggiating our twiggy digits
against our rough crescent chins,
the moon a dull hubcap
snagged in a tree.
Widdershins is the order of the day,
index fingers pressed to lips
as we tip-toe round the graves,
sort of finding our stride
after an owl says something in the bell tower.
Cecil watches the porch in case of Satan,
ready with a silver closh
and hammer.
in matching snoods,
arpeggiating our twiggy digits
against our rough crescent chins,
the moon a dull hubcap
snagged in a tree.
Widdershins is the order of the day,
index fingers pressed to lips
as we tip-toe round the graves,
sort of finding our stride
after an owl says something in the bell tower.
Cecil watches the porch in case of Satan,
ready with a silver closh
and hammer.
#54: Electrical Fluctuations On Campus
So Jilly held up the long printout
like a roll of wallpaper, trying to show us
the plunge and lurch of the line on her graph.
'Something,' she announced, her eyes bulging,
'is emerging.'
We dismissed it, of course, even laughed a little
as they bundled her into the ambulance,
writhing and kicking.
It was only later, you know,
during the slow, caffeine drip nights of revision,
that we'd glance up at our lightbulbs,
catch them trilling,
like a moth wing.
like a roll of wallpaper, trying to show us
the plunge and lurch of the line on her graph.
'Something,' she announced, her eyes bulging,
'is emerging.'
We dismissed it, of course, even laughed a little
as they bundled her into the ambulance,
writhing and kicking.
It was only later, you know,
during the slow, caffeine drip nights of revision,
that we'd glance up at our lightbulbs,
catch them trilling,
like a moth wing.
#53: Crew Damnation Caller
He arrived with a sassy shave-and-a-haircut rap upon the door.
When he doffed his fedora you saw horn nubs he'd tried to hide
under tinsel, which had rather the opposite effect.
'Afternoon madam!' he exclaimed, and immediately began
demonstrating some sort of vacuum cleaner
that could also creosote a fence, or so
he claimed, smirking toothily while you squirmed.
Naturally, he hedged when you asked about payment.
Something about a contract, non-monetary,
tongue whipping about his lipless mouth,
toe-talons testing the crazy paving.
When he doffed his fedora you saw horn nubs he'd tried to hide
under tinsel, which had rather the opposite effect.
'Afternoon madam!' he exclaimed, and immediately began
demonstrating some sort of vacuum cleaner
that could also creosote a fence, or so
he claimed, smirking toothily while you squirmed.
Naturally, he hedged when you asked about payment.
Something about a contract, non-monetary,
tongue whipping about his lipless mouth,
toe-talons testing the crazy paving.
#52: The Gnat's Suitcase
She's never packed for a breakup before.
Underwear, she guesses,
a toothbrush. She's not good at this
at the best of times,
and it's not exactly roomy.
She folds in a spare pair of wings,
crushing them, but she's past caring.
She hasps it, bundles out the back door
before he gets home
in search of new ghosts.
Underwear, she guesses,
a toothbrush. She's not good at this
at the best of times,
and it's not exactly roomy.
She folds in a spare pair of wings,
crushing them, but she's past caring.
She hasps it, bundles out the back door
before he gets home
in search of new ghosts.
#51: To A Small Boy By The Carrots
Tug them up by the scruffs, child,
even as the farmer reloads.
For what is a harvest, but a grand purloining?
What are hands, if not for getting mucky?
Steal them in great armfuls,
heft them like sticks of dynamite,
run, with the taste of blood in your throat
as shot whizzes round your ears.
That's what a harvest is, child,
that's the meaning of fun.
even as the farmer reloads.
For what is a harvest, but a grand purloining?
What are hands, if not for getting mucky?
Steal them in great armfuls,
heft them like sticks of dynamite,
run, with the taste of blood in your throat
as shot whizzes round your ears.
That's what a harvest is, child,
that's the meaning of fun.
#50: Onions McLeod Has Been Rejected By Our Automated Approval System
So Onions waits in the airport lounge,
kicking his heels, playing Plants Vs Zombies
on his phone and imagining what his daughter
looks like now. Three years, stitched together
through a series of sun-bleached photographs
like a jerky flickbook, each frame
a whole month.
He plays the fruit machine each morning at 10,
buys a Tracker from the shop
and smiles at the lady, checks his texts.
Sometimes he stands, pig-nosed against the glass,
and watches planes refuel.
kicking his heels, playing Plants Vs Zombies
on his phone and imagining what his daughter
looks like now. Three years, stitched together
through a series of sun-bleached photographs
like a jerky flickbook, each frame
a whole month.
He plays the fruit machine each morning at 10,
buys a Tracker from the shop
and smiles at the lady, checks his texts.
Sometimes he stands, pig-nosed against the glass,
and watches planes refuel.
#49: Why The Hell Do I Agree To This?
Waking trouserless in a room caked with excrement
I wonder if the final drink was a mistake.
A quick call to Louis and we cook up a solution.
'Pretend it's an installation,' he suggests,
shrewd as ever. 'We'll invite the press
and have them review you - say it's a provocative piece
entitled "Fitzwilliam's Divorce". Haven't got a pen
handy, have you? Be good if you could do a sign -
nothing fancy, you understand. In fact, the more lo-fi
the better. Maybe write it with your left hand,
so it looks a bit crazy and unrestrained.'
Naturally, the plan went off without a hitch -
or so we thought. Next week, we saw the reviews -
damning as a chin smeared with chocolate.
I wonder if the final drink was a mistake.
A quick call to Louis and we cook up a solution.
'Pretend it's an installation,' he suggests,
shrewd as ever. 'We'll invite the press
and have them review you - say it's a provocative piece
entitled "Fitzwilliam's Divorce". Haven't got a pen
handy, have you? Be good if you could do a sign -
nothing fancy, you understand. In fact, the more lo-fi
the better. Maybe write it with your left hand,
so it looks a bit crazy and unrestrained.'
Naturally, the plan went off without a hitch -
or so we thought. Next week, we saw the reviews -
damning as a chin smeared with chocolate.
#48: The Day They Banned Football
Crowds gathered in stadia just as they always had,
driven by some muscle memory to herd and watch
fallow pitches. In time, weeds grew, breaking white lines
and adding some excitement. Wildlife moved in.
Cheers would go up when a hedgehog shuffled
towards the stand. Some favoured owls, hooting
through vuvuzelas. Occasionally, a fracas
would break out, say if a fieldmouse
was having a particularly good day
at the expense of, for instance, a jackdaw.
We had scarves made. We felt, you know,
like a community.
driven by some muscle memory to herd and watch
fallow pitches. In time, weeds grew, breaking white lines
and adding some excitement. Wildlife moved in.
Cheers would go up when a hedgehog shuffled
towards the stand. Some favoured owls, hooting
through vuvuzelas. Occasionally, a fracas
would break out, say if a fieldmouse
was having a particularly good day
at the expense of, for instance, a jackdaw.
We had scarves made. We felt, you know,
like a community.
#47: Pickled Walnuts
Rupert struggled with the lid,
just as he struggled with most things.
Inside, the walnuts seemed to be taunting him,
sloshing in black juice
like rotten asteroids.
'Just a tick!' he told the firing squad,
over-friendly, desperation creeping
into his voice as he grabbed a swatch
of his t-shirt and tried again,
veins standing out on his forehead,
brown teeth bared like a palisade.
just as he struggled with most things.
Inside, the walnuts seemed to be taunting him,
sloshing in black juice
like rotten asteroids.
'Just a tick!' he told the firing squad,
over-friendly, desperation creeping
into his voice as he grabbed a swatch
of his t-shirt and tried again,
veins standing out on his forehead,
brown teeth bared like a palisade.
#46: Wibbly Pig
Trotterless, it makes its way
down the promenade on a quartet of springs
kindly provided by the Stroud chapter
of the St Cuthbert's Benevolent Society
(albeit unsolicited).
It is happy,
that is to say,
happy as an atheist can get,
winking at children in their winter mittens,
saying hello to the florist.
It always reads its horoscopes
(a Gemini, natch)
and strains to make them fit.
Just a little magic, that's all it's asking for.
Something a little unusual.
down the promenade on a quartet of springs
kindly provided by the Stroud chapter
of the St Cuthbert's Benevolent Society
(albeit unsolicited).
It is happy,
that is to say,
happy as an atheist can get,
winking at children in their winter mittens,
saying hello to the florist.
It always reads its horoscopes
(a Gemini, natch)
and strains to make them fit.
Just a little magic, that's all it's asking for.
Something a little unusual.
#45: I Can See You Eddie
Struggling beneath the weight of a large concrete sombrero
I blend into the crowd.
He makes his way through a bazaar, buying incense,
artisan bread, an immersion heater,
a list that sings with semiotics.
I am writing so fast my pencil breaks.
Near the chancery, he unscrews a jar
and pours crickets into the cupped hands
of children, who run round the square,
plashing them into their faces
and shrieking with delight
until the clock strikes three
and the shelling begins.
I lose him somewhere amongst the shrapnel.
The clock detonates.
Crickets chirrup their approval.
I blend into the crowd.
He makes his way through a bazaar, buying incense,
artisan bread, an immersion heater,
a list that sings with semiotics.
I am writing so fast my pencil breaks.
Near the chancery, he unscrews a jar
and pours crickets into the cupped hands
of children, who run round the square,
plashing them into their faces
and shrieking with delight
until the clock strikes three
and the shelling begins.
I lose him somewhere amongst the shrapnel.
The clock detonates.
Crickets chirrup their approval.
#44: Wow. Road.
Jasper is manifestly unimpressed
with the strip of tarmac
leading straight from his queen-size
into the steaming catacombs of the Underworld.
We regard him, downcast, gutted
that fifteen years of hard work
elicits nothing more than a noncommittal grunt.
'But we thought you'd like it,'
says Pam, welling up but trying to hide it
by holding a copy of Horse And Hounds
in front of her eyes. 'You were always
singing that bloody song, you know:
"Highway to Hell... Highway to Hell..."'
She trails off sadly.
Jasper scratches his bald spot.
'No,' he says. 'That was Ian.'
with the strip of tarmac
leading straight from his queen-size
into the steaming catacombs of the Underworld.
We regard him, downcast, gutted
that fifteen years of hard work
elicits nothing more than a noncommittal grunt.
'But we thought you'd like it,'
says Pam, welling up but trying to hide it
by holding a copy of Horse And Hounds
in front of her eyes. 'You were always
singing that bloody song, you know:
"Highway to Hell... Highway to Hell..."'
She trails off sadly.
Jasper scratches his bald spot.
'No,' he says. 'That was Ian.'
#43: Bills And Moons
So you slit the envelope with a fish knife.
I like how you always use a utensil
to open letters - it is a brilliant affectation,
like a dayglo monocle,
or bowling an apple at people's shins
then yelling: 'Owzat!' and grinning.
It's a final demand.
Apparently we owe the energy company over
20 grand, which seems a bit steep.
You start to weep, the fish knife
slipping from your hands.
Then I check the signature.
'What's this? "love Bill"?'
We hear a laugh from outside the window.
Bill is in the street, chortling himself puce,
He has his trousers round his ankles,
red buttocks aimed at our faces
like a heat ray.
I like how you always use a utensil
to open letters - it is a brilliant affectation,
like a dayglo monocle,
or bowling an apple at people's shins
then yelling: 'Owzat!' and grinning.
It's a final demand.
Apparently we owe the energy company over
20 grand, which seems a bit steep.
You start to weep, the fish knife
slipping from your hands.
Then I check the signature.
'What's this? "love Bill"?'
We hear a laugh from outside the window.
Bill is in the street, chortling himself puce,
He has his trousers round his ankles,
red buttocks aimed at our faces
like a heat ray.
#42: The Lament Of The Velociraptor
Gnashing through vertebrae
into hot gut ropes, thudding sacs,
gristle clots and juice,
the velociraptor apprehended something
far off, like a blurred leg
in a photograph, a vague notion
that it would never lie purring
on a hearth rug, never know
the warm shackles of domesticity,
never feel a familiar palm
smooth its cranial ridge, cooing:
'Shh... good boy.'
Blood sluiced through its talons.
It went on eating.
into hot gut ropes, thudding sacs,
gristle clots and juice,
the velociraptor apprehended something
far off, like a blurred leg
in a photograph, a vague notion
that it would never lie purring
on a hearth rug, never know
the warm shackles of domesticity,
never feel a familiar palm
smooth its cranial ridge, cooing:
'Shh... good boy.'
Blood sluiced through its talons.
It went on eating.
#41: The Hermit's Sweetheart
Each night, he would boil kettlefuls
of water - gallons, dozens of the things,
sat on gas rings or plugged in, guggling.
He doesn't expect you to understand.
That's why he lived alone - to get far enough
from the sad gravity of having to explain
your proclivities to people who really
would prefer him to stop, even though
this little ritual makes him happy.
Each night, he'd do it, and listen
to them singing. One man, alone,
his kitchen full of steam.
of water - gallons, dozens of the things,
sat on gas rings or plugged in, guggling.
He doesn't expect you to understand.
That's why he lived alone - to get far enough
from the sad gravity of having to explain
your proclivities to people who really
would prefer him to stop, even though
this little ritual makes him happy.
Each night, he'd do it, and listen
to them singing. One man, alone,
his kitchen full of steam.
#40: Beer For My Horses?
They clop into a backroom
and sit round the table nearest the dartboard.
When I go to get a round in
the barmaid says: 'Look, we don't want any trouble.'
'Then don't fall on us in a frenzy of stabbing
and phlegmy recriminations,' I counter,
slapping down a twenty pound note.
'Also, they've asked me to tell you:
please don't do the joke.'
'What joke?' she says, and I feel my face scrunch
like a stress ball. The bar clock
ticks like a deathwatch beetle.
'We've just come from a funeral,' I say.
'So please - have some bloody respect.'
and sit round the table nearest the dartboard.
When I go to get a round in
the barmaid says: 'Look, we don't want any trouble.'
'Then don't fall on us in a frenzy of stabbing
and phlegmy recriminations,' I counter,
slapping down a twenty pound note.
'Also, they've asked me to tell you:
please don't do the joke.'
'What joke?' she says, and I feel my face scrunch
like a stress ball. The bar clock
ticks like a deathwatch beetle.
'We've just come from a funeral,' I say.
'So please - have some bloody respect.'
#39: How To Write Whilst Being Hung Upside Down In A Dungeon
The first thing you need to understand
is that I am hanging upside down in a dungeon.
I know Barthes' Death of the Author and all that,
but still, it informs my work
in several important ways.
The current piece I'm working on
is called 'HELP'. It's the word 'help'
written in excrement on the stone wall.
It is very damp down here - at night
the wall runs with moisture
and washes my work away. I am
making a statement about impermanence,
I suppose, or trying
to get help. I guess
it's not for me to say.
is that I am hanging upside down in a dungeon.
I know Barthes' Death of the Author and all that,
but still, it informs my work
in several important ways.
The current piece I'm working on
is called 'HELP'. It's the word 'help'
written in excrement on the stone wall.
It is very damp down here - at night
the wall runs with moisture
and washes my work away. I am
making a statement about impermanence,
I suppose, or trying
to get help. I guess
it's not for me to say.
#38: Mother Where Did You Put All My Lego?
I rap smartly
on the lid of her coffin
and repeat my question:
'Mother? I can't find my Lego
and I've a gite to build by Wednesday.
Where on Earth did you move it to?
Sixty buckets!' I am becoming shrill.
'Colour coded! But oh no,
you said I needed to get a "real job".
Well who's got the last laugh now, eh?
Who's chortling today, you
dead, dead, dead, dead
WHORE!' my fist punching through
the coffin lid, black bricks scattering
across the church floor.
on the lid of her coffin
and repeat my question:
'Mother? I can't find my Lego
and I've a gite to build by Wednesday.
Where on Earth did you move it to?
Sixty buckets!' I am becoming shrill.
'Colour coded! But oh no,
you said I needed to get a "real job".
Well who's got the last laugh now, eh?
Who's chortling today, you
dead, dead, dead, dead
WHORE!' my fist punching through
the coffin lid, black bricks scattering
across the church floor.
#37: Questions For Monkeys
'Where are you going with that lump hammer?'
I signed pettishly. Of course, I knew the answer.
The chimp's face had been pressed to the glass
for the best part of a week, now, glaring out
the window at Mr Prenderghast's pumpkins next door,
now coming into season and ripe as knives.
'Don't you want to maintain a level of integrity
with yourself, Martin?' the only noise
the click-slap of my hands bumping together
forming words. 'What use is a rosette
if it's come by nefariously?'
Martin hung his head. 'Come on, Marty,'
I signed. 'You're better than this.
Let's have some squash.'
I signed pettishly. Of course, I knew the answer.
The chimp's face had been pressed to the glass
for the best part of a week, now, glaring out
the window at Mr Prenderghast's pumpkins next door,
now coming into season and ripe as knives.
'Don't you want to maintain a level of integrity
with yourself, Martin?' the only noise
the click-slap of my hands bumping together
forming words. 'What use is a rosette
if it's come by nefariously?'
Martin hung his head. 'Come on, Marty,'
I signed. 'You're better than this.
Let's have some squash.'
#36: Bluebeard's Bedsit
Of course there's a room you mustn't enter -
well, less a room, more the cupboard
under the sink. He explains: 'It's minging
in there,' adding an apologetic shrug,
before heading out 'to see a man
about a dog.'
So you sit and watch Come Dine With Me,
which this week is good. You flick through
a copy of Gravity's Rainbow
and pretend to yourself that you're enjoying it.
You send him a text: 'Bored!!! Miss you xx x'
The picture on your phone is of you, wearing his beard
like a frightwig,
both of you giggling.
You don't look under the sink.
You don't even peek at his messages
when you use his laptop to go on Facebook
and find he's still logged in.
well, less a room, more the cupboard
under the sink. He explains: 'It's minging
in there,' adding an apologetic shrug,
before heading out 'to see a man
about a dog.'
So you sit and watch Come Dine With Me,
which this week is good. You flick through
a copy of Gravity's Rainbow
and pretend to yourself that you're enjoying it.
You send him a text: 'Bored!!! Miss you xx x'
The picture on your phone is of you, wearing his beard
like a frightwig,
both of you giggling.
You don't look under the sink.
You don't even peek at his messages
when you use his laptop to go on Facebook
and find he's still logged in.
#35: What I Had For My Breakfast
Perspiration rolls down the tea urn
as he fries bacon in the snow.
Some sort of coded exchange takes place
between the beans, and a spitting sausage.
A regular patron tugs off her wool hat,
balls it up, and pushes it into an open bap.
'No margarine thanks,' says a seagull,
pecking at yesterday's crossword
while he waits for a burger.
There are lines you learn not to cross.
We talk about football, Tuesdays,
the weather.
as he fries bacon in the snow.
Some sort of coded exchange takes place
between the beans, and a spitting sausage.
A regular patron tugs off her wool hat,
balls it up, and pushes it into an open bap.
'No margarine thanks,' says a seagull,
pecking at yesterday's crossword
while he waits for a burger.
There are lines you learn not to cross.
We talk about football, Tuesdays,
the weather.
#34: Paddy's Big Adventure
Paddy rolled a doobie big as a bottle of Yop
then set off in search of Truth,
his only companion a walking stick
with a compass set into the top.
Fifteen minutes later, he'd found it,
underneath the flowerpot by the back door.
It looked sad as a cowpat, or a grot
of toothpaste spat out at a campsite.
Paddy sighed and tugged on his massive spliff.
Some things, the world just isn't ready to hear.
then set off in search of Truth,
his only companion a walking stick
with a compass set into the top.
Fifteen minutes later, he'd found it,
underneath the flowerpot by the back door.
It looked sad as a cowpat, or a grot
of toothpaste spat out at a campsite.
Paddy sighed and tugged on his massive spliff.
Some things, the world just isn't ready to hear.
#33: Overrated Turnstiles
The stadium is empty as a bread basket,
athletes performing to stands populated only
by a few crumpled chip wrappers
that turn and scrape in the stale, wafting breeze.
But by the gates, we are hundreds deep,
clamouring for a go through those revolving gates
we've heard so much about.
One man says he gained the power of karate
after just one spin, another, that she grew
an extra set of knees, so now her legs
fold up like a rope ladder. Lights
flash with every revolution,
as people pass through, a little electronic device
plays an instrumental version of
Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.
'Five stars,' says my mate Stanley, rubbing his palms
in the crisp evening air. 'This better be worth it.'
athletes performing to stands populated only
by a few crumpled chip wrappers
that turn and scrape in the stale, wafting breeze.
But by the gates, we are hundreds deep,
clamouring for a go through those revolving gates
we've heard so much about.
One man says he gained the power of karate
after just one spin, another, that she grew
an extra set of knees, so now her legs
fold up like a rope ladder. Lights
flash with every revolution,
as people pass through, a little electronic device
plays an instrumental version of
Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.
'Five stars,' says my mate Stanley, rubbing his palms
in the crisp evening air. 'This better be worth it.'
#32: Feast Upon These Indications
Some sort of haruspex, she claimed she was,
digging through skull-guts for a glimpse into tomorrow.
A quick circuit with the bonesaw, yes,
then she'd lift your head lid, have a poke round,
and soft prognostications would sort of
'come to her', she said.
'I see a whale
straining to rise through a trapdoor
too small for it,' she said.
Bigger trapdoor, I wrote down, enraptured.
'Your denials emerge from a face
smeared with jam.'
Clean face, I wrote.
'A crab sidesteps through your life
at the worst possible time.'
Kill crabs on sight.
digging through skull-guts for a glimpse into tomorrow.
A quick circuit with the bonesaw, yes,
then she'd lift your head lid, have a poke round,
and soft prognostications would sort of
'come to her', she said.
'I see a whale
straining to rise through a trapdoor
too small for it,' she said.
Bigger trapdoor, I wrote down, enraptured.
'Your denials emerge from a face
smeared with jam.'
Clean face, I wrote.
'A crab sidesteps through your life
at the worst possible time.'
Kill crabs on sight.
#31: Blurton Surprise
Lord Blurton rose from the bushes and mustard plants
armed with a flintlock and a bellicose temprament
that was legendary, owing to heriditary indigestion
and a diet that consisted almost entirely of meat.
Indeed, even as he took aim, the remains of a woodpigeon
hung from a slack corner of his gob,
the side where he'd had the stroke after seeing proof
of his eldest son's clandestine Whiggery.
'Jeremy my boy, this is goodbye,' he told his heir,
and squeezed the trigger. Jeremy took the lead ball
square in the throat. He dropped, clucking like a peacock,
while his father chomped some goose.
armed with a flintlock and a bellicose temprament
that was legendary, owing to heriditary indigestion
and a diet that consisted almost entirely of meat.
Indeed, even as he took aim, the remains of a woodpigeon
hung from a slack corner of his gob,
the side where he'd had the stroke after seeing proof
of his eldest son's clandestine Whiggery.
'Jeremy my boy, this is goodbye,' he told his heir,
and squeezed the trigger. Jeremy took the lead ball
square in the throat. He dropped, clucking like a peacock,
while his father chomped some goose.
#30: Back-Up Complete
So Terry downloaded his entire personality into a car.
That was his plan, and that was what he did.
The car was a high-quality, new car - the best
he could afford. Well, he reasoned,
if I'm going to be a car for the rest of my life,
I may as well do it with a bit of panache.
So Terry was a car and he drove about as a car,
mostly doing what he normally did, occasionally
appearing on talk shows, where hosts asked him
what it was like being a car,
genially patting his bonnet, which he found patronising,
but let slide. After all, it was easy to hide
his irritation, because he was a car.
At night, he nuzzled up against his old double-bed
and dreamt odd, slanted dreams, where oil paintings
came to life, and pebbles rolled uphill.
That was his plan, and that was what he did.
The car was a high-quality, new car - the best
he could afford. Well, he reasoned,
if I'm going to be a car for the rest of my life,
I may as well do it with a bit of panache.
So Terry was a car and he drove about as a car,
mostly doing what he normally did, occasionally
appearing on talk shows, where hosts asked him
what it was like being a car,
genially patting his bonnet, which he found patronising,
but let slide. After all, it was easy to hide
his irritation, because he was a car.
At night, he nuzzled up against his old double-bed
and dreamt odd, slanted dreams, where oil paintings
came to life, and pebbles rolled uphill.
#29: A Friend Is Staying
Prinking while the first charges detonate,
you wonder vaguely
if they have anything to do with Suki.
Next, the door to your bedroom blows out
like a paper hoop.
Suki enters,
bolshy as a pterodactyl in an arboretum,
wearing a sooty grin and brandishing
fistfuls of cankerworms.
'Here's for thy pains!' she chortles,
flinging them at the back of your head.
Suki is good-natured but poor
at gauging the mood.
Caterpillars go down the back of your blouse.
There are two in the cold cream.
More explosions. The room crunches, heels.
you wonder vaguely
if they have anything to do with Suki.
Next, the door to your bedroom blows out
like a paper hoop.
Suki enters,
bolshy as a pterodactyl in an arboretum,
wearing a sooty grin and brandishing
fistfuls of cankerworms.
'Here's for thy pains!' she chortles,
flinging them at the back of your head.
Suki is good-natured but poor
at gauging the mood.
Caterpillars go down the back of your blouse.
There are two in the cold cream.
More explosions. The room crunches, heels.
#28: Milking It
Malc held the gunshot wound
the way people hold a kitten
in photos on Facebook.
On Facebook, he tagged
the ragged mess 'Gunshot Wound'
in an album called 'Ouch!'
Eyes rolled like golem cogs.
That night, at the pub,
he was still clutching it,
wads of gauze
as pink and limp as raw bacon.
'Fancy another one?' Chris said.
'No thanks,' Malc went,
'on account of my getting shot this morning,'
and we all shared a meaningful look.
the way people hold a kitten
in photos on Facebook.
On Facebook, he tagged
the ragged mess 'Gunshot Wound'
in an album called 'Ouch!'
Eyes rolled like golem cogs.
That night, at the pub,
he was still clutching it,
wads of gauze
as pink and limp as raw bacon.
'Fancy another one?' Chris said.
'No thanks,' Malc went,
'on account of my getting shot this morning,'
and we all shared a meaningful look.
#27: Swaption
You return home to find your husband
has been replaced by a capering monkey.
It immediately takes your hat
and leaves a warm tortilla in its place.
Later you discover the monkey upstairs,
brachiating across the timbered ceiling
with a look of manic glee, chirruping
the way chaffinches used to at your window
before they were replaced by the cat
with the notch missing from its nose.
You swap your tea for scotch and water
and the water for more scotch.
Your hat looks good on the monkey.
Sort of regal.
has been replaced by a capering monkey.
It immediately takes your hat
and leaves a warm tortilla in its place.
Later you discover the monkey upstairs,
brachiating across the timbered ceiling
with a look of manic glee, chirruping
the way chaffinches used to at your window
before they were replaced by the cat
with the notch missing from its nose.
You swap your tea for scotch and water
and the water for more scotch.
Your hat looks good on the monkey.
Sort of regal.
#26: How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Bong
Gliding into work in a stolen canoe,
I am easy as crisps.
I huff smoke through floodwater,
offer my bong to a duck
bobbing sanguine behind the half-submerged desk
in reception. It does not even quack.
There is a lesson in this.
I phone my boss from the fifth floor
and ask him where he is.
Rain hammers through smashed windows.
'What the hell are you doing there?'
he says, and I laugh.
He tells me to make for the roof
and wave to the passing helicopters.
I say okay, hang up, then eat some fruit gums.
Outside, waves lap round parking meters
which seems funny, for some reason.
I am easy as crisps.
I huff smoke through floodwater,
offer my bong to a duck
bobbing sanguine behind the half-submerged desk
in reception. It does not even quack.
There is a lesson in this.
I phone my boss from the fifth floor
and ask him where he is.
Rain hammers through smashed windows.
'What the hell are you doing there?'
he says, and I laugh.
He tells me to make for the roof
and wave to the passing helicopters.
I say okay, hang up, then eat some fruit gums.
Outside, waves lap round parking meters
which seems funny, for some reason.
#25: Monday Night At Yarmouth Dogs
Greyhounds take the curve in a spray
of damp sand the colour of mustard.
A man presses his belly to the barrier,
dreaming of Christmas.
By 9pm, the chalkboards shine with hieroglyphs.
Dogs' names become entries
from an abandoned to-do list:
Friday Climbdown 5/1
Consolation Hug 3/2
Slowdance odds on favourite
You approach the man most like a blowfish
and put twenty years on
Atheist Cake,
because you saw him weeing.
of damp sand the colour of mustard.
A man presses his belly to the barrier,
dreaming of Christmas.
By 9pm, the chalkboards shine with hieroglyphs.
Dogs' names become entries
from an abandoned to-do list:
Friday Climbdown 5/1
Consolation Hug 3/2
Slowdance odds on favourite
You approach the man most like a blowfish
and put twenty years on
Atheist Cake,
because you saw him weeing.
#24: Still No Word From Mirelda
Sammy dials through the frequencies,
one hand cupping his headphones to his ear.
'She's been in there too long,' he mutters,
'I don't like it.' The van is heaped
with cables and listening equipment.
I am sipping a Starbucks latte and watching Sam,
who is guiding Mirelda through her cheeky little reconnoitre
into the wet belly of Hell.
She's meant to be pinching a fang out the crimson head
of Satan himself - we need it
to win the scavenger hunt. 'Mirelda?
Do you read me? Come in. Over.'
Sam has maps spread out in front of him.
I spilled coffee on one and he's not even noticed.
one hand cupping his headphones to his ear.
'She's been in there too long,' he mutters,
'I don't like it.' The van is heaped
with cables and listening equipment.
I am sipping a Starbucks latte and watching Sam,
who is guiding Mirelda through her cheeky little reconnoitre
into the wet belly of Hell.
She's meant to be pinching a fang out the crimson head
of Satan himself - we need it
to win the scavenger hunt. 'Mirelda?
Do you read me? Come in. Over.'
Sam has maps spread out in front of him.
I spilled coffee on one and he's not even noticed.
#23: It Failed Me, It's Burning
My doom machine crumples in on itself.
Doesn't matter what it is -
it might be a nuclear-powered colossus
straddling the Seine
while swiping at biplanes,
a hypno-cannon pointing at the Sun,
dozens of children trapped in sepia
and screaming at the seaside,
a virus that turns conversation sour,
some huge memory,
pushing its way backwards through time,
displacing grandparents, award ceremonies,
Tremors and City Slickers,
working its way towards the French Revolution
and a glowing prize locked in the Bastille.
Sparks dance across the console
as monitors cut one by one to snow.
I pull a remote control from my coat pocket,
and activate my backup plan.
Doesn't matter what it is -
it might be a nuclear-powered colossus
straddling the Seine
while swiping at biplanes,
a hypno-cannon pointing at the Sun,
dozens of children trapped in sepia
and screaming at the seaside,
a virus that turns conversation sour,
some huge memory,
pushing its way backwards through time,
displacing grandparents, award ceremonies,
Tremors and City Slickers,
working its way towards the French Revolution
and a glowing prize locked in the Bastille.
Sparks dance across the console
as monitors cut one by one to snow.
I pull a remote control from my coat pocket,
and activate my backup plan.
#22: The Cheese Toastie Incident
Elspeth was hardly one for rules.
She returned to fireworks once they had been lit
smiling blithely as they went off in her golden face,
brushed off sell-by dates like the hollow portents
of toilet door graffiti,
rushed through customs hiding huge gourds of hair gel,
butterfly knives disguised as hair slides,
muttering chainsaws tucked up her skirts.
She treated an advent calendar like a chocolate box,
time travelling round December, gobbling
cocoa bells, ribbons, ripping down doors.
But when Adam, oh bland Adam,
sat facing her in the café,
prised open his fresh toastie with a knife
and squirted in brown sauce,
she turned over tables like Jesus.
Some things are sacred.
She returned to fireworks once they had been lit
smiling blithely as they went off in her golden face,
brushed off sell-by dates like the hollow portents
of toilet door graffiti,
rushed through customs hiding huge gourds of hair gel,
butterfly knives disguised as hair slides,
muttering chainsaws tucked up her skirts.
She treated an advent calendar like a chocolate box,
time travelling round December, gobbling
cocoa bells, ribbons, ripping down doors.
But when Adam, oh bland Adam,
sat facing her in the café,
prised open his fresh toastie with a knife
and squirted in brown sauce,
she turned over tables like Jesus.
Some things are sacred.
#21: Reasons Why He Should Die
Melinda stands on an upturned bathtub
with lion's paw feet, addressing the crowd
in her waistcoat and maroon silk tie,
canny as ever.
'One, he parades his peccadilloes like carnival ducks,'
she announces, holding her palm out flat
as if presenting a tempting platter,
'two, he unhinges his jaw at night and stores it
beneath his pillow, where it has quite pedestrian dreams
of women in colourless raincoats and baskets of coins.
'Three,' she tugs at her tie like a noose,
'he has never rattled a stick along black railings.
It would never occur to him.'
Gasps.
'Four, he made cards for us all, scissors
gnashing late into the night. He loves us,
despite our indifference.'
with lion's paw feet, addressing the crowd
in her waistcoat and maroon silk tie,
canny as ever.
'One, he parades his peccadilloes like carnival ducks,'
she announces, holding her palm out flat
as if presenting a tempting platter,
'two, he unhinges his jaw at night and stores it
beneath his pillow, where it has quite pedestrian dreams
of women in colourless raincoats and baskets of coins.
'Three,' she tugs at her tie like a noose,
'he has never rattled a stick along black railings.
It would never occur to him.'
Gasps.
'Four, he made cards for us all, scissors
gnashing late into the night. He loves us,
despite our indifference.'
#20: Water In My Pockets
Strolling from a lake
without even stopping to brush
the pondweed from your shoulders:
this is the definition of suave.
I address the chairman with an easy smile,
extending my wet palm:
'Ah, Mr Fitzwilliam! So glad
we've run into each other!'
he, frozen in the act of threading
a worm onto his hook.
'Now about the Salisbury account...'
I unlock my briefcase,
dumping lakewater, documents,
bream.
without even stopping to brush
the pondweed from your shoulders:
this is the definition of suave.
I address the chairman with an easy smile,
extending my wet palm:
'Ah, Mr Fitzwilliam! So glad
we've run into each other!'
he, frozen in the act of threading
a worm onto his hook.
'Now about the Salisbury account...'
I unlock my briefcase,
dumping lakewater, documents,
bream.
#19: Goat Hell Peninsula
Wracked with guilty grief I drove the old
Triumph Dolomite down to the cliffs.
To be honest, I had half a mind
to park it on the edge, release the handbrake
then push it off, if the mists were right.
That night, the coast was like
layers of torn wallpaper, like
a spare room for a baby that never arrived.
I parked up, stepped out
with my windcheater pulled high round my cheeks.
The grass was squall-damp and lush.
Then I heard it -
through the mist, I heard it,
the lank thud of clappers
corroded in the saline currents of the Styx,
the hiss of wet grass under mouldering hooves,
vengeful braying.
'You did this,' I heard them saying.
No ifs.
No butts.
Triumph Dolomite down to the cliffs.
To be honest, I had half a mind
to park it on the edge, release the handbrake
then push it off, if the mists were right.
That night, the coast was like
layers of torn wallpaper, like
a spare room for a baby that never arrived.
I parked up, stepped out
with my windcheater pulled high round my cheeks.
The grass was squall-damp and lush.
Then I heard it -
through the mist, I heard it,
the lank thud of clappers
corroded in the saline currents of the Styx,
the hiss of wet grass under mouldering hooves,
vengeful braying.
'You did this,' I heard them saying.
No ifs.
No butts.
#18: Upper Lip
Jonathan finds the morgue relaxing.
He sits in a cool corner reading
Dan Brown, eating egg and cress sandwiches
from a zip-loc bag.
The blue cadavers are filed away in drawers
like title deeds. Sometimes they died
in bed, dreaming of windmills;
once, it was a girl who caught her mousy hair
in the drain of a swimming pool.
Each night, just gone one,
he finds a new corpse, and (he does not know why)
slips a pound coin under its tongue.
He sits in a cool corner reading
Dan Brown, eating egg and cress sandwiches
from a zip-loc bag.
The blue cadavers are filed away in drawers
like title deeds. Sometimes they died
in bed, dreaming of windmills;
once, it was a girl who caught her mousy hair
in the drain of a swimming pool.
Each night, just gone one,
he finds a new corpse, and (he does not know why)
slips a pound coin under its tongue.
#17: The Unemployed Hangman
He sits on a park bench, glum as a duck,
meaty hand holding an empty noose.
An old lady in a green duffel coat approaches him.
'Oh, what's wrong?' she coos. 'Have you
lost your dog?' His stubbled head lifts
like a boulder rolling back.
'Something like that.'
He heaves a sigh.
'Well, I'll be sure to keep an eye out, dear.
My dog ran off just last year.
He can be ever so naughty.'
The man's face brightens.
'How naughty?' he says,
fingering his rope.
meaty hand holding an empty noose.
An old lady in a green duffel coat approaches him.
'Oh, what's wrong?' she coos. 'Have you
lost your dog?' His stubbled head lifts
like a boulder rolling back.
'Something like that.'
He heaves a sigh.
'Well, I'll be sure to keep an eye out, dear.
My dog ran off just last year.
He can be ever so naughty.'
The man's face brightens.
'How naughty?' he says,
fingering his rope.
#16: Her Teeth Were Stained But Her Heart Was Pure
Her teeth were stained but her heart was pure
Her pipes had burst but her tea was hot
Her mail was red but the sky was pink
Her phone was cut but her wrists were not
Her tea was pure but her mail was stained
Her pipes were pink but her heart was lead
Her sky was cut but her phone was hot
Her teeth were pure but her wrists were red
Her pipes had burst but her tea was hot
Her mail was red but the sky was pink
Her phone was cut but her wrists were not
Her tea was pure but her mail was stained
Her pipes were pink but her heart was lead
Her sky was cut but her phone was hot
Her teeth were pure but her wrists were red
#15: Concertina District
Gusseted skyscrapers sink and rise
in honking cacophony, collapsing like telescopes
then telescoping like ladders -
a song, they call it,
note trampling note,
heaped and scrambling over each other
like mice in a bran bin.
Windows yawn wide then crunch shut
like eyes; letterboxes
hoot like train whistles;
fog horn tones sound from sewer pipes.
Here, they say the street is stretched
tight as a trampoline skin.
A car sounds its horn,
but its mouth is full of water.
in honking cacophony, collapsing like telescopes
then telescoping like ladders -
a song, they call it,
note trampling note,
heaped and scrambling over each other
like mice in a bran bin.
Windows yawn wide then crunch shut
like eyes; letterboxes
hoot like train whistles;
fog horn tones sound from sewer pipes.
Here, they say the street is stretched
tight as a trampoline skin.
A car sounds its horn,
but its mouth is full of water.
#14: Hot Chocolate In Alaska
We'll heat milk over a little gas stove
that takes ages to light,
while behind us a derrick thrums gentle
as a purring cat.
Opening a bag of marshmallows in mittens
is hard, I imagine,
but I will do it for you,
because I want everything to be special,
and even if the bag splits and they go everywhere
we'll laugh about it and pick them up,
dusted with snow, because we're in Alaska,
drinking hot chocolate
and the air is tangy with oil.
that takes ages to light,
while behind us a derrick thrums gentle
as a purring cat.
Opening a bag of marshmallows in mittens
is hard, I imagine,
but I will do it for you,
because I want everything to be special,
and even if the bag splits and they go everywhere
we'll laugh about it and pick them up,
dusted with snow, because we're in Alaska,
drinking hot chocolate
and the air is tangy with oil.
#13: Easel Sadness
Adjusting his beret,
the painter gave a flamboyant sigh
and kissed his painting of a wife.
Catching his reflection in the window,
he saw the streaks of red and yellow
on his smock
and reflected
that he looked rather like a baby
after breakfast time.
Then he realised
he was looking at a painting of a baby
and the window was behind him.
the painter gave a flamboyant sigh
and kissed his painting of a wife.
Catching his reflection in the window,
he saw the streaks of red and yellow
on his smock
and reflected
that he looked rather like a baby
after breakfast time.
Then he realised
he was looking at a painting of a baby
and the window was behind him.
#12: Grass As Sharp As Knives
Kenneth leans from the side of the trailer with his scythe,
slashing at poppy heads
as we drive farther and farther from home.
Down a rutted track, mud baked into hard gullies,
branches hang like hag's noses. Many trees
look as if they've been exploded from the inside.
We pass a water jug back and forth between us.
The gears creak like a forced joke
and as we pass the dead pond
Ken beheads a hare in one, clean stroke.
Hay bales burn in the distance.
Something in the sunrise reminds me of Christmas.
slashing at poppy heads
as we drive farther and farther from home.
Down a rutted track, mud baked into hard gullies,
branches hang like hag's noses. Many trees
look as if they've been exploded from the inside.
We pass a water jug back and forth between us.
The gears creak like a forced joke
and as we pass the dead pond
Ken beheads a hare in one, clean stroke.
Hay bales burn in the distance.
Something in the sunrise reminds me of Christmas.
#11: The Futility Of Sobriety
I stagger into the office
haggard with reality.
Newspaper headlines are crisp
as tattoos; pie charts commit
themselves to memory, each
florid tranche refusing to budge
no matter how many cups of tepid
fruit juice I sink.
Coffee gives me the kind of startle reflex
that will only be useful
come the zombie apocalypse,
or in some kind of competition.
The copier boy calls me
'ginless wonder' and takes a golden slug
of Teachers thirstily, slipping me a grin
and licking his thin, mauve lips.
Nobody thanks me.
On the bus home,
the road is one, long cattle grid.
haggard with reality.
Newspaper headlines are crisp
as tattoos; pie charts commit
themselves to memory, each
florid tranche refusing to budge
no matter how many cups of tepid
fruit juice I sink.
Coffee gives me the kind of startle reflex
that will only be useful
come the zombie apocalypse,
or in some kind of competition.
The copier boy calls me
'ginless wonder' and takes a golden slug
of Teachers thirstily, slipping me a grin
and licking his thin, mauve lips.
Nobody thanks me.
On the bus home,
the road is one, long cattle grid.
#10: Our Old Friend Bill
Something pounds the cottage door at 3am.
We stagger down, you in your towel dressing gown,
me a few paces back, clutching a poker.
'Hello?' you call.
French wind soughs through the drenched forest.
A familiar laugh.
A brass key fumble later and in he crashes:
'Ha ha! Salut! Salut!
Garlic flans for all!'
his arms heavy with pie dishes.
'Bill? What the hell are you doing here?
How did you find-' but already
he's bustling in, pouring himself a sherry
and firing up the wood stove.
'Et pour madame...' he bows obsequiously,
then pretends to whip a nosegay
of paper flowers from his derriere,
and you - you silently, wonderfully,
begin to weep.
We stagger down, you in your towel dressing gown,
me a few paces back, clutching a poker.
'Hello?' you call.
French wind soughs through the drenched forest.
A familiar laugh.
A brass key fumble later and in he crashes:
'Ha ha! Salut! Salut!
Garlic flans for all!'
his arms heavy with pie dishes.
'Bill? What the hell are you doing here?
How did you find-' but already
he's bustling in, pouring himself a sherry
and firing up the wood stove.
'Et pour madame...' he bows obsequiously,
then pretends to whip a nosegay
of paper flowers from his derriere,
and you - you silently, wonderfully,
begin to weep.
#9: The Red Man
On the banks of the firelake
fiends bask like waterproof cats.
Satan himself sits warming
the red mosaic of his belly,
a pitchfork gripped in his palms
like a fishing rod.
He is toasting a living head.
Its jaw works silently, skin blistering,
eyes drooling like marshmallows.
Hell is clement, quiet.
fiends bask like waterproof cats.
Satan himself sits warming
the red mosaic of his belly,
a pitchfork gripped in his palms
like a fishing rod.
He is toasting a living head.
Its jaw works silently, skin blistering,
eyes drooling like marshmallows.
Hell is clement, quiet.
#8: Pay Me In Cheese
Swordfighting on a burning zeppelin,
I feel happy as the men
in adverts.
I have a briefcase full of stolen plans
and a bite radius like a bin van.
Life is beautiful because all my enemies
wear gas masks. I run them through
while saying 'Huzzah!'
which makes me feel a little like God.
Surface-to-air missiles ignite the gondola
with a soft effect, the sound
of a tablecloth unfurling.
I am already falling to Earth,
full of trajectory.
London, I am your silverware.
I feel happy as the men
in adverts.
I have a briefcase full of stolen plans
and a bite radius like a bin van.
Life is beautiful because all my enemies
wear gas masks. I run them through
while saying 'Huzzah!'
which makes me feel a little like God.
Surface-to-air missiles ignite the gondola
with a soft effect, the sound
of a tablecloth unfurling.
I am already falling to Earth,
full of trajectory.
London, I am your silverware.
#7: Howard For Hire
'Right, so I need you to take this dung
and sculpt it into some kind of charming manse,'
says the rector, gesturing
with his one giant hand
at balding foothills of excrement.
'Three bedrooms, a scullery,
and a golden retriever on the red tiles
of the kitchen floor,
who always looks like he's smiling.
Turnips? Yes. Five,
with the little wispy bits at the bottom.'
Howard removes his circular spectacles
and wipes them on the hem
of his apron.
'If I'm honest, this might be a bit ambitious
for me to tackle all on my own.'
'Nonsense!' chuckles the rector,
and deals him a slap on the back
so powerful, he goes barrelling into the task
face-first.
and sculpt it into some kind of charming manse,'
says the rector, gesturing
with his one giant hand
at balding foothills of excrement.
'Three bedrooms, a scullery,
and a golden retriever on the red tiles
of the kitchen floor,
who always looks like he's smiling.
Turnips? Yes. Five,
with the little wispy bits at the bottom.'
Howard removes his circular spectacles
and wipes them on the hem
of his apron.
'If I'm honest, this might be a bit ambitious
for me to tackle all on my own.'
'Nonsense!' chuckles the rector,
and deals him a slap on the back
so powerful, he goes barrelling into the task
face-first.
#6: Spelunking With Some of My Favourite Singer Songwriters
I am just setting up my camera
to take a shot of a wooden stemple
that must date back to when these were lead mines
when Elvis Costello makes a short,
indistinct noise from behind me.
I turn and catch his torch beam
full in the eyes.
'Hey!' I say, shielding my face.
As my vision adjusts,
I see that several thousand years
of calcium deposits have built up
around his left arm,
trapping him in the wall
like a spider in a bar of soap.
A stalactite hangs from his nose and chin
like an ice beard.
Art Garfunkel stops blasting for diamonds
and lifts his goggles.
'Oh Declan,' he chuckles,
'not again!'
to take a shot of a wooden stemple
that must date back to when these were lead mines
when Elvis Costello makes a short,
indistinct noise from behind me.
I turn and catch his torch beam
full in the eyes.
'Hey!' I say, shielding my face.
As my vision adjusts,
I see that several thousand years
of calcium deposits have built up
around his left arm,
trapping him in the wall
like a spider in a bar of soap.
A stalactite hangs from his nose and chin
like an ice beard.
Art Garfunkel stops blasting for diamonds
and lifts his goggles.
'Oh Declan,' he chuckles,
'not again!'
#5: All Trends Destroy Me
I hustle down clockwork highstreets
past people slapping and haranguing
saddled boars.
They look down on me
because I refuse to ride a pig
to work.
'Bloody hipster,' I hear one hiss,
when he thinks I'm out of earshot.
He scowls and tugs at leather reins,
his hog's head deep
in a barrow of spoiled cabbages.
Pigs do not 'oink' - this is a myth.
But there are grunts and squeals aplenty
as I weave between bristled flanks,
take a right down Cribb St
then pull up at the office,
tethering my ostrich
to a silver birch by the carp pond.
past people slapping and haranguing
saddled boars.
They look down on me
because I refuse to ride a pig
to work.
'Bloody hipster,' I hear one hiss,
when he thinks I'm out of earshot.
He scowls and tugs at leather reins,
his hog's head deep
in a barrow of spoiled cabbages.
Pigs do not 'oink' - this is a myth.
But there are grunts and squeals aplenty
as I weave between bristled flanks,
take a right down Cribb St
then pull up at the office,
tethering my ostrich
to a silver birch by the carp pond.
#4: The Bank Robbers Who Were Also In Love
Ferdy always wore a mask.
Counting banknotes, he looked
at the Queen's face and said,
in a sad, dry voice:
'I wish they gave her different expressions.
You know, like her eyelids could be at various heights,
in some she could be smiling,
pouting, blowing
a kiss. Then,' he brandished
a wad of tens like a bookie,
'when bank tellers counted them,
they would be like a flickbook,
her majesty winking, and so on.'
I blew on my coffee.
Outside, snow was pollinating everything.
'We should go to France,'
I said.
Counting banknotes, he looked
at the Queen's face and said,
in a sad, dry voice:
'I wish they gave her different expressions.
You know, like her eyelids could be at various heights,
in some she could be smiling,
pouting, blowing
a kiss. Then,' he brandished
a wad of tens like a bookie,
'when bank tellers counted them,
they would be like a flickbook,
her majesty winking, and so on.'
I blew on my coffee.
Outside, snow was pollinating everything.
'We should go to France,'
I said.
#3 Prozac And Crayons
I grip the peach one in my fist
and colour fastidiously
outside the lines
making scrawls like
balls of lint
or the shape inside
an angry person's thought bubble.
This is my therapy.
Shifting through an old Fry's chocolate tin
heaped with wax crayons,
filling in the boxes on my tax return -
Gross Income This Year:
a thick block of British Racing Green.
Are you resident in the EU?
Parallel red and orange stripes,
like the best cat I can imagine.
and colour fastidiously
outside the lines
making scrawls like
balls of lint
or the shape inside
an angry person's thought bubble.
This is my therapy.
Shifting through an old Fry's chocolate tin
heaped with wax crayons,
filling in the boxes on my tax return -
Gross Income This Year:
a thick block of British Racing Green.
Are you resident in the EU?
Parallel red and orange stripes,
like the best cat I can imagine.
#2: Funny, It Worked Last Time
Horace flexed his empty hands
at the encroaching thugs,
fingers conspicuously absent
of the magic lightning
he had promised.
His robes were covered in moons
and little jupiters.
'Back off!' he yelled,
'Don't make me coruscate
with cobalt energy.
Why, I can materialise
a troupe of flametongued
fiendish tumblers with no more
than a snap of my giddy digits
and a few portent-laden
Latin intonations.'
He retreated an extra step
and felt his back meet damp brickwork.
'So don't make me do that.
Because I actually can.'
But the men were cynics.
They stepped through puddles
loaded with stars.
at the encroaching thugs,
fingers conspicuously absent
of the magic lightning
he had promised.
His robes were covered in moons
and little jupiters.
'Back off!' he yelled,
'Don't make me coruscate
with cobalt energy.
Why, I can materialise
a troupe of flametongued
fiendish tumblers with no more
than a snap of my giddy digits
and a few portent-laden
Latin intonations.'
He retreated an extra step
and felt his back meet damp brickwork.
'So don't make me do that.
Because I actually can.'
But the men were cynics.
They stepped through puddles
loaded with stars.
#1: The Day I Forgot The Goats
We were halfway through the fish course
when my hand went limp,
spoon slipping from my slack fingers
and clattering onto the floor.
'George?' The Mayor's wife's smile fading
like ice on a heated windscreen.
'What's the matter?'
All through the starter I'd known
something was missing -
that queer sense of absence
like removing a heavy backpack
after a long hike,
a lightness, like the final instant
before flying.
'I put them on the roof of my car,'
I said numbly,
'it was just while I unlocked the door.'
And the mayor whispered something
that sounded like:
'Kevin McAllister.'
when my hand went limp,
spoon slipping from my slack fingers
and clattering onto the floor.
'George?' The Mayor's wife's smile fading
like ice on a heated windscreen.
'What's the matter?'
All through the starter I'd known
something was missing -
that queer sense of absence
like removing a heavy backpack
after a long hike,
a lightness, like the final instant
before flying.
'I put them on the roof of my car,'
I said numbly,
'it was just while I unlocked the door.'
And the mayor whispered something
that sounded like:
'Kevin McAllister.'
Saturday, 30 October 2010
101 Poems In A Day
So this is going to be the blog where, on November 26th 2010, I attempt to write 101 poems in a day.
Last year, on the same day, I wrote 100 poems in a day. It was a peculiar, exhausting experience, complicated by the fact that, once you top 50 blog posts in a day, Blogger starts making you do a Captcha for every new entry, which cost me precious extra minutes.
The reason I decided to do it is because I'd become overly precious about my work - I'd lost that all-important will to just roll up my sleeves and get on with it, and not worry if nine-tenths of what I produced was unreadable bilge. Creativity comes from a spirit of play, and a willingness to risk being a bit crap. You can edit and refine and employ all those wonderful, necessary tools of critical discernment later on, but without that spark of carefree doltish naivety, I don't think you can truly innovate. Obviously quality trumps quantity in the last analysis, but who knows? Maybe I'll write the greatest poem of the last 25 years, one that will reunite sundered nations and make formerly morose insomniacs bray with joyous laughter before settling down for a deep, restorative sleep. It could happen.
My Twitter handle is @timclarepoet. You'll be able to follow my progress there, and I'll post each poem up on this blog as I finish it. All my poem titles are suggested by other people. If you have any ideas for poem titles, let me know! You can add them as a comment here or email me at joshureplied[at]yahoo[dot]co[dot]uk.
I hope you enjoy watching me push myself through this rather pointless spectacle. You can even join in, if you like! It would be awesome to have some other people writing alongside me.
Last year, on the same day, I wrote 100 poems in a day. It was a peculiar, exhausting experience, complicated by the fact that, once you top 50 blog posts in a day, Blogger starts making you do a Captcha for every new entry, which cost me precious extra minutes.
The reason I decided to do it is because I'd become overly precious about my work - I'd lost that all-important will to just roll up my sleeves and get on with it, and not worry if nine-tenths of what I produced was unreadable bilge. Creativity comes from a spirit of play, and a willingness to risk being a bit crap. You can edit and refine and employ all those wonderful, necessary tools of critical discernment later on, but without that spark of carefree doltish naivety, I don't think you can truly innovate. Obviously quality trumps quantity in the last analysis, but who knows? Maybe I'll write the greatest poem of the last 25 years, one that will reunite sundered nations and make formerly morose insomniacs bray with joyous laughter before settling down for a deep, restorative sleep. It could happen.
My Twitter handle is @timclarepoet. You'll be able to follow my progress there, and I'll post each poem up on this blog as I finish it. All my poem titles are suggested by other people. If you have any ideas for poem titles, let me know! You can add them as a comment here or email me at joshureplied[at]yahoo[dot]co[dot]uk.
I hope you enjoy watching me push myself through this rather pointless spectacle. You can even join in, if you like! It would be awesome to have some other people writing alongside me.
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