Friday 22 November 2013

#101 - Mrs Goggins And The Mackerel Incident (bonus poem)

Nobody knows how it happened,
least of all Mrs Goggins,
licking her whiskers
over the empty mackerel tin.

It glistens golden-bronze.
If she could shrug, she would.
Someone has done a crime,
that much is certain.

Naturally, she will help find the guilty party.
Just wait a moment,
while she licks a little bit of something
off her downy white bib.


Hugh Grant is bombarded by steaming equine guts
as the credits roll. BOOM!
A shetland pony bursts like a pinata!
NEIGH! Some fetlocked twerp detonates
in an empty field. Intestines fly at Jennifer Lawrence
like bolas and take out her ankles.
BLAMMO! Withers, gaskin, castor, stifle -
chunks of hinny spatter charmless git
Matthew McConaughey as he attempts to kiss
his romantic interest. He is piebald with gore.
He shrugs, grins.


#99 - Favourite Football Moments

3. Mr Gethin, a decorator by trade, is struck in the face by a stray penalty. The resultant head trauma changes his accent from scouse falsetto to a deep Russian baritone. He infiltrates the KGB and foils several plots to assassinate Keith Chegwin.

47. A match between Bury and Charlton Athletic is postponed after crows peck the referee to death. They are last seen making for a blood-orange sunset, a scattergram of chevrons.

99. After their team concede a third goal in an away game, Wigan fans drop to their knees at the realisation that life is ultimately futile and human consciousness does not survive death. Wigan come back to win 5-3.

#98 - The Horse Murder Roadshow

No horses are murdered during the roadshow.
It's a sort of ground rule.

The title is just to get the kids in.

Once inside the gates, brindled geldings emerge
from a bunker, showing off a range
of cheap cakes: lemon moon, banoffee,
cherry bakewell.
The cakes are sellotaped to their faces -
that is how they showcase them.

For the finale, a snow-white mare
charges at the crowd,
before exploding in a shower of warm mince.
'It is not a murder - it is euthanasia,' whisper organisers
as disappointed punters wander out,
'The mare wanted to end things with dignity.'

#97 - In His Shade

The Norway Maple stands for 50 years,
surviving hurricanes, zombiegeddon,
and some kind of portmanteau-based clothing craze
(skouses, jats, dungapants, etc)
before falling, winsomely,
on Colin.

Its grey smooth bark crushes his skull
like a testicle under a BMX wheel
and his heels perform a little Riverdance
before he expires.

Interestingly, Colin had just joined a dancing class
to cheer himself up after the death of his spaniel.

#96 - On Rediscovering Bubblewrap

It crackles like snakeskin.
Everyone at the dig site
stops to watch as we unfurl
the long translucent cloak.
What monstrous brute
could slough off
such lustrous, textured flesh?
Why the odd, clear bladders?
Buoyancy, perhaps?
Did it surge through poisoned rivers
in those dark years, while humans fled
for higher ground?

The archeologist presses down her thumb.
A snap.
Prometheus just brought fire back.

#95 - Long Live This

Arms folded over my heart, tombstoning into a freezing stream.
Slam cut to waking up from a distressing dream and realising
a horde of crab-legged babies aren't coming for my eyes.
The good hunger that comes from a long walk,
that gets you camping-hungry, when any old shit tastes good.

Rain on windows at night, with a sound like spuds boiling.
Yawning first, and watching it spread round a room
like a rage virus. The boundless optimism that comes
with finishing a new poem: I've cracked it, you think.
This is the one that'll make me live forever.