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.
Friday, 22 November 2013
#100 - DREAMY HORSE DEATH MONTAGE AT THE END OF A ROMANTIC COMEDY
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.
IRIS OUT
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.
IRIS OUT
#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.
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.'
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.
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.
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.
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.
#94 - Missile Silo Christmas Do
Half an hour into dumb crambo,
Simon notices the warning light
is blinking. He can barely hear the klaxons
through his port-fug and the strains
of Paul McCartney. Alice is dead up
for getting off with him though, and so
he shrugs it off, tossing his ignition keys
into the empty punchbowl, where they jangle
like sleigh bells.
Radar blips edge across a world map.
Simon pretends that one is Santa.
Simon notices the warning light
is blinking. He can barely hear the klaxons
through his port-fug and the strains
of Paul McCartney. Alice is dead up
for getting off with him though, and so
he shrugs it off, tossing his ignition keys
into the empty punchbowl, where they jangle
like sleigh bells.
Radar blips edge across a world map.
Simon pretends that one is Santa.
#93 - Bird God's GSOH
Garuda stickytapes whoopie-cushions beneath his bastard wings
and ascends from the throne room, farting.
He hoodwinks a cuckoo into bringing up a family of racoons
and paying their way through art college.
He dyes his scapular feathers blue, white and red
and insists - for the entire week - that he is French.
The bird parliament do their best to laugh with roistering good humour
as he struggles through these - and worse - antics,
mindful on the whetted edges of his hind claws,
the field mice shivering in his beak.
and ascends from the throne room, farting.
He hoodwinks a cuckoo into bringing up a family of racoons
and paying their way through art college.
He dyes his scapular feathers blue, white and red
and insists - for the entire week - that he is French.
The bird parliament do their best to laugh with roistering good humour
as he struggles through these - and worse - antics,
mindful on the whetted edges of his hind claws,
the field mice shivering in his beak.
#92 - Collecting Stones In Cold River Shallows Is How We Connect
She rests on her hams
near where the current curves and scums.
Black pearls pop at the weir cusp.
Sticks trail rusk-coloured beards.
Its half meditation, half feigned-connoisseurship -
we lift pebbles to the light,
tilting them like jewellers,
as if we might tell the real
from the fake.
near where the current curves and scums.
Black pearls pop at the weir cusp.
Sticks trail rusk-coloured beards.
Its half meditation, half feigned-connoisseurship -
we lift pebbles to the light,
tilting them like jewellers,
as if we might tell the real
from the fake.
#91 - Most Likely A Staircase
Steps wind down into the darkness like a nautilus shell,
slathered in grease. We descend in pairs,
confident that the answers we seek
lie somewhere deep
at the helixing base.
We grip the rail for balance; we grip each other.
Nothing helps. We fall, and fall again.
Is this the lesson? we ask each other,
first joking.
We get more bruised, more tallowy,
the light grows dim.
The stairs wind on.
slathered in grease. We descend in pairs,
confident that the answers we seek
lie somewhere deep
at the helixing base.
We grip the rail for balance; we grip each other.
Nothing helps. We fall, and fall again.
Is this the lesson? we ask each other,
first joking.
We get more bruised, more tallowy,
the light grows dim.
The stairs wind on.
#90 - Plume Face
I saw the likeness of my future husband
in the smoke from an oil rig disaster
and resolved to spend my life finding him.
It was a fruitless, frustrating few decades.
Every man's face was too fleshy, too constant,
too small. I had distinctly seen one eye
at least fifteen metres above the other,
flexing like the suckers on the club-headed
tentacle of a squid. Where were the gouts of flame
in his beard? Where were the dying sailors?
Where were the seagulls?
in the smoke from an oil rig disaster
and resolved to spend my life finding him.
It was a fruitless, frustrating few decades.
Every man's face was too fleshy, too constant,
too small. I had distinctly seen one eye
at least fifteen metres above the other,
flexing like the suckers on the club-headed
tentacle of a squid. Where were the gouts of flame
in his beard? Where were the dying sailors?
Where were the seagulls?
#89 - YEAH, AND WHAT OF IT?
'-come crashing through the portcullis
all gunked up, tailcoat bloody
and a buccaneer's hook-hand lodged in my tricorn.
Good G_d, man! Why's the moat on fire?
Who released these basilisks?
Pass me my chainsaw trousers!
Let us plunge into these pretenders,
a pox on their leonine features
and offers of fruitful peace!
Would a man who wanted peace
pour caustic soda over his crotch?
Well WATCH THI-'
all gunked up, tailcoat bloody
and a buccaneer's hook-hand lodged in my tricorn.
Good G_d, man! Why's the moat on fire?
Who released these basilisks?
Pass me my chainsaw trousers!
Let us plunge into these pretenders,
a pox on their leonine features
and offers of fruitful peace!
Would a man who wanted peace
pour caustic soda over his crotch?
Well WATCH THI-'
#88 - Don't Wake Them, They Look So Sweet
Ten thousand chrysalises, stacked in rows like doughnuts.
If you didn't know they were stuffed with gutsy arachnids
with ten-metre leaps and a bite radius that'd take your snout off,
you might find yourself inclined towards broodiness.
In the darkness, they rustle. You can almost hear them dreaming:
the red eyes thudding open, blinking away mucus
before they gaze upon the new world; the hunger;
the rich, ripe stink of a meat orchard, waiting.
If you didn't know they were stuffed with gutsy arachnids
with ten-metre leaps and a bite radius that'd take your snout off,
you might find yourself inclined towards broodiness.
In the darkness, they rustle. You can almost hear them dreaming:
the red eyes thudding open, blinking away mucus
before they gaze upon the new world; the hunger;
the rich, ripe stink of a meat orchard, waiting.
#87 - Parsimonious Steve
Steve bequeaths his children a single pea.
The rest of his grand estate -
peacocks, gilt-edged rollercoaster,
gem-studded key to the underworld, etc -
is to be buried with him, at sea.
They guessed as much. The youngest, Tess,
makes fists so hard her knuckles pop,
and so, to spite him, brings him back to life.
The rest of his grand estate -
peacocks, gilt-edged rollercoaster,
gem-studded key to the underworld, etc -
is to be buried with him, at sea.
They guessed as much. The youngest, Tess,
makes fists so hard her knuckles pop,
and so, to spite him, brings him back to life.
#86 - Hipshot And Hindwing
The highwayman's antlers shine in the moonlight.
He slides a pepperpot pistol from the holster
round his thorax and calmly aims it at the stagecoach driver.
'Step down, please,' through sideways jaws,
his mandibles like sleek black whiskers.
The lady cedes her valuables; a blush colours
her powdered cheek as, bowing, her smooth robber
unsheathes sparkling, stained-glass wings,
which thrum and beat and blur. He rises,
sharp against the moon. His body sings.
He slides a pepperpot pistol from the holster
round his thorax and calmly aims it at the stagecoach driver.
'Step down, please,' through sideways jaws,
his mandibles like sleek black whiskers.
The lady cedes her valuables; a blush colours
her powdered cheek as, bowing, her smooth robber
unsheathes sparkling, stained-glass wings,
which thrum and beat and blur. He rises,
sharp against the moon. His body sings.
#85 - Semi Naked Cold Hot Water Bottle
I sometimes think of it as a puffer-fish
all out of luck and beached on my mattress,
its slack lips plugged with a plastic bung.
Under my fingers it is grippy and cool.
When I squeeze, it gloops
and pops its microtonal song,
remembering the ocean, neap tides,
Pacific currents flickering with sardines,
lava chimneys, continental rifts,
the distant shifting ceiling of air.
all out of luck and beached on my mattress,
its slack lips plugged with a plastic bung.
Under my fingers it is grippy and cool.
When I squeeze, it gloops
and pops its microtonal song,
remembering the ocean, neap tides,
Pacific currents flickering with sardines,
lava chimneys, continental rifts,
the distant shifting ceiling of air.
#84 - Ten Things I Know
1. It feels good to punch a meringue clown
2. Spiders cannot comprehend the humble marrowfat pea
3. There is no opposite of 'trousers'
4. Everyone in England has tried wearing a tuppence as a monocle
5. Cress is shit
6. We have landed more men on the moon than we have on the surface of the human brain
7. On the internet, opinions breed like Tribbles
8. There are few pleasures as pure and private as a little early evening poo
9. You don't hear about moths much these days
10. Anyone who knows the rap from Big is basically okay
2. Spiders cannot comprehend the humble marrowfat pea
3. There is no opposite of 'trousers'
4. Everyone in England has tried wearing a tuppence as a monocle
5. Cress is shit
6. We have landed more men on the moon than we have on the surface of the human brain
7. On the internet, opinions breed like Tribbles
8. There are few pleasures as pure and private as a little early evening poo
9. You don't hear about moths much these days
10. Anyone who knows the rap from Big is basically okay
#83 - Nineteen Eighty Sex
Super-erotic things happened in Mexico.
Diego Maradona's Hand Of God
did a sex on all our minds
like an incredible, lubricated salmon
springing out of the cosmic river,
bucking its supple spine
before plunging back into the freezing flow.
After that, Iran-Contra was just
a disappointing post-coital cigarette -
you know the kind, where halfway through
you have to stop
and get up for a wee.
Diego Maradona's Hand Of God
did a sex on all our minds
like an incredible, lubricated salmon
springing out of the cosmic river,
bucking its supple spine
before plunging back into the freezing flow.
After that, Iran-Contra was just
a disappointing post-coital cigarette -
you know the kind, where halfway through
you have to stop
and get up for a wee.
#82 - They Didn't Come Here To Laugh
Fifty gags in and Eddie feels philosophical as hell.
'Hey, what do you call a fat chef with coronary failure?
A taxi! A taxi round to my flat,
so I can shag him probably.
Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!' Eddie begins miming
intercourse with the chef's corpse,
grinding his pelvis against the stool with his Evian on.
In his head he thinks this: brilliant clowning Eddie.
He is cartooning out a 'bit'. It is improv.
The child whose birthday party it is
begins to cry.
'Hey, what do you call a fat chef with coronary failure?
A taxi! A taxi round to my flat,
so I can shag him probably.
Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!' Eddie begins miming
intercourse with the chef's corpse,
grinding his pelvis against the stool with his Evian on.
In his head he thinks this: brilliant clowning Eddie.
He is cartooning out a 'bit'. It is improv.
The child whose birthday party it is
begins to cry.
#81 - Jealous Cows
They cluster at the cusp of motorways,
glaring at cars.
'Eff yoooooooou,' their wet, brown eyes seem to say.
When the farmer plods through sodden mud and dung
they gaze longingly at his hefty boots.
'Boooooooooots,' they say, yet he ignores their request.
The cows stand bored in flat meadows, divorced
from important world events.
'Neeoooooooooooooooos,' they croon,
but C4's Jon Snow does bugger all, as per.
glaring at cars.
'Eff yoooooooou,' their wet, brown eyes seem to say.
When the farmer plods through sodden mud and dung
they gaze longingly at his hefty boots.
'Boooooooooots,' they say, yet he ignores their request.
The cows stand bored in flat meadows, divorced
from important world events.
'Neeoooooooooooooooos,' they croon,
but C4's Jon Snow does bugger all, as per.
#80 - Oh Gertrude
She was a singular character -
striding into school
and thumping a headless capon
upon the teacher's desk.
One year, she dressed only in snow.
She wore a ping-pong paddle
where her right hand should be
and slapped duck eggs over walls.
She went boss-eyed during intercourse.
She fired flaming tennis balls
from the back of her caravan,
and spoke in a tongue of her own invention.
She dived for pennies in the town fountain,
recommending onlookers 'go tell it to the judge'.
She died in her allotment, tending runnerbeans,
a day after her first tattoo. (it was of a volcano)
striding into school
and thumping a headless capon
upon the teacher's desk.
One year, she dressed only in snow.
She wore a ping-pong paddle
where her right hand should be
and slapped duck eggs over walls.
She went boss-eyed during intercourse.
She fired flaming tennis balls
from the back of her caravan,
and spoke in a tongue of her own invention.
She dived for pennies in the town fountain,
recommending onlookers 'go tell it to the judge'.
She died in her allotment, tending runnerbeans,
a day after her first tattoo. (it was of a volcano)
#79 - Methods Of Torture
26. Egg Refusal -
the subject is offered an egg (boiled)
then, when they accept, the egg is withdrawn.
Repeat.
40. Guff Advice -
the subject hears a whisper, counselling him
to 'press his ear to the keyhole' if he wishes to hear
some sound advice. When the subject does so,
the torturer breaks wind into his ear.
Repeat.
136. Annoying Heron -
a picture of an annoying heron
is shown to the subject.
Repeat.
182. Cress House (warning: extreme) -
the subject is offered refuge in a splendid house.
On entering, he discovers the entire edifice
is constructed from flimsy cress.
The torturer rebukes him for his foolishness.
Repeat.
the subject is offered an egg (boiled)
then, when they accept, the egg is withdrawn.
Repeat.
40. Guff Advice -
the subject hears a whisper, counselling him
to 'press his ear to the keyhole' if he wishes to hear
some sound advice. When the subject does so,
the torturer breaks wind into his ear.
Repeat.
136. Annoying Heron -
a picture of an annoying heron
is shown to the subject.
Repeat.
182. Cress House (warning: extreme) -
the subject is offered refuge in a splendid house.
On entering, he discovers the entire edifice
is constructed from flimsy cress.
The torturer rebukes him for his foolishness.
Repeat.
#78 - The Rules Forbid This
Near the end of the Scrabble match,
Rachel transforms into a red-eared terrapin.
She blinks, stretches her neck, streaked with yellow.
Her tilerack spells MISTAKE.
Restlessness hangs over the village hall.
Her opponent confers with an umpire,
then puckers, soughing as her eyes fold over,
her limbs retract, her mouth seals.
Her chest swells out.
She is a puffball.
Her final tiles spell
AAOOO
Rachel transforms into a red-eared terrapin.
She blinks, stretches her neck, streaked with yellow.
Her tilerack spells MISTAKE.
Restlessness hangs over the village hall.
Her opponent confers with an umpire,
then puckers, soughing as her eyes fold over,
her limbs retract, her mouth seals.
Her chest swells out.
She is a puffball.
Her final tiles spell
AAOOO
#77 - Now I Am Becoming Geoff, Despoiler Of Girls
Geoff drops science like a clumsy lab assistant:
'Ungh, yo, this is my freestyle,
if you don't want to smooch me, this is my retrial.
Smooch my face, smooch my face,
smooch my face, smooch my face,
smooch my face, smooch my face,
ungh, yo, smooch my face.'
He sits down and spins on his bum
like a breakdancer man
then waits for the ladies to roll in.
'Ungh, yo, this is my freestyle,
if you don't want to smooch me, this is my retrial.
Smooch my face, smooch my face,
smooch my face, smooch my face,
smooch my face, smooch my face,
ungh, yo, smooch my face.'
He sits down and spins on his bum
like a breakdancer man
then waits for the ladies to roll in.
#76 - Is That A Thing?
A puttied sphere amongst the rushes; ribbed,
breathing. Camera phones appear
for tentative investigations; pictures posted to Twitter:
anyone know what this thing is?
When the hatch unseals, the instant thought is:
prank. Wonder belongs to TV now,
and hey - we might be on a show.
Wow.
It's almost disappointing, finding out
there's no one watching this but us:
the glow, the shape within the glow.
The thing.
breathing. Camera phones appear
for tentative investigations; pictures posted to Twitter:
anyone know what this thing is?
When the hatch unseals, the instant thought is:
prank. Wonder belongs to TV now,
and hey - we might be on a show.
Wow.
It's almost disappointing, finding out
there's no one watching this but us:
the glow, the shape within the glow.
The thing.
#75 - The Unloved Felt
The billiards have not moved for years.
Dust clumps on the white ball's beauty spot.
No cannons, no trick shots,
no silk waistcoat straining to contain a paunch,
kissing green baise as its master leans in,
no click of cue head on celluloid.
No schooners leave wet rings on wood,
no lucky heirs conceived between the pockets.
Nobody even knows the rules.
The Winning Game is dust-sheeted.
Dust clumps on the white ball's beauty spot.
No cannons, no trick shots,
no silk waistcoat straining to contain a paunch,
kissing green baise as its master leans in,
no click of cue head on celluloid.
No schooners leave wet rings on wood,
no lucky heirs conceived between the pockets.
Nobody even knows the rules.
The Winning Game is dust-sheeted.
#74 - Sometimes Too Hot
Caspar spits out a mouthful of casserole
to discover a gravy-soaked finger
twitching on his paper plate.
It beckons invitingly.
'Oh no you don't, sonny Jim.'
He folds the plate around it
like a macabre taco and marches
back to the organiser of the raffle.
'What the deuce do you call this?'
says Caspar, his whiskers thick with sauce.
The organiser, a rumpled, sallow gent
with a face like a limp windsock regards the prize.
'Finger.'
to discover a gravy-soaked finger
twitching on his paper plate.
It beckons invitingly.
'Oh no you don't, sonny Jim.'
He folds the plate around it
like a macabre taco and marches
back to the organiser of the raffle.
'What the deuce do you call this?'
says Caspar, his whiskers thick with sauce.
The organiser, a rumpled, sallow gent
with a face like a limp windsock regards the prize.
'Finger.'
#73 - Boundless Sangfroid
Mother's head implodes with a wet crunch
and I continue my recital. Afterwards,
the vicar congratulates me on my fortitude.
The vicar's head implodes with a wet crunch
and I stroll out of the church into spicy
autumn air. I pick some mushrooms.
At the hearing, the barrister questions my
cool demeanour. 'Is it true, sir,' his voice
a hornet heard through a desk fan,
'that after the incident you strolled out
into the graveyard and picked mushrooms?'
'Yes sir. Honey fungus, sir. Mmm, sir.'
I pat my non-trivial belly.
The barrister's head implodes with a wet crunch.
and I continue my recital. Afterwards,
the vicar congratulates me on my fortitude.
The vicar's head implodes with a wet crunch
and I stroll out of the church into spicy
autumn air. I pick some mushrooms.
At the hearing, the barrister questions my
cool demeanour. 'Is it true, sir,' his voice
a hornet heard through a desk fan,
'that after the incident you strolled out
into the graveyard and picked mushrooms?'
'Yes sir. Honey fungus, sir. Mmm, sir.'
I pat my non-trivial belly.
The barrister's head implodes with a wet crunch.
#72 - A Beginner's Guide To Online Poker
1. They say 'the House always wins'
but when have you ever seen a house play poker?
Exactly. As long as you don't see a house round the table,
you're sweet. Bet everything on red.
2. Bluffing is the name of the game
and I want to play the game with you.
Ha! Not really. I have no interest in playing the game with you.
That was a bluff, my friend. Use bluffs
to win at Poker.
3. Here's some betting slang you may encounter:
toerag - this means 'I have a bad hand'; go all-in
bet - this means 'to stake money'; alternatively, it may refer to a type of legume
ennui - 'I give up'; put your money on Number 3, on the nose
but when have you ever seen a house play poker?
Exactly. As long as you don't see a house round the table,
you're sweet. Bet everything on red.
2. Bluffing is the name of the game
and I want to play the game with you.
Ha! Not really. I have no interest in playing the game with you.
That was a bluff, my friend. Use bluffs
to win at Poker.
3. Here's some betting slang you may encounter:
toerag - this means 'I have a bad hand'; go all-in
bet - this means 'to stake money'; alternatively, it may refer to a type of legume
ennui - 'I give up'; put your money on Number 3, on the nose
#71 - The German Who Knew My Name
'Bonjour,' he said,
but I wasn't fooled.
'Come, German!' I challenged him.
'You make sport of me. Well, friend,
I shall make sport of you.'
The patrons of the ski lodge gathering now,
their snow-tanned faces full of wonder.
'You have but 3 chances to guess my name.
Should you guess correc-'
'Alan,' he said. 'It says so on your badge.'
And thus I was honour-bound to hurl myself
into the the fireplace, howling my fury
like a thwarted crow.
but I wasn't fooled.
'Come, German!' I challenged him.
'You make sport of me. Well, friend,
I shall make sport of you.'
The patrons of the ski lodge gathering now,
their snow-tanned faces full of wonder.
'You have but 3 chances to guess my name.
Should you guess correc-'
'Alan,' he said. 'It says so on your badge.'
And thus I was honour-bound to hurl myself
into the the fireplace, howling my fury
like a thwarted crow.
#70 - Mediocre Owl
I am pretty sure you are a feathered balloon.
Eff you, o 'owl' (if that is your real name)
with your slanting white eyebrows
bright within the willow thicket.
I see little evidence of your much-vaunted wisdom,
o oaf, o cat of the sky. How your eyes bulge
when you poo mouseskulls! Can it really be a surprise
after so many meals, sir?
Where were you when they closed our town library?
Tucked up in an old squirrel drey, I'll be bound,
worrying about your poor bouyancy,
wishing you could read.
Eff you, o 'owl' (if that is your real name)
with your slanting white eyebrows
bright within the willow thicket.
I see little evidence of your much-vaunted wisdom,
o oaf, o cat of the sky. How your eyes bulge
when you poo mouseskulls! Can it really be a surprise
after so many meals, sir?
Where were you when they closed our town library?
Tucked up in an old squirrel drey, I'll be bound,
worrying about your poor bouyancy,
wishing you could read.
#69 - Just The Latest In A Long Line Of Fuck-Ups
'Not the egg-nog fiasco nor the detonating orphanage,
neither Farting Santa 2: The Miami Caper
nor investing in 'brie churches',
not the Giggle-CoffinTM, Daniel's crunchy trousers,
nor the time we tried to explain the concept of crime to a shanny,
not even the lovely protein,
and certainly not the procession of tiny eggs
that came rolling out of my nostril on Boxing Day
come close to this, Henry,' I say
over the hiss of bust hydraulics,
gore glistening on my dinner jacket while behind us,
RoboBum lays waste to Rekjavik.
neither Farting Santa 2: The Miami Caper
nor investing in 'brie churches',
not the Giggle-CoffinTM, Daniel's crunchy trousers,
nor the time we tried to explain the concept of crime to a shanny,
not even the lovely protein,
and certainly not the procession of tiny eggs
that came rolling out of my nostril on Boxing Day
come close to this, Henry,' I say
over the hiss of bust hydraulics,
gore glistening on my dinner jacket while behind us,
RoboBum lays waste to Rekjavik.
#68 - A Nursery Rhyme Too Far
Once upon a place
Lived a monkey with no face
Just a ragged, bloody hole
Where face should be
Night and day the monkey pined
For the monkey was quite blind
No, it could not smell, nor hear,
Nor taste, nor see
'I must find a face - and fast!'
Thought the monkey, so, at last,
Up he sprang, all poised to set off
On his quest
But without a single sense,
He was impaled on a fence.
The moral is: don't ever try -
just have a rest
Lived a monkey with no face
Just a ragged, bloody hole
Where face should be
Night and day the monkey pined
For the monkey was quite blind
No, it could not smell, nor hear,
Nor taste, nor see
'I must find a face - and fast!'
Thought the monkey, so, at last,
Up he sprang, all poised to set off
On his quest
But without a single sense,
He was impaled on a fence.
The moral is: don't ever try -
just have a rest
#67 - The Eye Of Heaven
Beyond the Pearly Gates you feel it:
gooseflesh in the nape of the neck,
just above your wings.
Someone is watching you.
It's not that they don't trust us, mind -
you got in, after all; St Peter doesn't make mistakes -
think of it as insurance. A swivelling, invisible Panopticon
that tracks and checks, ensuring rules are kept.
Enforcing love, it rolls across the lucky few
to make it in. It hunts for thought,
for sin.
gooseflesh in the nape of the neck,
just above your wings.
Someone is watching you.
It's not that they don't trust us, mind -
you got in, after all; St Peter doesn't make mistakes -
think of it as insurance. A swivelling, invisible Panopticon
that tracks and checks, ensuring rules are kept.
Enforcing love, it rolls across the lucky few
to make it in. It hunts for thought,
for sin.
#66 - I Left Some Butter In My Bedsheets
Mrs Turner marmalades the scatter cushions
before turning in for the night. She wields a knife
like a dowsing wand - it guides her to things she needs.
In her dreams, typewriters are edible.
She rolls them in paisley curtains
and seasons them with twists of indiarubber.
She eats, sat on a pouf made of stale currant cake,
and talks with her dinner guests
about the year's fine crop of bedsprings.
She wakes when sunlight prods at her eyes
with its long broomstick. It disappoints Mrs Turner,
this world of prohibitions, of things that refuse
to yield to teeth. She reaches for her knife on the dresser,
follows it.
before turning in for the night. She wields a knife
like a dowsing wand - it guides her to things she needs.
In her dreams, typewriters are edible.
She rolls them in paisley curtains
and seasons them with twists of indiarubber.
She eats, sat on a pouf made of stale currant cake,
and talks with her dinner guests
about the year's fine crop of bedsprings.
She wakes when sunlight prods at her eyes
with its long broomstick. It disappoints Mrs Turner,
this world of prohibitions, of things that refuse
to yield to teeth. She reaches for her knife on the dresser,
follows it.
#65 - You And Me And A Horse Makes Three
Your hazel irises flash through eyeholes in the stallion's brisket.
I am so impressed I almost do a blow-off.
With this disguise, you are sure to get into the gymkhana.
The morning is muggy and busy with gnats.
I watch you swagger up to the turnstiles,
swishing your curry-coloured forelocks
and whistling Colonel Bogey.
'One let-me-into-the-gymkhana, please,'
you say confidently, and I am 100% sure
our little ruse will work.
The lady inside the booth looks you up and down.
'I think you are a person in a horse suit,' she observes.
'No,' you say. 'You heard it straight from the horse's mouth.'
(this pun is so poor I resolve then and there to call off
our engagement, though I wait two months and cite
my fear of commitment; now you know the truth)
I am so impressed I almost do a blow-off.
With this disguise, you are sure to get into the gymkhana.
The morning is muggy and busy with gnats.
I watch you swagger up to the turnstiles,
swishing your curry-coloured forelocks
and whistling Colonel Bogey.
'One let-me-into-the-gymkhana, please,'
you say confidently, and I am 100% sure
our little ruse will work.
The lady inside the booth looks you up and down.
'I think you are a person in a horse suit,' she observes.
'No,' you say. 'You heard it straight from the horse's mouth.'
(this pun is so poor I resolve then and there to call off
our engagement, though I wait two months and cite
my fear of commitment; now you know the truth)
#64 - These Pills Are Out Of Date
Harlequin capsules that slide, all coffiny,
down an ailing gullet, rattling their cargos
like a beggar shaking his cup.
The first five cause walls and shelves
and foreheads
to take on a doughy texture; surfaces give
under fingertips; walking
becomes a question of faith.
The next three make Facebook posts interesting;
suddenly Upworthy is a source of genuine
and perpetual fascination -
Like Like Like
The next pill makes it impossible to tell the truth;
its effects go unnoticed.
down an ailing gullet, rattling their cargos
like a beggar shaking his cup.
The first five cause walls and shelves
and foreheads
to take on a doughy texture; surfaces give
under fingertips; walking
becomes a question of faith.
The next three make Facebook posts interesting;
suddenly Upworthy is a source of genuine
and perpetual fascination -
Like Like Like
The next pill makes it impossible to tell the truth;
its effects go unnoticed.
#63 - The Last Of The Chocobos
Picture it: that scrawny gamboge ratite,
drilling at a clump of greens with her paperhat beak.
The bones of her parents lie on the far mesa,
rent by cayotes then picked clean
by little birds and insects - strange, irridescent things
for whom legs are a convenience
rather than a necessity, who lift like silver cloches
when predators gallop towards them,
ringing as they rise into the sky.
These wings, that once carved the wind,
carrying her ancestors between land-masses,
grown blunt with disuse.
drilling at a clump of greens with her paperhat beak.
The bones of her parents lie on the far mesa,
rent by cayotes then picked clean
by little birds and insects - strange, irridescent things
for whom legs are a convenience
rather than a necessity, who lift like silver cloches
when predators gallop towards them,
ringing as they rise into the sky.
These wings, that once carved the wind,
carrying her ancestors between land-masses,
grown blunt with disuse.
#62 - I Lit The Fire I Saved You From
I slashed your dress while you were out
Then bought a new one as a gift
I poured salt in your petrol tank
Then stopped and offered you a lift
I hacked up cold germs in your tea
Then gave you tissues when you sneezed
I shat under your sofa bed
Then popped by spraying pine Fabreeze
I ate the contents of your fridge
Then made you lunch with gay aplomb
I made you cry - we hugged it out
I lit the fire I saved you from
Then bought a new one as a gift
I poured salt in your petrol tank
Then stopped and offered you a lift
I hacked up cold germs in your tea
Then gave you tissues when you sneezed
I shat under your sofa bed
Then popped by spraying pine Fabreeze
I ate the contents of your fridge
Then made you lunch with gay aplomb
I made you cry - we hugged it out
I lit the fire I saved you from
#61 - You Don't Make Friends With Salad
When the tension gets too much, go down on the chicory.
Push your tongue into the bowl where the avocado stone
used to sit. Split a shaft of celery with a wet fresh snap
and explore that salty gully. Seriously -
you knew from the start that this was not platonic;
you knew right away that you could never just be colleagues.
Stop it. Why deny yourselves that knowledge?
Tomato juices running down your chin. Dig in.
Hit that iceberg.
Push your tongue into the bowl where the avocado stone
used to sit. Split a shaft of celery with a wet fresh snap
and explore that salty gully. Seriously -
you knew from the start that this was not platonic;
you knew right away that you could never just be colleagues.
Stop it. Why deny yourselves that knowledge?
Tomato juices running down your chin. Dig in.
Hit that iceberg.
#60 - Fish-Fingers, Chicken-Fingers, Apple Pie, Poo
The first three courses were an unmitigated success.
Quentin quaffed a schooner of sherry and congratulated himself.
'Nice one, Quentipops,' he whispered, imagining it was his Dad talking.
A portrait of the Duke of Buccleuch seemed to wink at him
from above the sideboard. He clenched his fist
and kissed his snuff-ring, capped with a moonstone.
Dessert was coming. He trusted Monsieur Shits-In-The-Pudding
implicitly. The sound of happy laughter
trickled in from the dining room. Quentin prinked his moustache.
The Duke of Buccleuch did the gun and the wink.
Quentin quaffed a schooner of sherry and congratulated himself.
'Nice one, Quentipops,' he whispered, imagining it was his Dad talking.
A portrait of the Duke of Buccleuch seemed to wink at him
from above the sideboard. He clenched his fist
and kissed his snuff-ring, capped with a moonstone.
Dessert was coming. He trusted Monsieur Shits-In-The-Pudding
implicitly. The sound of happy laughter
trickled in from the dining room. Quentin prinked his moustache.
The Duke of Buccleuch did the gun and the wink.
#59 - Dinosaurs In Unknown Quantities
Sifting through stegasauruses, Brian loses the will to live.
'This is as futile as nailing an egg to a wall!' he screams
at his 5-year-old daughter, slapping the pencil
from her hand.
She backs away, teetering between stoicism and despair,
her little lip trembling. All around,
mounds of tiny, braying dinosaurs
scramble and wait to be counted.
Pterodactyls wheel round the cavern ceiling
like excellent bats.
Brians rage withers. 'I... I'm sorry.'
He feels a nudge at his ankle.
A diplodocus waits at his feet,
the pencil in its unquantifiable mouth.
'This is as futile as nailing an egg to a wall!' he screams
at his 5-year-old daughter, slapping the pencil
from her hand.
She backs away, teetering between stoicism and despair,
her little lip trembling. All around,
mounds of tiny, braying dinosaurs
scramble and wait to be counted.
Pterodactyls wheel round the cavern ceiling
like excellent bats.
Brians rage withers. 'I... I'm sorry.'
He feels a nudge at his ankle.
A diplodocus waits at his feet,
the pencil in its unquantifiable mouth.
#58 - Fling!
Things get sexy roundabout the first time we have intercourse.
'I am abandoning social mores with unseemly haste,'
he breathes in my shell-like, before stripping
the flesh from my torso and rolling me in TCP.
Pain and pleasure intermingle as I die horribly.
He smokes a croissant with a cigar in the middle -
decadent as shit. 'Who can chart the enigmatic reaches
of human sexuality?' he observes cannily,
blowing smokehearts with arrows through them.
'I am abandoning social mores with unseemly haste,'
he breathes in my shell-like, before stripping
the flesh from my torso and rolling me in TCP.
Pain and pleasure intermingle as I die horribly.
He smokes a croissant with a cigar in the middle -
decadent as shit. 'Who can chart the enigmatic reaches
of human sexuality?' he observes cannily,
blowing smokehearts with arrows through them.
#57 - If The Fish Doesn't Talk To You
Snubbed by a dozen tenches of substance,
I take my petition to the barbel,
hoping she will see reason.
Her silver whiskers lash
in the turbid bottom of the tank.
'It's like this,' I say,
then I tell her what it is like.
Her wide mouth gasps
at the cool water. She swats the mud
with her orange anal fin.
I wait.
For six straight days, I wait.
Her lip barbs glint like safety pins.
Still nothing.
I take my petition to the barbel,
hoping she will see reason.
Her silver whiskers lash
in the turbid bottom of the tank.
'It's like this,' I say,
then I tell her what it is like.
Her wide mouth gasps
at the cool water. She swats the mud
with her orange anal fin.
I wait.
For six straight days, I wait.
Her lip barbs glint like safety pins.
Still nothing.
#56 - The Mystical And Creative Pegacorn
Julius the Pegacorn was excellent at Snap -
and yet he never played.
This made people wonder at his reticence.
'How mysterious!' they whispered in their kitchens
and at their fireplaces. 'How fathomless he must be
to excel at something and yet
never exercise that talent. How wise.'
Julius once made Easter cards
for his colleagues, using his horn
to carve a block of soapstone
into a relief image of Jesus Christ
emerging from an egg,
then making rubbings of that image
in 4B pencil.
'How creative!' the people gasped.
However, in their society, creativity was frowned upon,
and so they hung him.
and yet he never played.
This made people wonder at his reticence.
'How mysterious!' they whispered in their kitchens
and at their fireplaces. 'How fathomless he must be
to excel at something and yet
never exercise that talent. How wise.'
Julius once made Easter cards
for his colleagues, using his horn
to carve a block of soapstone
into a relief image of Jesus Christ
emerging from an egg,
then making rubbings of that image
in 4B pencil.
'How creative!' the people gasped.
However, in their society, creativity was frowned upon,
and so they hung him.
#55 - Killing Me Softly With His Gong
The sound wafts through delicate guts, upsetting stomachs.
When he plays, the butter refuses to come in the churn;
cows defecate, visibly distressed.
You have rarely seen such orbits as are made
by his gentle grey pom-pom before it meets
the dimpled bronze. He laughs at our skittishness:
it only goads him to delay the stroke for longer,
then - when it lands - to bring the stick down
harder, stronger.
When he plays, the butter refuses to come in the churn;
cows defecate, visibly distressed.
You have rarely seen such orbits as are made
by his gentle grey pom-pom before it meets
the dimpled bronze. He laughs at our skittishness:
it only goads him to delay the stroke for longer,
then - when it lands - to bring the stick down
harder, stronger.
#54 - BAMBOOZLE!
Richard flickered his velvet cape
then slapped a kitten lung
onto the restaurant table.
'Is this your card?'
The diners stared at the congealing venal blood.
A child began to cry.
If anything, his thirtieth guess
had only made the situation worse.
Face-up cards, receipts,
a jaws harp and a false eye
cluttered the tablecloth.
'Ah. I knew it wasn't,' said Richard
with a winning fart (the first rule of magic:
misdirection), reaching inside his trousers
for the budgie heart.
then slapped a kitten lung
onto the restaurant table.
'Is this your card?'
The diners stared at the congealing venal blood.
A child began to cry.
If anything, his thirtieth guess
had only made the situation worse.
Face-up cards, receipts,
a jaws harp and a false eye
cluttered the tablecloth.
'Ah. I knew it wasn't,' said Richard
with a winning fart (the first rule of magic:
misdirection), reaching inside his trousers
for the budgie heart.
#53 - Space Dolphins Attack Mars
It was a kind of ecstasy, watching those limber grey bodies
undulate through our artificial tropopause,
cold from the vacuum, keen with rime.
Who could turn SAM batteries on such wonders?
Even as their smooth noses hinged open to extrude ion cannon
we sat and did not act. They sang.
We listened as our farms and cities rang
with blasts.
Lakes boiled away. Beams burned through topsoil.
They whistled, popped. They spoke to us.
We heard. White chests.
Red dust.
undulate through our artificial tropopause,
cold from the vacuum, keen with rime.
Who could turn SAM batteries on such wonders?
Even as their smooth noses hinged open to extrude ion cannon
we sat and did not act. They sang.
We listened as our farms and cities rang
with blasts.
Lakes boiled away. Beams burned through topsoil.
They whistled, popped. They spoke to us.
We heard. White chests.
Red dust.
#52 - Free-Range Dickheads
They have space to roam, the merry buggers.
Look how they caper down suburban lanes,
snapping the wipers off hatchbacks
while happy hardcore peep-peep-peeps
from their smartphone speakers.
Who would deny a dickhead these small mercies?
Fresh air and the chance to grow fat off the land
before a crossbow bolt thuds into his skull cavity
and he drops, blissfully unaware, from the climbing frame
he's pissing off of.
Look how they caper down suburban lanes,
snapping the wipers off hatchbacks
while happy hardcore peep-peep-peeps
from their smartphone speakers.
Who would deny a dickhead these small mercies?
Fresh air and the chance to grow fat off the land
before a crossbow bolt thuds into his skull cavity
and he drops, blissfully unaware, from the climbing frame
he's pissing off of.
#51 - Son, I've Never Killed A Tiger
The confession came in chunks, like spoiled milk.
Dorothy took her son to one side, her coarse hand
resting on his shoulder, beside her forearm tattoo reading
Yo, I've Definitely Killed A Tiger So Don't Mess With Me
in tasteful calligraphic script, beneath an image
of her driving a railroad spike through a bengal tiger's skull,
Xs in its eyes and its tongue lolling. (a second tattoo
bore the legend 100% True Story!!! alongside an arrow,
pointing to the first)
'I... I don't know how to tell you this, but...'
The words sticking in her mouth,
her tiger facepaint beginning to run.
Dorothy took her son to one side, her coarse hand
resting on his shoulder, beside her forearm tattoo reading
Yo, I've Definitely Killed A Tiger So Don't Mess With Me
in tasteful calligraphic script, beneath an image
of her driving a railroad spike through a bengal tiger's skull,
Xs in its eyes and its tongue lolling. (a second tattoo
bore the legend 100% True Story!!! alongside an arrow,
pointing to the first)
'I... I don't know how to tell you this, but...'
The words sticking in her mouth,
her tiger facepaint beginning to run.
#50 - I Don't Do Slam
It takes me three minutes just to take my trousers off.
How can I possibly compete?
I don't write to please an audience.
And I succeed.
My act is all about nuance. Without time for farting
my poems won't be properly contextualised.
I hate this idea of pitting artists against each other.
It's like... it's like Pokémon or something.
I don't need that sort of validation.
Retweet if you agree.
How can you score art?
How much out of thirty is the Mona Lisa worth? Or Keane?
How can I possibly compete?
I don't write to please an audience.
And I succeed.
My act is all about nuance. Without time for farting
my poems won't be properly contextualised.
I hate this idea of pitting artists against each other.
It's like... it's like Pokémon or something.
I don't need that sort of validation.
Retweet if you agree.
How can you score art?
How much out of thirty is the Mona Lisa worth? Or Keane?
#49 - Neon Croissant
'This is as French as it gets,' Graham assures me,
as we zipline towards the venture into which
he has sunk his entire inheritance.
(his father was a successful horse entrepreneur)
We crashland in a padded alley. Even from here,
I can see the glow of the restaurant sign:
Le Brilliant Restaurant
'Classy, non?' says Graham,
leading me towards a conspicuously empty dining area,
full of conspicuously loud accordion music,
and a chef who is conspicuously on fire.
as we zipline towards the venture into which
he has sunk his entire inheritance.
(his father was a successful horse entrepreneur)
We crashland in a padded alley. Even from here,
I can see the glow of the restaurant sign:
Le Brilliant Restaurant
'Classy, non?' says Graham,
leading me towards a conspicuously empty dining area,
full of conspicuously loud accordion music,
and a chef who is conspicuously on fire.
#48 - Amstrad Dream
The orange bar that bespeaks compatibility
and the eerie solidity of a cassette ka-chuck ing
into the player. I have watched that cola-black
magnetic tape roll over unfathomable heads,
heard the raven-shriek of data unspooling,
a Ouija board summoning blocky phantoms
into this looking glass. Some obey my commands.
Others seek to kill me. Sometimes,
I recognise myself in those monochrome eyeballs.
I watch colours bleed into each other,
and I feel two worlds connecting.
and the eerie solidity of a cassette ka-chuck ing
into the player. I have watched that cola-black
magnetic tape roll over unfathomable heads,
heard the raven-shriek of data unspooling,
a Ouija board summoning blocky phantoms
into this looking glass. Some obey my commands.
Others seek to kill me. Sometimes,
I recognise myself in those monochrome eyeballs.
I watch colours bleed into each other,
and I feel two worlds connecting.
#47 - Butterfly War At Dawn
Rabbles break cover from the marsh mallow, chromatic cluster bombs.
Marbled whites yaw through clouds of whiskey-coloured gatekeepers.
Painted ladies cling to red admirals in death-pirouettes.
Tortoiseshells joust with silver-washed fritilliaries.
White-letter hairstreaks are split in two by commas.
Grizzled skippers hang back, waiting for an opening.
The battle takes place in silence
and as the sun crests the alders,
the heat haze flickers with brimstones.
Marbled whites yaw through clouds of whiskey-coloured gatekeepers.
Painted ladies cling to red admirals in death-pirouettes.
Tortoiseshells joust with silver-washed fritilliaries.
White-letter hairstreaks are split in two by commas.
Grizzled skippers hang back, waiting for an opening.
The battle takes place in silence
and as the sun crests the alders,
the heat haze flickers with brimstones.
#46 - Charming Snakes
'You understand why I can't see you anymore,' says the mongoose,
picking at his shrimp platter. The viper drags his bifurcated tongue
across his fangs, and laughs - a bitter hack.
'So this is it, then? This is how our story ends. The climax.'
He's wearing the silk tie the mongoose bought him for Christmas.
All at once, it feels heavy round his throat. 'I don't...'
Pride and love twine round each other in his chest,
constrict his heart. He winces, sips his sauvignon.
'Well then,' he says, 'that's it. It's done.
Let's both pretend it's for the best.'
picking at his shrimp platter. The viper drags his bifurcated tongue
across his fangs, and laughs - a bitter hack.
'So this is it, then? This is how our story ends. The climax.'
He's wearing the silk tie the mongoose bought him for Christmas.
All at once, it feels heavy round his throat. 'I don't...'
Pride and love twine round each other in his chest,
constrict his heart. He winces, sips his sauvignon.
'Well then,' he says, 'that's it. It's done.
Let's both pretend it's for the best.'
#44 - Art More! Lovely
Wipe an image of Constable's 'Weymouth Bay' into your toilet paper.
Whittle a tiny scrimshaw gorilla, then use a lampshade as his big top.
Make the gorilla the ringmaster and Lego men his animals.
Burn them all. Weep.
Unstopper a bottle of balsmic vinegar and decant it into your eye
on a busy train, singing Red, Red Wine. Do not force an interpretation
onto your many onlookers. If pushed, try to work the word
'ephemera' into your artist's statement. It is a sort of internationally-recognised
safe word amongst the creative community.
The questioner will cease further enquiry
out of respect for your boundaries.
Whittle a tiny scrimshaw gorilla, then use a lampshade as his big top.
Make the gorilla the ringmaster and Lego men his animals.
Burn them all. Weep.
Unstopper a bottle of balsmic vinegar and decant it into your eye
on a busy train, singing Red, Red Wine. Do not force an interpretation
onto your many onlookers. If pushed, try to work the word
'ephemera' into your artist's statement. It is a sort of internationally-recognised
safe word amongst the creative community.
The questioner will cease further enquiry
out of respect for your boundaries.
#45 - Victorian Heroines On Crack
Crinoline swiss-cheesed with burn marks
hangs about their thighs like antimacassars.
'I would have another taste,' says Constance,
grasping for the pipe. She sits
upon an upturned tea chest from the Indies,
having not a stick of furniture left;
the sun blurs through lacey meshes
like the three golden balls of the pawnbroker.
Gentlemen callers rap upon the front door
and leave their cards amongst notices from baliffs,
but the ladies are quite bored of suitors,
preferring to repose where the sunlight
warms the floorboards, reaching for the companion set
to brush ash from their petticoats.
hangs about their thighs like antimacassars.
'I would have another taste,' says Constance,
grasping for the pipe. She sits
upon an upturned tea chest from the Indies,
having not a stick of furniture left;
the sun blurs through lacey meshes
like the three golden balls of the pawnbroker.
Gentlemen callers rap upon the front door
and leave their cards amongst notices from baliffs,
but the ladies are quite bored of suitors,
preferring to repose where the sunlight
warms the floorboards, reaching for the companion set
to brush ash from their petticoats.
#43 - Hushabye Tailwind
We understand the anxieties of the belly-gunner
even as we ignore them:
his reports made strange and mournful
by their passage through the taut parcel string
to the Campbell's condensed milk tin
cupped to my co-pilot's chapped and throbbing ear.
'Something about the world having disappeared,'
reports my co-pilot over the engine's chudder.
'A mindscape of luminous fish... faces of ex-lovers,
fifty-feet wide, reproachful... warnings
emblazoned on the clouds:
WIPE THE CAUL FROM YOUR EYES, MY BLOODIED LAMB
FLIGHT IS A KIND OF DEBT
TYRONE POWER IS DEAD'
even as we ignore them:
his reports made strange and mournful
by their passage through the taut parcel string
to the Campbell's condensed milk tin
cupped to my co-pilot's chapped and throbbing ear.
'Something about the world having disappeared,'
reports my co-pilot over the engine's chudder.
'A mindscape of luminous fish... faces of ex-lovers,
fifty-feet wide, reproachful... warnings
emblazoned on the clouds:
WIPE THE CAUL FROM YOUR EYES, MY BLOODIED LAMB
FLIGHT IS A KIND OF DEBT
TYRONE POWER IS DEAD'
#42 - Dances With Traffic Wardens
Inside the scented envelope, tucked beneath the windscreen wiper
a scalloped card reads: The Guild Of Traffic Wardens requests
the pleasure of your attendance at our annual ball.
£50 unclamping fee.
In the vaulted hall deep below Manchester,
sweat condenses on low stone arches,
dripping back down onto the heads
of beak-masked courtesans
locked in a slow pavane.
The stench of mothballs
wafts from a band
shackled to a dias, dismally plucking at lutes.
Tafetta drags through grime. The punch is watered-down
to a tasteless gruel. No one laughs here.
No one dares stop.
a scalloped card reads: The Guild Of Traffic Wardens requests
the pleasure of your attendance at our annual ball.
£50 unclamping fee.
In the vaulted hall deep below Manchester,
sweat condenses on low stone arches,
dripping back down onto the heads
of beak-masked courtesans
locked in a slow pavane.
The stench of mothballs
wafts from a band
shackled to a dias, dismally plucking at lutes.
Tafetta drags through grime. The punch is watered-down
to a tasteless gruel. No one laughs here.
No one dares stop.
#41 - A Horse To Be Reckoned With
Jonathan parascended into the embassy, glossy croup
dazzling the terrorists of indeterminate ethnicity and creed.
Bullets glanced harmlessly off his adamantium withers
as he rolled a glob of Semtex from the frog of his hoof
and made an apposite horsey pun.
A skewbald cob of foreign descent came from his blindside
(Jonathan was wearing mirrored blinkers)
but Jonathan hoofed a button on his halter
and a knife helicopter stabbed his opponent unto death.
'Thanks for spavin* me,' he said,
then vaulted backwards through the embassy window,
which had been reglazed since he smashed through it,
and so he shattered it again.
Then the embassy exploded.
*a swelling on a horse's back, typically causing stiffness
dazzling the terrorists of indeterminate ethnicity and creed.
Bullets glanced harmlessly off his adamantium withers
as he rolled a glob of Semtex from the frog of his hoof
and made an apposite horsey pun.
A skewbald cob of foreign descent came from his blindside
(Jonathan was wearing mirrored blinkers)
but Jonathan hoofed a button on his halter
and a knife helicopter stabbed his opponent unto death.
'Thanks for spavin* me,' he said,
then vaulted backwards through the embassy window,
which had been reglazed since he smashed through it,
and so he shattered it again.
Then the embassy exploded.
*a swelling on a horse's back, typically causing stiffness
#40 - You Aren't, You Aren't
If you're really a police officer then where are your tusks?
These and other irrefutable proofs I slam in front of the DI
like a plate of damning sandwiches.
Show me your ID
without licking your lips.
I am full of bullion, I say,
I am an unfranked envelope
stuffed with chutney.
If this confuses my captor he does not show it,
strumming his beard and flashing me a piratical wink.
I uncap a biro.
He slips me his forearm.
These and other irrefutable proofs I slam in front of the DI
like a plate of damning sandwiches.
Show me your ID
without licking your lips.
I am full of bullion, I say,
I am an unfranked envelope
stuffed with chutney.
If this confuses my captor he does not show it,
strumming his beard and flashing me a piratical wink.
I uncap a biro.
He slips me his forearm.
#39 - Unfortunately, Twitter Has Stopped
Utterances begin burgeoning like horrible blancmanges,
words spilling on and on - 180 characters, 190, 200.
The art of the bon mot, of the lexical amuse-bouche,
collapses upon itself like a pitchforked toad,
shrieking. The falconer cannot organise his observations
on falconry into discrete, amusing maxims.
Peter Serafinowicz falls from his sky palace, burning.
We do not know what is trending.
Unable to sneer at the mundanity of others,
hipsters become briefly cognisant of their own lives
and implode.
A single blue bird flies free from its cage.
words spilling on and on - 180 characters, 190, 200.
The art of the bon mot, of the lexical amuse-bouche,
collapses upon itself like a pitchforked toad,
shrieking. The falconer cannot organise his observations
on falconry into discrete, amusing maxims.
Peter Serafinowicz falls from his sky palace, burning.
We do not know what is trending.
Unable to sneer at the mundanity of others,
hipsters become briefly cognisant of their own lives
and implode.
A single blue bird flies free from its cage.
#38 - Flippancy
Rachel drove her middle finger into the walnut whip,
making lorry noises. She said beep beep
as it reversed out, all mallowy and wet.
'Excuse me, Lionel?'
Lionel looked up from across the battleship grey partition,
a red line across the bridge of his pendulous nose.
'Remember how you suggested I could go on sponsored diet?'
She thrust the finger in his direction
then plunged it into her gob.
This was particularly thoughtless, however,
as Lionel was suffering from depression.
making lorry noises. She said beep beep
as it reversed out, all mallowy and wet.
'Excuse me, Lionel?'
Lionel looked up from across the battleship grey partition,
a red line across the bridge of his pendulous nose.
'Remember how you suggested I could go on sponsored diet?'
She thrust the finger in his direction
then plunged it into her gob.
This was particularly thoughtless, however,
as Lionel was suffering from depression.
#37 - And Sadly Under The Watching Trees
He struck his son with a riding crop
Disgust writ on his face
And sadly under the watching trees
Completed his disgrace.
'Dear son,' said he, most pinkly piqued,
'Have you not learned a thing?
When e're he squats to defecate,
A true man starts to sing!
O joy,' the father's song began,
'O plangent, joyous day!
O gnnnnhh,' and here he clenched and pushed,
'Thus I conclude my lay.'
The son looked on, abashed and mute,
His heart had had its fill
And sadly under the watching trees
The lesson went on still.
Disgust writ on his face
And sadly under the watching trees
Completed his disgrace.
'Dear son,' said he, most pinkly piqued,
'Have you not learned a thing?
When e're he squats to defecate,
A true man starts to sing!
O joy,' the father's song began,
'O plangent, joyous day!
O gnnnnhh,' and here he clenched and pushed,
'Thus I conclude my lay.'
The son looked on, abashed and mute,
His heart had had its fill
And sadly under the watching trees
The lesson went on still.
#36 - What Coolio Knows
Coolio knows that a thin leather belt is a great way to jazz up a dress you've grown tired of.
Coolio knows that Hitler was not a vegetarian.
Coolio knows the strange pleasure of farting in an empty squash court.
Coolio knows Krav Maga.
Coolio knows that when the chips are down, that's fine. The relative height of chips has never bothered you until now.
Coolio knows how to get the first 1UP on Super Mario Bros.
Coolio knows his way round the breadcrumbs setting on a food processor.
Coolio knows who killed JR.
Coolio knows a thing or two about maintaining septic tanks.
Coolio knows a dude who can help you with that.
Coolio knows when a border collie is sad.
Coolio knows better than to challenge you to Jenga.
Coolio knows that Hitler was not a vegetarian.
Coolio knows the strange pleasure of farting in an empty squash court.
Coolio knows Krav Maga.
Coolio knows that when the chips are down, that's fine. The relative height of chips has never bothered you until now.
Coolio knows how to get the first 1UP on Super Mario Bros.
Coolio knows his way round the breadcrumbs setting on a food processor.
Coolio knows who killed JR.
Coolio knows a thing or two about maintaining septic tanks.
Coolio knows a dude who can help you with that.
Coolio knows when a border collie is sad.
Coolio knows better than to challenge you to Jenga.
#35 - Therefore It Is Bad
Uncomfortable truths skulk in the hedgerows before sunrise,
stirring at the hot wind that ghosts the field madder.
If a stoat gullets partridge eggs than that is her business;
it's scarcely your place to go steaming in with your box traps
and bait bottles and your orange-blue morality.
Voles twist amongst the dog-violets and the bloody crane's bill
and think nothing of your thundering. Compassion hangs,
a cloud with a dark, pancaked base and white tower
tipping windward; it threatens;
it absorbs.
stirring at the hot wind that ghosts the field madder.
If a stoat gullets partridge eggs than that is her business;
it's scarcely your place to go steaming in with your box traps
and bait bottles and your orange-blue morality.
Voles twist amongst the dog-violets and the bloody crane's bill
and think nothing of your thundering. Compassion hangs,
a cloud with a dark, pancaked base and white tower
tipping windward; it threatens;
it absorbs.
#34 - My Divorce Is Falling Apart
We have a foursome with our lawyers.
Suddenly the only thing on the table is us,
pelvises slamming like flung crockery.
'I just... want... an amicable... resolution,'
says my estranged wife
as we achieve mutual orgasm
again.
We decide to settle out of court,
on the landing of the house
we have failed to sell.
It smells strange, unlived-in,
shelves jankling with ornaments
we forgot we owned.
Suddenly the only thing on the table is us,
pelvises slamming like flung crockery.
'I just... want... an amicable... resolution,'
says my estranged wife
as we achieve mutual orgasm
again.
We decide to settle out of court,
on the landing of the house
we have failed to sell.
It smells strange, unlived-in,
shelves jankling with ornaments
we forgot we owned.
#33 - Imp Prisoned
Cackling Barnaby finds himself constrained by a thicket of bone
imprevious to kicks, gnawing, imprecations, and the fine sharp teeth
of his sailor's knife. He snaps the blade back inside the ivory handles
and opens the bargaining:
'If you release me, I shall bring you a plum cake
at cockcrow for a year and a day.'
'Eff off,' responds the Countess.
'Release me and I shall grant you the power
to transform regrets into splendid trousers.'
The Countess picks at a wart and says nothing.
Barnaby tears at his beard.
'Very well! If you release me, all your rivals
will henceforth have a bum for a mouth
and a mouth for a bum!'
his last words drowned out
as the Countess stands,
starting the chainsaw.
imprevious to kicks, gnawing, imprecations, and the fine sharp teeth
of his sailor's knife. He snaps the blade back inside the ivory handles
and opens the bargaining:
'If you release me, I shall bring you a plum cake
at cockcrow for a year and a day.'
'Eff off,' responds the Countess.
'Release me and I shall grant you the power
to transform regrets into splendid trousers.'
The Countess picks at a wart and says nothing.
Barnaby tears at his beard.
'Very well! If you release me, all your rivals
will henceforth have a bum for a mouth
and a mouth for a bum!'
his last words drowned out
as the Countess stands,
starting the chainsaw.
#32 - Their First EP
From its opening 30 seconds of bagpipe glitch
to the final, triumphant crunchcore meltdown,
this debut hits you like a paperweight
flung from the window of a first-class carriage
onto the platform of a dozy village station.
It might've easily brained a war-widow!
Instead, it found your temple and now you're dead,
and that is a blessing, my friend, because after listening to this
the rest of your life would have felt as empty
as the inside of a tennis ball.
What does it sound like? Your mum
fed toes-first into a mangle, a bugle pressed to her lips,
the noise chopped and compressed
and layered with dreamy lithium-infused vocals
and underscored by pounding toms.
It's a two-fingered salute hiked out of the Styx
by a drowning angel, and a hot buttered croissant
pushed into the mouth of a famine-ravaged child.
2/5
to the final, triumphant crunchcore meltdown,
this debut hits you like a paperweight
flung from the window of a first-class carriage
onto the platform of a dozy village station.
It might've easily brained a war-widow!
Instead, it found your temple and now you're dead,
and that is a blessing, my friend, because after listening to this
the rest of your life would have felt as empty
as the inside of a tennis ball.
What does it sound like? Your mum
fed toes-first into a mangle, a bugle pressed to her lips,
the noise chopped and compressed
and layered with dreamy lithium-infused vocals
and underscored by pounding toms.
It's a two-fingered salute hiked out of the Styx
by a drowning angel, and a hot buttered croissant
pushed into the mouth of a famine-ravaged child.
2/5
#31 - Squeamish Bertie
The stitch n' bitch session was a puzzle of guts and juice.
Using a cholera cadaver as a provocative centrepiece
had been a step too far, Bertie reflected ruefully,
his sleeves wringing wet with tepid lungwater.
'This nascent cardigan will probably have to be binned,'
he said, fishing for sympathy, but his companions
were in no mood to be supportive - their knitting needles
slippery with infected fluid, their scarves ruined.
Using a cholera cadaver as a provocative centrepiece
had been a step too far, Bertie reflected ruefully,
his sleeves wringing wet with tepid lungwater.
'This nascent cardigan will probably have to be binned,'
he said, fishing for sympathy, but his companions
were in no mood to be supportive - their knitting needles
slippery with infected fluid, their scarves ruined.
#30 - Another Word For Explore
This is the river. The boatman leans on a hazel wand;
he snorts when you press a groat into his curiously soft palm.
The coin of the realm is memories.
He does not ask for all of them - just a good one.
You offer the first disappointment of cooking chocolate,
the bitterness of that pilfered slab,
but he shakes his head.
The calm behind the windbreak, then.
The scent of rush mats and lotion,
the red hoods of eyelids under sun.
Not enough.
Please, you say. Not her eyes.
Not the tides they set sluicing through your chest.
But already you feel their heft,
see the watering of the boatman's mouth.
he snorts when you press a groat into his curiously soft palm.
The coin of the realm is memories.
He does not ask for all of them - just a good one.
You offer the first disappointment of cooking chocolate,
the bitterness of that pilfered slab,
but he shakes his head.
The calm behind the windbreak, then.
The scent of rush mats and lotion,
the red hoods of eyelids under sun.
Not enough.
Please, you say. Not her eyes.
Not the tides they set sluicing through your chest.
But already you feel their heft,
see the watering of the boatman's mouth.
#29 - My First Husband
My first husband lives in a cake tin, grinding his tiny teeth.
My first husband carves frescos into warm wax with a hat pin.
My first husband knows when you're lying -
never calls you on it, just shuts his eyes.
My first husband claps and pigeons rise from the beech trees.
My first husband keeps a domino tucked up his shirt sleeve;
smells the file baked inside a Victoria sponge
and bites down anyway. My first husband has teeth like headstones.
When my first husband speaks, his words rattle like ball bearings;
never listens, but holds your smallest habit to his heart.
My first husband strips soap bars with a potato peeler;
saves each flake like an angel feather.
My first husband carves frescos into warm wax with a hat pin.
My first husband knows when you're lying -
never calls you on it, just shuts his eyes.
My first husband claps and pigeons rise from the beech trees.
My first husband keeps a domino tucked up his shirt sleeve;
smells the file baked inside a Victoria sponge
and bites down anyway. My first husband has teeth like headstones.
When my first husband speaks, his words rattle like ball bearings;
never listens, but holds your smallest habit to his heart.
My first husband strips soap bars with a potato peeler;
saves each flake like an angel feather.
#28 - A Weekend With The Letter M
Meringue nests hefty with maggots are just the start of our malaise.
I don't like to make a scene - we spend so little time together these days.
Make the most, Martin, I muse.
As a married man, it's my main mantra.
'Mmm,' I murmur, 'my meal makes me much more merry,'
making a show of masticating. Munch, munch.
Matilda moves her mouth but maybe she's miserable.
Much too much meat, methinks.
Too many maggots.
Mentally, I move through my menu of events:
mountain climbing
mud-wrestling
motocross
monkey wrangling
mormonism
murder
Nothing moves me.
Matilda moans.
I mutely moon for Monday.
I don't like to make a scene - we spend so little time together these days.
Make the most, Martin, I muse.
As a married man, it's my main mantra.
'Mmm,' I murmur, 'my meal makes me much more merry,'
making a show of masticating. Munch, munch.
Matilda moves her mouth but maybe she's miserable.
Much too much meat, methinks.
Too many maggots.
Mentally, I move through my menu of events:
mountain climbing
mud-wrestling
motocross
monkey wrangling
mormonism
murder
Nothing moves me.
Matilda moans.
I mutely moon for Monday.
#27 - Max, Steve and Barry
Fracto-stratus clouds streamed past the full moon,
catching night rainbows, while the brothers scrapped
on a mountain top. Steve, a swarthy, Belgian fellow,
grasped Max's side-whiskers and whispered:
'You doctrinaire bastard. I hope your children
piss themselves,' before tugging with continental abandon.
Barry produced a shucking knife from his trousers
and drove it through Steven's peacoat
with a triumphant caw. Max's skull segmented
like a Prussian music box, revealing a pirouetting ballerina
who shot poisoned flechettes from a hollow in her leg.
'Scoff at my macaroons, will you?' he said,
woozy from blood loss, dancer spinning in the breeze.
catching night rainbows, while the brothers scrapped
on a mountain top. Steve, a swarthy, Belgian fellow,
grasped Max's side-whiskers and whispered:
'You doctrinaire bastard. I hope your children
piss themselves,' before tugging with continental abandon.
Barry produced a shucking knife from his trousers
and drove it through Steven's peacoat
with a triumphant caw. Max's skull segmented
like a Prussian music box, revealing a pirouetting ballerina
who shot poisoned flechettes from a hollow in her leg.
'Scoff at my macaroons, will you?' he said,
woozy from blood loss, dancer spinning in the breeze.
#26 - Blood Bounce
Something full of platelets pulses in her throat.
She's seen the blue borderlands of veins
that carve a baby's scalp into continents,
she has traced them with a finger,
wondering at the smell of digestives
and the sensation of peach fuzz on whorl.
Sometimes, in her dreams, she slides battalions
across a great map, tugging on a cheroot
between casualty reports. Each model soldier's skull
is hidden by a black bicorn. She shunts them,
cold as love, a brass field telescope
snug within her opera glove.
She's seen the blue borderlands of veins
that carve a baby's scalp into continents,
she has traced them with a finger,
wondering at the smell of digestives
and the sensation of peach fuzz on whorl.
Sometimes, in her dreams, she slides battalions
across a great map, tugging on a cheroot
between casualty reports. Each model soldier's skull
is hidden by a black bicorn. She shunts them,
cold as love, a brass field telescope
snug within her opera glove.
#25 - Fun
I do not enjoy hauling the soaked corpse of a cat from a well.
I derive no pleasure from the play of autumn sunlight
on its slick greenblack fur, from comparisons to fishbellies,
a raven's wing. If it gives off a scent of peat and marjoram,
that is for others to appreciate. I cannot rejoice
in the flattening grass as I set the body down,
nor applaud the first bluebottle to settle in the shallow
of its ear, wing membranes sparking magenta, goldburst.
I derive no pleasure from the play of autumn sunlight
on its slick greenblack fur, from comparisons to fishbellies,
a raven's wing. If it gives off a scent of peat and marjoram,
that is for others to appreciate. I cannot rejoice
in the flattening grass as I set the body down,
nor applaud the first bluebottle to settle in the shallow
of its ear, wing membranes sparking magenta, goldburst.
#24 - Indigo Supper
I think this omlette is making me psychic.
I think, as I saw at this round of beansy toast,
I see you pushing through butcher's strips
into a backroom bare-knuckle boxing match
between a pair of swarthy opthamologists.
When I supped my Bovril I heard cotton ripping.
I experienced an attack of overwhelming clairgustance:
if death tastes like a sort of vinegary ragout,
then I am afraid your days are numbered.
The French fancies taught me nothing.
Perhaps, some futures are not meant to be seen.
I think, as I saw at this round of beansy toast,
I see you pushing through butcher's strips
into a backroom bare-knuckle boxing match
between a pair of swarthy opthamologists.
When I supped my Bovril I heard cotton ripping.
I experienced an attack of overwhelming clairgustance:
if death tastes like a sort of vinegary ragout,
then I am afraid your days are numbered.
The French fancies taught me nothing.
Perhaps, some futures are not meant to be seen.
#23 - A Somnabulant Child
Little Geoffrey strolled into the secret meeting
before the dogmen could pull their masks back on.
'Kill him,' barked the delegate known only as Rex,
his face a palsy of sagging latex.
And if the doorhound drew his service revolver
with a little slowly, who could blame him?
Geoffrey was a sickly child with hollow cheeks,
wheezing inside Rupert the Bear pyjamas.
The exit wound was wide as a Winalot tin.
Geoffrey woke, standing in the kennels
amongst yowling pedigrees,
urinating on a miniature schnauzer.
before the dogmen could pull their masks back on.
'Kill him,' barked the delegate known only as Rex,
his face a palsy of sagging latex.
And if the doorhound drew his service revolver
with a little slowly, who could blame him?
Geoffrey was a sickly child with hollow cheeks,
wheezing inside Rupert the Bear pyjamas.
The exit wound was wide as a Winalot tin.
Geoffrey woke, standing in the kennels
amongst yowling pedigrees,
urinating on a miniature schnauzer.
#22 - How It Ends
The treasure chest is full of tiny pirates.
The detective gathers everyone in the drawing room,
then announces: 'Human consciousness does not survive death.
Now, who's for pasties?'
The dowager sloughs off her flesh
and becomes a sycamore.
The denouement is fractal, shattering into progressively smaller reveals
until the reader glances back over their shoulder to see
a second, larger reader eyeing the text in which they now reside,
hazel irises like thickets of squid tentacles,
their pupils an ink mirror.
The detective gathers everyone in the drawing room,
then announces: 'Human consciousness does not survive death.
Now, who's for pasties?'
The dowager sloughs off her flesh
and becomes a sycamore.
The denouement is fractal, shattering into progressively smaller reveals
until the reader glances back over their shoulder to see
a second, larger reader eyeing the text in which they now reside,
hazel irises like thickets of squid tentacles,
their pupils an ink mirror.
#21: Pork
So many pigs and so few excuses.
Michelle wafted the stench of soused chitlings
from her kitchenette
but forgot the string of sausages
that hung thickly round her neck.
'I am wearing them in the name of satire,'
she tried to persuade the sowish cabal
as they pressed into her living room,
dripping with slops. Their grey haunches
pushed her sofa to the wall.
The pigs trampled her coffee table
and pinned her with the black slots of their snouts.
Ham hock, went the cleaver head,
heavy as a bomb.
Ham hock. Ham hock.
Michelle wafted the stench of soused chitlings
from her kitchenette
but forgot the string of sausages
that hung thickly round her neck.
'I am wearing them in the name of satire,'
she tried to persuade the sowish cabal
as they pressed into her living room,
dripping with slops. Their grey haunches
pushed her sofa to the wall.
The pigs trampled her coffee table
and pinned her with the black slots of their snouts.
Ham hock, went the cleaver head,
heavy as a bomb.
Ham hock. Ham hock.
#20 - Street Hugger 2
So many torsos and only one pair of arms -
this is the world warrior's torment and belly-fire.
Do not flinch at his custard-coloured gi, and consent is presumed.
Are you ready for the fingerless gloves
in the small of your back, the tendons standing out in forearms,
the warmth of chest on chest as he grips you
in the shadow of the dying Buddha,
in the gale-stripped dojo at midnight,
on the banks of a swamp in the Brazilian rainforest,
wet decking croaking beneath your soles
as he squeezes, electricity flowing through your ribs,
as he whispers: 'Hey mate - I love you'?
this is the world warrior's torment and belly-fire.
Do not flinch at his custard-coloured gi, and consent is presumed.
Are you ready for the fingerless gloves
in the small of your back, the tendons standing out in forearms,
the warmth of chest on chest as he grips you
in the shadow of the dying Buddha,
in the gale-stripped dojo at midnight,
on the banks of a swamp in the Brazilian rainforest,
wet decking croaking beneath your soles
as he squeezes, electricity flowing through your ribs,
as he whispers: 'Hey mate - I love you'?
#19 - The Lumbago Deal
The lower daemon coin-walks herniated discs across his knuckles
while he waits for an answer. The chairs in the meeting room
are plaited spinal columns curling from slabs of muscle -
very uncomfortable. The advocate coughs and asks for a bolster.
Earthly acclaim, we offer. Supple, ageless skin
and honeyed admirers; brandywine liasons in hotel rooms
bracketed with lustrous chromium and pole-straight bedposts.
It is such a little thing we want in return.
A touch of supplication.
A bent back.
A bow.
while he waits for an answer. The chairs in the meeting room
are plaited spinal columns curling from slabs of muscle -
very uncomfortable. The advocate coughs and asks for a bolster.
Earthly acclaim, we offer. Supple, ageless skin
and honeyed admirers; brandywine liasons in hotel rooms
bracketed with lustrous chromium and pole-straight bedposts.
It is such a little thing we want in return.
A touch of supplication.
A bent back.
A bow.
#18 - Irksome Insight
Davide glances down at the banded ridges of his sternum
and realises he is a terrapin.
June's projected sales figures hang on the screen
like a guff in a windmill; someone at the back of the room coughs.
'As... as I was saying.' He tugs at his collar
with a flipper and tries to imagine his audience naked.
Underneath their suits, they are human as all hell:
genital hair, nipples, flesh that mulches in water.
He stabs the button for the next slide,
his dry shell scraping the wall.
and realises he is a terrapin.
June's projected sales figures hang on the screen
like a guff in a windmill; someone at the back of the room coughs.
'As... as I was saying.' He tugs at his collar
with a flipper and tries to imagine his audience naked.
Underneath their suits, they are human as all hell:
genital hair, nipples, flesh that mulches in water.
He stabs the button for the next slide,
his dry shell scraping the wall.
#17 - Where I Lay My Killing Hat
I squat and extrude a large mushroom-coloured egg, dripping with gleet.
The process is extremely painful, and I cry a little.
Hours later, when I am long gone, the shell hairline-splinters
with a high, quavering note, drawing the attention
of the restaurant's staff. A maitre'd scowls at the mess
with the arrogance customary to his people.
At the first glimpse of the forage cap, his mood only darkens.
Then the capillaries in his eyes burst, his throat contracts,
he faceplants into the dauphinoise potatoes.
The pianist continues to play, unruffled,
and a patron claps thick, rough palms,
calling for more rioja.
The process is extremely painful, and I cry a little.
Hours later, when I am long gone, the shell hairline-splinters
with a high, quavering note, drawing the attention
of the restaurant's staff. A maitre'd scowls at the mess
with the arrogance customary to his people.
At the first glimpse of the forage cap, his mood only darkens.
Then the capillaries in his eyes burst, his throat contracts,
he faceplants into the dauphinoise potatoes.
The pianist continues to play, unruffled,
and a patron claps thick, rough palms,
calling for more rioja.
#16 - We Sit Starving Amidst Our Gold
Each nugget has its special topography;
we map it with our phrenologist's fingers,
the lump rotating in our palms. Ah -
a slant towards criminality.
This fellow has the bulbous tumours
of madness in childhood.
Sometimes, the contours converge
on a hollow, like a bunker
or a dead lake. I let the pad of my ring finger
rest there, then I cast the rock aside,
and take the next from the heap.
we map it with our phrenologist's fingers,
the lump rotating in our palms. Ah -
a slant towards criminality.
This fellow has the bulbous tumours
of madness in childhood.
Sometimes, the contours converge
on a hollow, like a bunker
or a dead lake. I let the pad of my ring finger
rest there, then I cast the rock aside,
and take the next from the heap.
#15 - Never A Pancake Again
Hot batter forms a seal over the midwife's face,
scalding his eyelids. He feels the forceps lodge
in something soft and yielding, and thinks:
these workplace hijinks have gone too far.
He cannot breathe - the pancake forms a membrane
over his mouth which tightens when he tries to inhale.
He can hear the patient kicking at her stirrups, rocking
with laughter as he tries to poke an airhole with bloody fingers,
a putty-coloured baby squawling beneath
while lemon juice burns his eyes.
scalding his eyelids. He feels the forceps lodge
in something soft and yielding, and thinks:
these workplace hijinks have gone too far.
He cannot breathe - the pancake forms a membrane
over his mouth which tightens when he tries to inhale.
He can hear the patient kicking at her stirrups, rocking
with laughter as he tries to poke an airhole with bloody fingers,
a putty-coloured baby squawling beneath
while lemon juice burns his eyes.
#14 - Gluegun Injuries 2013
Beneath excellent Japanese knives, subcutaneous fat yields wetly.
Douglas slices through his belly with a surgeon's arrogance,
removes the part-digested Rustler burger
then administers the sealant - hot, clear glue.
He expects it to burn, his trigger-finger braced
against the impulse to disengage, green stars bursting
in his peripheral vision. He thinks of beach-ready bodies,
greyscale models on the cover of Men's Health
abs like giant ravioli,
crematoria.
Douglas slices through his belly with a surgeon's arrogance,
removes the part-digested Rustler burger
then administers the sealant - hot, clear glue.
He expects it to burn, his trigger-finger braced
against the impulse to disengage, green stars bursting
in his peripheral vision. He thinks of beach-ready bodies,
greyscale models on the cover of Men's Health
abs like giant ravioli,
crematoria.
#13 - Giant Octopus Attack In Melton Mowbray
Threshing arms rise from the River Eye and snarl round a postie's bike.
By the time the army arrives, our hero has wrapped herself round the church steeple,
coral-coloured suction cups kissing and unkissing the holy stone
as well-wishers stand beneath with hoses, keeping her hydrated.
Her body gleams like tonsils. Each of her eight arms tapers to a rounded tip
and the blobs of pigment under her skin ripple as she merges first with the verdigris,
then with the sky. The soldiers open fire.
You have never seen such ink.
By the time the army arrives, our hero has wrapped herself round the church steeple,
coral-coloured suction cups kissing and unkissing the holy stone
as well-wishers stand beneath with hoses, keeping her hydrated.
Her body gleams like tonsils. Each of her eight arms tapers to a rounded tip
and the blobs of pigment under her skin ripple as she merges first with the verdigris,
then with the sky. The soldiers open fire.
You have never seen such ink.
#12 - Don't Just Bloody Stand There
It was the last Movember before everything changed.
Oliver crowbarred open the sarcophagus
with a look of saucy joy, licking his purple lips.
Vanessa was filming it for her end-of-semester project.
The seal broke with a report that was half-pistol shot,
half almighty celestial shart. Adders began sinuating
from the gap. 'I have made a terrible error of judgement,'
he conceded as they burrowed into his skull
through the pulpy knuckle of his eye.
Black fire engulfed three continents.
Vanessa cut the footage to a soundtrack of Debussy
and eyeballs, mulching as the tomb collapsed.
Oliver crowbarred open the sarcophagus
with a look of saucy joy, licking his purple lips.
Vanessa was filming it for her end-of-semester project.
The seal broke with a report that was half-pistol shot,
half almighty celestial shart. Adders began sinuating
from the gap. 'I have made a terrible error of judgement,'
he conceded as they burrowed into his skull
through the pulpy knuckle of his eye.
Black fire engulfed three continents.
Vanessa cut the footage to a soundtrack of Debussy
and eyeballs, mulching as the tomb collapsed.
#11 - The Multitasker
I laugh while drowning my children.
I am sad while I laugh - this makes me complex.
I whistle while I slash the sack of plaster of paris -
it woofs into the jacuzzi, and I am able
to admire the purling white mist
while I position the wet cadavers
into a pleasing diorama.
I appreciate each moment, even as I run
through frozen alleys to evade the authorities.
I slash my calf on a stranger's cold frame
while looking into the clouds,
wondering at a sun pillar.
I am sad while I laugh - this makes me complex.
I whistle while I slash the sack of plaster of paris -
it woofs into the jacuzzi, and I am able
to admire the purling white mist
while I position the wet cadavers
into a pleasing diorama.
I appreciate each moment, even as I run
through frozen alleys to evade the authorities.
I slash my calf on a stranger's cold frame
while looking into the clouds,
wondering at a sun pillar.
#10 - A Mustache Made Of Stars
'I am colossal and extremely attractive,'
writes God in His Tinder profile,
then deletes it. Too bolshy.
He finds a selfie of Him dividing the light and the dark,
His tongue out, galaxies scattering in the background,
disregards it. He opts for the snap of Him at Six Flags,
winking in a vest top. The lens flare is perfect.
'YOLO' He writes,
and hopes they get the joke.
writes God in His Tinder profile,
then deletes it. Too bolshy.
He finds a selfie of Him dividing the light and the dark,
His tongue out, galaxies scattering in the background,
disregards it. He opts for the snap of Him at Six Flags,
winking in a vest top. The lens flare is perfect.
'YOLO' He writes,
and hopes they get the joke.
#9 - Destination: Havana
Bridget lashes seven infants together
and orders them to make for Alamendares River.
'You will know it by its brackish aroma.
Please stop crying.' Her sled is a sheer, miraculous thing
of varnished beech planks edged with flashing LEDs.
Flotation bladders hang from the sides.
Vials of iced tea sit in her bandolier like lovely ribs.
'Come on!' she cries. 'Swim, damn your red and weeping eyes!'
But the children are weak with decadence,
and merely bob.
and orders them to make for Alamendares River.
'You will know it by its brackish aroma.
Please stop crying.' Her sled is a sheer, miraculous thing
of varnished beech planks edged with flashing LEDs.
Flotation bladders hang from the sides.
Vials of iced tea sit in her bandolier like lovely ribs.
'Come on!' she cries. 'Swim, damn your red and weeping eyes!'
But the children are weak with decadence,
and merely bob.
#8 - Little Woman
The Little Woman is too big.
Her shoebox gets sawn in half.
The pill millipede she rides upon
gets its reins of red leather slashed
and its antennae kicked in.
Slogans appear, scratched into the dirt
beneath dog-roses in a font
only she can read.
She breaks off a wedge of beefsteak fungus
and thinks - drinks a keg of tansy-flavoured tea.
She whispers to the linnets and the hawfinches,
speaks instructions to the hawk-moths.
One night, when the moon is a white hook,
she snaps her fingers.
Her people strike.
Her shoebox gets sawn in half.
The pill millipede she rides upon
gets its reins of red leather slashed
and its antennae kicked in.
Slogans appear, scratched into the dirt
beneath dog-roses in a font
only she can read.
She breaks off a wedge of beefsteak fungus
and thinks - drinks a keg of tansy-flavoured tea.
She whispers to the linnets and the hawfinches,
speaks instructions to the hawk-moths.
One night, when the moon is a white hook,
she snaps her fingers.
Her people strike.
#7 - Despite The Satsuma
We roll a grenade into a family's Christmas sitting room
and dub the resultant massacre 'a pallaver'.
'Santa's not coming this year,' I announce to a theatreful
of baffled pensioners, having rappelled
into a performance of Guys & Dolls
dressed as an astronaut. They cannot hear me
through my helmet
and the din of detonating pipebombs in the foyer.
Above imitation fireplaces, stockings stretch beneath the burden
of fish guts and strange prayers written on bull hide.
We needle those we love dearest,
pressing hot chestnuts into the soft pouches of their eyes.
and dub the resultant massacre 'a pallaver'.
'Santa's not coming this year,' I announce to a theatreful
of baffled pensioners, having rappelled
into a performance of Guys & Dolls
dressed as an astronaut. They cannot hear me
through my helmet
and the din of detonating pipebombs in the foyer.
Above imitation fireplaces, stockings stretch beneath the burden
of fish guts and strange prayers written on bull hide.
We needle those we love dearest,
pressing hot chestnuts into the soft pouches of their eyes.
#6 - The Giveaway
When we ripped through the brown paper
we discovered fingers, tearing in the opposite direction.
The look on the stranger's face was one of disappointment.
'What a crap gift,' she said, wrinkling her snub nose
at us and our - admittedly cluttered - living room.
'No,' said my husband. 'You're our gift. We just unwrapped you.'
A standoff ensued, culminating in a sort of straining grapple;
my husband fell backwards and dashed his head on the coffee table.
There was no blood - just a mark where his skull had clipped the corner.
I knelt and kissed his clammy brow.
'Love is the true gift,' I said, in what I hoped was a mysterious, gnomic way,
while we waited for the paramedics.
we discovered fingers, tearing in the opposite direction.
The look on the stranger's face was one of disappointment.
'What a crap gift,' she said, wrinkling her snub nose
at us and our - admittedly cluttered - living room.
'No,' said my husband. 'You're our gift. We just unwrapped you.'
A standoff ensued, culminating in a sort of straining grapple;
my husband fell backwards and dashed his head on the coffee table.
There was no blood - just a mark where his skull had clipped the corner.
I knelt and kissed his clammy brow.
'Love is the true gift,' I said, in what I hoped was a mysterious, gnomic way,
while we waited for the paramedics.
#5 - Rough Winds
You have never seen the heat with which
the prow creams through the syruped ocean,
spume dashing itself against the gunwales
and a caucus of gulls looping round the mast.
I get younger everyday. Salt abrades the sharp lines
of my eyes and armpits, the keen edge of my nose,
rubs away my lips; my breasts sink back into my chest.
Who hasn't dreamt of such transformations?
Soon, my face will be smooth as a pearl.
I shall be no one at all, sailing blindly,
knowing nothing but the winds.
the prow creams through the syruped ocean,
spume dashing itself against the gunwales
and a caucus of gulls looping round the mast.
I get younger everyday. Salt abrades the sharp lines
of my eyes and armpits, the keen edge of my nose,
rubs away my lips; my breasts sink back into my chest.
Who hasn't dreamt of such transformations?
Soon, my face will be smooth as a pearl.
I shall be no one at all, sailing blindly,
knowing nothing but the winds.
#4 - Death Brag
Unbelievable saddle bags of gore pummel the cathedral roof,
bursting and drenching the gargoyles.
'This is not a sign, theologically speaking,' the bishop reassures his congregation,
wafting witchy fingers of green gas from the pulpit
and returning to his sermon,
which is about the small Haitian fetish he carries about his throat
on a length of twine, and how it saved his life,
hurling him from an automobile crash while his colleagues
burned in a cage of twisted metal,
slaying his numerous enemies,
singing to him, as he sleeps, harmonising with the rattle in his throat.
bursting and drenching the gargoyles.
'This is not a sign, theologically speaking,' the bishop reassures his congregation,
wafting witchy fingers of green gas from the pulpit
and returning to his sermon,
which is about the small Haitian fetish he carries about his throat
on a length of twine, and how it saved his life,
hurling him from an automobile crash while his colleagues
burned in a cage of twisted metal,
slaying his numerous enemies,
singing to him, as he sleeps, harmonising with the rattle in his throat.
#3 - Interesting. Very Interesting
Christophe emerges from the bathroom covered in oarweed,
his lips crawling with screech beetles and thrips.
This is not the anniversary surprise I had anticipated
and I tell him as much
but 'tophe is nothing if not implacable.
He comes at me, chest scale-mailed with shining chitinous hides,
exoskeletons crunching beneath his monster slippers.
Forgive me, their ticking, ruined hind legs seem to beg,
as he crushes yellow guts into the hearth rug.
his lips crawling with screech beetles and thrips.
This is not the anniversary surprise I had anticipated
and I tell him as much
but 'tophe is nothing if not implacable.
He comes at me, chest scale-mailed with shining chitinous hides,
exoskeletons crunching beneath his monster slippers.
Forgive me, their ticking, ruined hind legs seem to beg,
as he crushes yellow guts into the hearth rug.
2 - Wedding Ringworm
In our honeymoon suite, I unpop my silk shirt
and show her the scars: white hoops
disrupting the perfect symmetry of my four nipples,
flowing between my chest hair
like weird estuaries.
'They turn red when I get angry,' I breathe
to my fresh-minted wife, the Danube flat and squamous
through the window behind me.
She unhasps a scab on her kneecap;
clumsy calligraphy paints her shin.
and show her the scars: white hoops
disrupting the perfect symmetry of my four nipples,
flowing between my chest hair
like weird estuaries.
'They turn red when I get angry,' I breathe
to my fresh-minted wife, the Danube flat and squamous
through the window behind me.
She unhasps a scab on her kneecap;
clumsy calligraphy paints her shin.
#1 - Syndicate In The Basement
Daryl dips his index finger in the cistern then licks it.
Here is the code:
if it tastes of Um Bongo, the group's anonymity has been compromised.
Otherwise, he is to proceed to the Snoop Dogg poster
at the end of the narrow corridor outside,
pop the blu-tac at the base
and press his palm onto the copper contacts.
Somewhere deep within the building, magnetic locks uncouple
with a dry gasp; the lightbulbs flicker and dim.
He presents his iris to the concealed camera,
scratching the spider tattoo on the back of his hand,
the Spiderman tattoo across his breastbone.
Here is the code:
if it tastes of Um Bongo, the group's anonymity has been compromised.
Otherwise, he is to proceed to the Snoop Dogg poster
at the end of the narrow corridor outside,
pop the blu-tac at the base
and press his palm onto the copper contacts.
Somewhere deep within the building, magnetic locks uncouple
with a dry gasp; the lightbulbs flicker and dim.
He presents his iris to the concealed camera,
scratching the spider tattoo on the back of his hand,
the Spiderman tattoo across his breastbone.
Friday, 8 November 2013
On Friday November 22nd of this year, I will attempt to write 100 poems in a day - starting at 9am, and finishing before midnight. As you probably know, I have past form on this:
That's 402 poems all up in your facebrain. This year, I'm going to try to take us up past the half a k mark. That'll mean, for this project, I've written over 500 poems in a single working week.
But I cannot do it without your help! Every poem I write uses a title supplied by you, the... well, 'public' sounds weirdly formal. We're all the public. Basically people give me the poem titles and tweet me them on the day and I cover my desk with sheets of paper full of titles and hammer through them. Please suggest some titles for poems. Suggest ten, or twenty. Go hog-wild. I need 100, so chances are I'll use them!
Maybe you'd like to join in? Last year, Mark Grist and MC Mixy also wrote with me, and several other people attempted the challenge. Why not set up your own blog and try to write a 100 poems alongside me? 'Because I have better things to do' is a valid excuse. But c'mon.
Follow me on Twitter (I'm @timclarepoet) to read my poems on the day, as I write them. I'll post each one on this blog as I write it. Pop some titles in the comments below. Go.
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