100 Poems In A Day

#100 - City Road Bus Stop

2009-11-26T23:30:00.000Z

I'm at the bus stop,
thinking about that prick Kit
and how my fallen arches
make waiting so utterly shitty.

Nifty's teachers have asked us
to come in. Apparently he's
being disruptive. I have moments
where I genuinely wonder

if I love my kids. Is this it?
Am I supposed to be grateful
for this pipsqueak contentment?
I try to roll a cigarette -

my skins blow into the road.
Typical. These days, my lower
lumbar's crocked so I have to
make a decision when I stoop.

So this is what it is to be alive.
Gathering fag papers out the gutter.
I snatch up a fistful,
too damp to use

and then, I hear the bus horn.

I look up.
Death's wearing His conductor's cap.
His sockets are full of daylight.

I always knew He'd come back.

#99 - How I Managed To Steal Poem Ideas From Other Poets Using A Wiki Form Of Intellectual Property Theft

2009-11-26T23:20:00.000Z

Years later, those folk who had contributed
to the project would try to take him to court

for a tranche of the immense profits.
Unfortunately for them, he had bought

jurisprudence the previous summer.
Justice was dispensed via a sort of

novelty gumball machine
heaped with balls of Semtex.

'Those fools,' he gasped, drunk on the observation deck
of his flying castle yet again.

'Don't they understand that I control reality?'
He conjured a metaphor;

the rain became gunfire.

#98 - 8 Minutes In The Life Of A Poet

2009-11-26T23:13:00.000Z

I'm exhausted.
Delirious.
I've acquired a sort of palsied rocking motion.

Any desire to create, wrung out of me.
I feel like I've stood wanking
on a plinth for fifteen hours

expecting approval.
I want some broth. A hot bath.
A break from line breaks.

Two more.
Two more.

For
fuck's
sake.

#97 - Shopping Trolleys That Have A Dodgy Wheel

2009-11-26T23:09:00.000Z

The bad one leads you into gutters,
steers you towards the wrong aisle.

The bad one teaches you to wrestle,
puts the grunt and resentment into your gait.

The bad one forces you to concentrate.

#96 - With No Parameters

2009-11-26T23:04:00.000Z

the poem spreads like a crap infection
tunneling its way into places
it has no business going -

oh, here it is tackling global poverty
in a borish, scattershot way
while simultaneously

meditating, scrunch-browed,
on the first leaf of autumn,
a disquisition which leads it onto

fractals, and a breezy tour
of quantum physics containing
several factual errors within

just four lines.
Please, give me my cage bars.
These shackles keep my ankles warm.

#95 - Granny In A Bag (And Heading For The River)

2009-11-26T22:54:00.000Z

'Sorry,' I say to Kit, my boss,
'I'm just feeling a bit sensitive.
Yesterday I had to bury my grandmother.'

'I'm terribly sorry to hear that,'
says Kit gravely, removing his tricorn
as a mark of condolence.
'That must have been very hard.'

'Yes. She's a very tenacious woman.
Clawed her way back out within minutes.'
I mime yellow talons pushing up
through soil like dragon's teeth.
'Luckily I had the spade,
and a burlap sack.'

'Burlap,' repeats Kit,
enjoying the word.

#94 - Train Travel

2009-11-26T22:46:00.000Z

On our way to visit
the children's grandparents
in Frome

I catch a flash
of Death
through the window.

He stands in a ploughed field,
reaching to lay a white-twigged hand
on a chaffinch snipping at the new seeds
with its sharp beak.

For the next ten minutes
I can't speak.

'Daddy, Daddy, how many more stations
before-'
'Oh shut up, Gulliver!' I blurt.

I excuse myself, go to the toilet,
splash water not suitable for drinking
over my flushed face, try to stare myself
down in the mirror.

It makes things worse.
I've aged.
I'm looking more like Him everyday.

#93 - The Bible Distilled

2009-11-26T22:40:00.000Z

Once upon a time,
Death walked abroad

across the marshlands
and swamps, down tan beaches
and along the bottom of the empty ocean,

bored as buggery -
thud-headed with it, in fact -

all the while,
unaware of a perfect egg
who rode him pick-a-back.

One day, Death slipped.
The egg went

crack.

#92 - Sodden Hooks North

2009-11-26T22:32:00.000Z

traipsing through marshland with gumboots,
cane and compass, swatting at lambs

and apparitions of lambs in the mist,
grinning when the oak shaft connects

with something more solid than vapour.
He is in search of Winter's stomach;

once he finds it, old Sodden fully intends
to slit himself a sly entrance

then tuck up inside, relishing its caustic
warmth, the stripped carcasses'

slow relinquishing of their chastity.

#91 - What Happens When Your Eyebrows Meet?

2009-11-26T22:26:00.000Z

Well, they begin to plait,
then burrow back into your brain, son,
hunting for the frontal lobe,
the seat of motivation.

They feed on it, chewing through
white connective tissue
and replacing it with fur.
This is why the monobrowed
tend to be listless and poor
at taking the initiative.

Don't worry, it's not catching.
They deserve your pity
rather than your fear.

#90 - My Soul Is Heavy, With The Weight Of My Soul

2009-11-26T22:18:00.000Z

Perhaps it's the chest pains.
Towards the end, against all mounting evidence,
he begins to believe

he might actually be a poet.

After all, this is how
it's supposed to be, isn't it?

Verse flowing free, dancing on tanks
in the square, liberated from the petty fascism
of Editing and Content,
that doppelkopfed dictator
with red pens for fingers and a nice line
in slurs. Now he swings
from a dual gallows.

Yet the dread rises.
This is how it's supposed to be,
isn't it?

#89 - The Name Is A String

2009-11-26T22:14:00.000Z

You knot it round the bad molar,
tie the other end round a doorknob
then slam -

the poem ought to pop out
all bloody and free.
Ought to.

Lately though, it's gotten harder.
The door's begun to stick

and I'm running out of teeth.

#88 - Primary Itch

2009-11-26T22:01:00.000Z

He paces his study for days
claiming writer's block
but, in fact,
just randy.

It's tough, when all your friends
are 'colleagues', to explain
you've got this little
problem:

your thesis is going to be late
unless you get to hump
someone. Not very
scholarly.

The Classics may chunter on about love
but he suspects they were just
gussying up something
much blunter.

He treads the rug bald; feeds
pencil after pencil into
the automatic
sharpener.

#87 - An Irregular Complexity Of Filaments

2009-11-26T21:54:00.000Z

This spindling tic-leg intricacy
you get under a microscope -
how the proboscis seems to branch and fan,

not just black but glacier blue, taupe
and the white of a paparazzi flash:

Heh. 'PARASITE SLAMS "GROSS INVASION OF PRIVACY"'

I picture him leafing through a tiny tabloid
with his scissoring mandibles,
flinching when he finds his pics.

#86 - Gulliver, Nifty, Patience & Otter

2009-11-26T21:46:00.000Z

Almost a decade has passed since I last saw Death.

When I think of Him at all, which is rarely,
I put the affair down to the stress

of my father's terminal illness, and how
Death seemed to really understand.

My girlfriend and I are married now.
She has become quite successful with a range

of illustrated gardening manuals.
We have four children:

Gulliver, Nifty, Patience and Otter,
the last a little in-joke between me and her,

and only occasionally employed
to underscore a subtly barbed remark.

We are happy, whatever that vast,
featureless egg connotes.

We live in the country and mulch things.

#85 - When Kong Met Elvis

2009-11-26T21:30:00.000Z

'Wait...
I thought you...
Aren't you supposed to be...'

The two legends mirrored each other perfectly,
then burst out laughing.
From then on,
everything was gravy.

They wore sunglasses in public to protect
their identities; sometimes they baked
linseed bread - 'It exfoliates your colon,'
Elvis said, patting his rump with a rueful smirk.

Sunday was antiquing day -
they both hated kitsch for kitsch's sake,
they both loved walnut,
though Kong was the better haggler.

'Every night, you're in my prayers,'
Elvis often said, knowing this rankled
the staunchly atheist Kong, who, for his part,
had named the teapot Betrand.

They were too evenly matched at Chess
to really enjoy it. 'It's like you can read
my thoughts,' said Elvis, as again they sat
stalemated with two lone kings.

#84 - It Feels Tight As A Drum

2009-11-26T21:14:00.000Z

Beckoning towards the zipline,
Kit grins and twangs it with an index finger.

'Come on!' he cooes, 'bowel-evacuating terror
is just excitement rebranded. True empowerment

means learning to override all the emotional, environmental
and intellectual cues screaming:'

he cups his hairless hands around his lips:
'"Attempt This And You'll Never Walk Without Callipers!"

This isn't about personal judgement -
this is about tightening the team.

Remember: when you "rationalise",
you use "rash anal lies". Go on, sport!'

He slaps my back as if pinning on a sign.
I grip the zipline, glance down

towards a distant lake of sharpened staves
and razor wire. Kit slaps me a second time,

I step off the platform
and now I'm screaming through treetops

I'm crying, I'm alive,
hurtling into the arms of my new family.

#83 - Okay, But There's A Tram Coming

2009-11-26T21:05:00.000Z

Dutifully, Jack replicated his death
from his part in a production of the Pardoner's Tale,
which I had missed due to my escalating affair

with Death.
He clutched at his lapels, dug parentheses
into the skin over his collar bone
and howled up at the streetlamp

which, brilliantly, chose that moment to strobe;
his howl grew choked as he simulated
the poison's closing of his throat and he dropped
onto his knees against the snowy cobblestones,
going now cod-eyed and cod-gobbed

God, I thought, I can see why everyone
was making such a fuss about my missing this,

then, of course, with perfect fidelity
to his part, he wedged his boot toe
in the tracks. He tugged and yanked

until the tram grew big as God.

#82 - Playing In The Swamp

2009-11-26T20:56:00.000Z

Those cosy, shaded days
we would thunder across dark logs
then whoop with mirth

when one of our number fell
to an alligator, its thrashing salmon
rise, the golf clap

of its jaws,
the way, after the death roll,
bubbles plopped lazily from its nostrils.

Once, we exhumed a tinker's corpse
almost perfectly preserved in a tar pit
and set him to sit upright on an old tea chest,

guarding our treehouse
with his charcoal skin
and braces.

#81 - Bukkake Senryu

2009-11-26T20:53:00.000Z

Strictly speaking, no
season word, yet I can't help
thinking about snow.

#80 - I Hope You Return From Spain With Herpes And An Unwanted Child

2009-11-26T20:46:00.000Z

You probably think Herpes is a Spanish name, don't you?
You'll probably call the kind Herpes, won't you,
or Herpes Jr, sweet little Herpes nuzzling round
your bedsit floor, his tiny nads blooming with warts,

Herpes Jr gnawing the edges off your social life
like a mouse in the library, and you, suddenly
granted enough time to become briefly aware
of your own mortality,

that lift-plunge light bulb insight instant
where you see the kid's white new eyes,
and the veins through your hands
and you get it
you get it
you get it

#79 - A Day In The Infirmary

2009-11-26T20:39:00.000Z

We skated down disinfected corridors on beds
meant for the sick or dying, crooning
into mobile drips like they were Elvis mics.

We thought our antics might lift the stricken
patients' spirits, but it transpires
if you're bedridden and in traction

laughter's a poor substitute for qualified
medical professionals and morphine.
Also, no one was laughing,

except us, and our laughter was mainly derisive,
aimed at the retired school teacher who kept
reciting his old register, flying into a fury

whenever he reached Evans.

#78 - Burgers

2009-11-26T20:27:00.000Z

I bump into Death
at the queue for the burger van.
'Oh, hi,' I say. 'Are you
getting burgers?'
then wince.

Death doesn't seem to mind
my poor small talk.
I think we're both a bit pissed.

Onions squeak on the hotplate.
Death and I stand side by side,
not speaking, and watch a fight
kicking off

over by the historic market.
A man with tight curly hair grapples
another, tugging his red jumper
up over his head till the second man
is stumbling blindly. The fight
dissolves into pisstake jeers,
then laughter.

'Better to laugh than fight,' I say.
'We could learn-' I turn to look.
Death is gone.

#77 - (That's Not A Title Suggestion)

2009-11-26T20:20:00.000Z

which comes as a blessed relief,
a little breather between controlled detonations
where I try to slap some circulation back
into my fat, numb legs, pick
fragments of Kinder Bueno from my molar pits
and experience mild visual hallucinations
(little hypercoloured worms, fluxing depth
perception, entry level stuff).

I grasp for a finish line analogy,
but I'm too tired to hold it till it fixes.

#76 - Vikings

2009-11-26T20:15:00.000Z

Here's to those spectacular norsemen
who can yank out their wet bowelropes
hand over hand like a handkerchief trick,
knot them into a balloon dachshund
then, clutching the fore and hind paws
pantomime machine gunning a crowd of schoolkids,
to squeals of delight and requests for:
'More! More!'

#75 - Christopher Christopher Christopher Christopher

2009-11-26T20:04:00.000Z

stumbles into the meeting with a crazy look
and a sheaf of flyers for a student revue
taking place in his cornea.

Temporarily stunned, Janet stands beside
her flipchart, her telescopic baton lowered,
as he moves about the room
saying something vaguely hucksterish in broken French.

'What do you mean, in your eye?' tries Ian,
suspecting one of the pranks for which
Christopher is justly notorious.

'Regardez,' Chris says, peeling down
his lower lid to expose a howling portal
that drags in Ian, screeching like
a bereaved peasant woman.

#74 - The Crust Of Pies

2009-11-26T19:56:00.000Z

Ivan has this nightmare where he crowbars
off the dry, papery lid of a huge pie
like some giant insect's dessicated thorax,

only inside, instead of mortal loads of gooey gobbets,
lungbags and thudding sacs, guts and cud-like muck
amongst dendrite tangles slick with gravy,

he finds another, smaller pastry shell,
which he cracks through to find another,
then another. He hacks through nesting doll layers,

flakes of pastry whipping up
round his head
like dead leaves,
or burning pages.

#73 - Deception Sex Triangle

2009-11-26T19:44:00.000Z

'I think my girlfriend is starting to suspect,'
I tell Death as we stand together

at the foot of the otter's grave. I am here
on the pretext of laying fresh lilies

out of a continuing guilt at the otter's death,
but in fact Death and I have been meeting

to chat about mortality. His head is like
a novelty ashtray, and, perhaps because of this,

I have taken up smoking. 'We ought to make this
our last meeting,' I say, wincing as I inhale,

'there's only so long she'll believe I'm mourning
an otter.' The wind moans in Death's hollow head.

'All good things, eh?' I try a smile.
Death turns to regard the otter's headstone

with the grating whisper of crepitus.

#72 - You Light Up My Life Like Fake Tits Light Up A Bonfire

2009-11-26T19:36:00.000Z

that is to say,
not especially well,
and only after a shoulder barge.

On the other hand,
excellent sex and good illumination
go together like handcuffs and hacksaws.

O fragrant lady,
leave my world noirish and crepuscular,
sneak up in a dark alley

and cosh me
cosh me
cosh me

#71 - Shortest Limerick Ever

2009-11-26T19:35:00.000Z

There once was a man with no time

#70 - Flying Ant Invasion Blues

2009-11-26T19:23:00.000Z

Gaffer tape the windows shut if you insist -
they'll only construct an exact replica of your house
facing back towards yours, then seal up their windows,

tutting,
in that prissy way that flying ants do,
you know - tsk, tsk, tsk, like a glitching harddrive.

And they've got a newer kitchen than yours,
though it's not like they make the best of it -
Agaloads of jam tarts and nowt else.

Soon they'll have bought up half the neighbourhood,
pavements slick with pheromones, their massed bodies
blotting the sun.

#69 - Okay, So I Didn't Invent The Superbowl Jetpack, But

2009-11-26T19:13:00.000Z

'at least I'll save the life
of this one otter,' I tell Lucy,

the slick otter slipping from my grip
and bouncing off the banister rail

four floors below. I look up at her,
my hands already raised in a shrug

from where, seconds before,
I'd been cradling the otter like a baby.

Her mouth hangs open like an otter's.
Unfortunately, I become defensive:

'Oh, sure, that's right,' I say, 'I suppose
this is yet another thing that Dan wouldn't do.

Dan, Dan, bloody Dan.' Now that my hands are free,
I can be more demonstrative with my gestures.

'If you love Dan so much, well,
why don't you marry him?'

Her eye twitches, like the webbed paw
of a dying otter.

'Dan is my brother,' she asserts.

#68 - Jenny Gets Earache

2009-11-26T19:07:00.000Z

That day, the escritoire
had a cat in it.

She interpreted this,
incorrectly,

as a sign she was due
to come into some money.

Later, as she stooped
for bills on the mat,

the throbbing started,
sort of like sonar;

she tilted her head,
twizzled a cottonbud -

beetles exited in a black,
crackling tide.

#67 - Punk Tie At Aunt Pat's Wake

2009-11-26T18:56:00.000Z

Rat poison at Christine's baby shower
Stilts and gas mask at the divorce hearing
Fistful of catherine wheels at the inquest
Eggy breath at the orgy
Flourescent lice at the hygiene inspection
Puncture wounds in the mandrill
Toblerone at the colonoscopy
Activation codes in the Beano
Waxed moustache on a stolen peach
Grand mal seizure on Muscle Beach

#66 - Kicking Custard

2009-11-26T18:49:00.000Z

Can't get enough of the yellow stuff?

I sympathise, I really do. Once upon a time
I'd nosh through six or seven bowls
before breakfast, just to calm the shakes
in my spoon hand.
Soon it was a pot in the lift,
a pot when I was supposed to be taking a shit -
we've all got our crazy stories,
don't feel ashamed. In therapy groups
they're kind of like currency
you can spend on kudos, rhetorical authority,
cigarettes.

I used to spend mine on more custard,
to my shame.

#65 - Squandered Obelisks

2009-11-26T18:41:00.000Z

Greg is busy scratching a bell-end into a junction box
when the world suddenly, catastrophically ends.

He is carbonised instantly, the sticky black veneer
Of his corpse coating the box as blasts

launch it into space. In millennia to come,
an alien civilisation's academics lever handsome

research grants for speculating on the origin
of this odd, austere monolith,

the probable heraldic provenance of the stylised
fleur-de-lis etched into its base.

#64 - Slam Dunk My Love

2009-11-26T18:33:00.000Z

O gangle-limbed object of my pane-misting lust,
dribble me against the polished planks
of a dirty metaphor and don't stop long enough

to wonder what it all achieves, when you really
think about it. Poets have a grand tradition
of evoking death to get sex - and in joining

that tradition, we both achieve a technical
sort of immortality, cold ballskin against
your effort-rouged cheeks, ten seconds left

on the cock. Sorry, clock.

#63 - Break Neck

2009-11-26T18:30:00.000Z

At this speed, inspiration drains away
like slobber from the chops
of a happy dog riding pillion.

That mystical ton keeps appearing
just out of sight in my nightmares,
its hot breaths like the open door

of an oven.

#62 - I Intend To Murder ________ (Insert Public Figure)

2009-11-26T18:17:00.000Z

Dear _________ (lead presenter of trusted news outlet)
I intend to murder __________ (insert public figure)
On ___________ (national holiday)
Because he/she:
a) taunts me with his/her clammy gurning slap-baiter
b) is, in reality, fifty fieldmice in a human suit
c) gave me VD
d) all of the above (delete as appropriate)
I will do so via:
a) an RPG fired off the back of a float in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade
b) a poisoned milkshake delivered by children
c) disclosing existential truths so depressing he/she commits suicide
d) all of the above (delete as appropriate)
Yours sincerely, ____________ (name beginning with 'H')

#61 - Toby Jones' Lost Fuck

2009-11-26T18:07:00.000Z

O, he would walk the barrel-vaulted catacombs
with slobbering torch and a terrible, howling mouth

like a hole torn in a jersey,
blinded by rheum and tears.

His rages would windmill, gathering momentum
till he was clawing at the dank walls:

'GLORIA! GLOOORIA!'
The phantom appellation of a sure thing

evaporated in the time it took
for him to turn towards her,

tilt his head,
and vomit down her blouse.

#60 - Ripe

2009-11-26T17:59:00.000Z

'Well, if not now, then when?'
Jez says, having snuck into Nathan's
willy orchard. I see scrumping
as a patriotic act, he will later blog,
but for now, he shushes Cassandra
with an index finger against the corner of her mouth

and a kiss to the front.
With his free hand, he reaches up
and picks a farm-fresh todge right off
the branch. If I'm candid, I was thrilled
by his audacity, Cassandra's status update for tomorrow will read.

A klaxon starts up.
A bank of floodlights drowns them.
'Get down on the ground, and thread your hands
behind your back!' comes the bullhorned order,
helicopter downdraft flattening the grass.

#59 - About Bones

2009-11-26T17:52:00.000Z

I have seen Death around town,
driving a metaphorical bus
He uses to mow down the ungrateful.

I think I have caught Him making eyes
at me, the millstone scrape
as those dual aeries swivel to track

my route to the recycling bins
and back. I walk a little straighter,
tighten my buttocks inside my cords.

#58 - Woodlouse In Vienna

2009-11-26T17:45:00.000Z

Woodlouse wanders around the Staatsoper
with a little woodlouse-sized top hat
and a diamond-tipped cane with

'woodlouse'

etched down the shaft.
Actually, the gem is paste,
but at these dimensions

all but the keenest eyes

are taken in. Besides, Woodlouse
is here to listen to some Mozart,
not flaunt his considerable wealth.

The conductor lifts his baton.

Already, Woodlouse can see
this will be a class act;
he fiddles his little legs with glee.

#57 - The Hump

2009-11-26T17:34:00.000Z

It began as more of a warm patch
but by week three it was clear that Delphine
was coming over hunchbacked.

'Hey Quasimodo!' heckled a hoop-earringed woman in the audience,
'Why don't you go ring a bell or something?
Why don't you go to Notre Dame and ring a bell,' she yelled,
'eh Hunchy? You big hunchbacked bell-ringing freak!
You big dromedary-esque campanile-dwelling outcast
who rings bells! You massive ding-dong huncho!
You lumpy gobshite!'

Delphine cursed herself for not writing
some hunchback material. 'I remember
when I had my first drink,' she mumbled,
as the crowd surged onstage
and bludgeoned her unconscious.

#56 - Me And My Quiff

2009-11-26T17:27:00.000Z

sit on the quay eating battered calamari rings
and talking about girls.
'What do you think girls like to read?'
asks my quiff.

'Oh, Yeats I suppose,' I say.
I am not very enthralled by the conversation today.
Previous questions my quiff has asked me include:
'Do you think girls like volcanoes?'
'What do you think a girl's favourite month is?'
'If a girl could send a letterbomb to anyone in the world,
who do you think she would send it to?'

'Actually, I expect she would send a scented letter
or something like that,' is how I answered the last.
My quiff seemed very impressed.
He is quite naive about girls.

'Would a girl cry if she saw a ghost?' he says,
and I throw a squid ring to a snap-beaked gull.

#55 - Readiness In The Morning, So Jump, Boy, Jump

2009-11-26T17:23:00.000Z

It's a beautiful, scatalogical day!

Squint hard enough, and the rising sun
becomes a shizing bum.
This is the secret power of rhyme.
Hold it in your cupped hands like a hot
glowing sprite - adopt an attitude of wonder
and the rapt expression you've seen on
toy adverts, so your friends will cluster round
to see this rare treat for themselves,
then push a small moist pretzel
of dog mess into their credulous faces.
This is a lesson more precious than gold,
though less malleable.

#54 - Dino Blood

2009-11-26T17:12:00.000Z

You ran your tongue along my
cranial frill without hesitation,

in fact, it was the first thing you went for,
which made me think you were either The One or

poorly in the head. After one or two
unsettling experiences with nutbars I'd come to view

a tot of repulsion as a necessary barometer
of sanity in lovers - the taloned toes,

the steam-shovel jaw, the eyes that closed
sideways - to recoil from those,

at first, meant normal. You, I've come to know,
will never be that; dragging home carrion,
buzzing up to my flat.

#53 - The Argos Catalogue Of Horrors

2009-11-26T17:06:00.000Z

We order everything.
The form takes a long time to fill in -
you go through six of those little blue pens,
commenting more than once that you wish there was a
'buy everything' box you could tick. I chuckle politely
both times you say it, whilst privately disdaining your lack
of retail acumen. When we finally get to pick it up from the collection point,
it is mostly thigh bones, tendons, hunks of cartilage,
and also a set of dumbbells.

'We'll never use these,' I say, doing a bicep curl
with a bloodied femur, and we share a chuckle.

#52 - Eating Veggie Burgers In The Dinosaur Park

2009-11-26T16:58:00.000Z

Ruth gives the Utahraptor a stern look:

'There's no meat,' she says, presenting the burger
like a burger puppet.

'Ey dino, I'm made from soya protein,
you beeeg stupid eeeediot,' she makes the bap jeer
in a cod gaucho drawl. It is the most liberated

I have ever seen her. I encourage her to continue
using the veggie burger as a comedic foil;
she blossoms like mould in a bread bin.
One evening, the burger follows us to the bedroom.

For the first time since I've known her,
Ruth becomes a predator.

#51 - Tell Me I'm Wrong, Bitch

2009-11-26T16:51:00.000Z

Am I not merciful?
Am I not talented?
Am I not possessed of copious skills
in the realm of legerdemain?
Is this not your card?
Is this not the number you were thinking of?

Edgar snatches his top hat
from the occasional table
and punches a crown through it,
releasing a cascade of frantic doves

his aunt impassive
as a drugged spider.

#50 - Air-Punch

2009-11-26T16:43:00.000Z

Yes! I've reached 50 poems!
This is almost as good as that time
I got off with three birds in one

week then got nearly five hundred quid
back in tax, I say to an empty room
that smells of stale washing.

I need to pee. I am nauseous, paranoid,
stricken with double-vision,
behind schedule and watching as my work

declines in quality, hitting a new low
as it becomes meta, self-referential,
a cry for help as the spike roof descends.

#49 - I'm Flying To Copenhagen To Reclaim Climate Justice

2009-11-26T16:37:00.000Z

clinging to an aeroplane's under-carriage
crowing: 'Look at me! I'm America's energy policy!'

oil spilling from my wind-chapped lips
like Vimto - 'An anagram of vomit!' I'll add,

to no one.

Once there, I will unveil a car
powered entirely by smug irony.

Shoreditch will instantly thrum with a chorus
happy of motors; skeptics and wearied protestors

alike will pootle around emitting nothing
but a colourless mist of eggy flatus.

I'll travel home by train.

#48 - Sandgun

2009-11-26T16:31:00.000Z

I mistook it for my hairdryer
and blasted away most indentifying marks
before I realised.

I checked in the mirror
and liked what I saw:
my head scrying orb smooth

like a big, whorl-less thumb,
a looking-glass brow;
men would gaze upon me
and, in my depths, face themselves.

I put on a boater,
to make it a bit less confrontational.

#47 - We Are Closed Every Tuesday

2009-11-26T16:27:00.000Z

So Herman returns on Wednesday
at 9am sharp, having spent the night

constructing his complaint out of driftwood
and reclaimed timber. He has fixed it to four wheels

and tugs it along the pavement on a bit of twine.
One of the wheels sticks a bit.

He bangs on the door with the heel of his fist,
pug-nosed against the frosted glass,

his complaint compliant at his heel like a wooden horse,
like a little pig.

#46 - Gravity

2009-11-26T16:21:00.000Z

Alice wants the rest of the gang
to know how very serious she is,
so she dons an improvised judge's wig
fashioned from a bathmat, and bangs
her garlic crusher gavel against a tin
of prunes.

She craves order like a sponge craves
blood. She's jonesing for it,
slamming her hammer, glaring
at them all for still talking.

'Order!' she spits, 'Order!'
her phlegm hitting the sunbeam like spritzer fizz,
like tiny stars.

#45 - Louis Walsh

2009-11-26T16:15:00.000Z

sits in the library, sniffing old books about anatomy
eggs on a six-year-old in a fist fight
lights a strip of newspaper and watches
slices a banana into medallions with an easy grace
snaps the noses off plaster saints
kisses, on the brow, a statue of Jesus when he thinks no one's watching
retires his fantasy rugby team
eats Coco Pops for his pudding
laughs at a rerun of Russ Abbot, then feels embarrassed
finds a plectrum at the back of his washing machine
listens to Debussy, but doesn't really enjoy it

#44 - Great Personal Offence

2009-11-26T16:02:00.000Z

They gasped and clutched at the folds of their lace ruffs,
puffing up then weeping wretchedly, tears soiling
their velveteen gloves, their perfect pencil moustaches,
their brocaded etiquette guides with the woodcuts of pugs
on every verso page, their lavatory covers
and their doilied occasional tables,
their dark rages, their secret lockboxes,
the terrible treble of their taut larynxes.

#43 - I Sat Down Awkwardly

2009-11-26T15:58:00.000Z

He clutched at the seat of his spine
like he was reaching for the zip
but his pain was a weird rod buried deep
beneath folds of hide and layers of butter.

People scuttled to his aid, then,
realising - as if for the first time -
that they were not trained chiropractors,
they simply orbited, cooing

which made it worse. 'Just give me
some fucking breathing room!' he snorted,
reminding them all, in that instant,
of an ogre who'd lost his spanner.

#42 - BBC Local Radio

2009-11-26T15:36:00.000Z

'Next up, we've got a young man
unmoored from his morality.'

The presenter cues a short sound clip
of a furious mob attacking a bus.

'Tim Clare is a poet,' she says
over the sound of breaking glass.

'Tim, you claim possession of a brain
and expect us to take your word for it -

how do we know your actions aren't directed
by a trapped bat or suchlike, slamming

against the walls of your hollow skull?'
There is a pause like a whale diving.

'To answer your second question first,'
replies the poet, 'I get my ideas

from the skittish man tethered in my boiler room.
I've promised him liberty once I've finished

my first collection. I never claimed to be an artist.
I'd like something by Billie Holiday please -

for my mum, Jackie.' You can hear the disappointment
as they cut to the news.

#41 - Galactic Combat Battle Pony Ride

2009-11-26T15:28:00.000Z

My mock-ups are failing to delight them.
I move to the next slide:

'Look at this motherfucker,' I say
of the Venn Diagram, 'it's like the Olympic rings

or some shit.' Demographics invade each others'
loci like an unrealistic diversity mural.

'I project that by 2015, every child
will be watching this show.' I click up

the next slide, showing a globe bloated
with ponies. Gun cupolas bulge

from the barding on their cupcake flanks.
'Some twice.' I click again.

The horses multiply.

#40 - Why So Many Blank DVDs?

2009-11-26T15:24:00.000Z

'And from whence the dead prostitute
in the bath, her eyes
all stabbed out
and verses from Leviticus carved
into her marbling chest?'
probes mother,
suddenly engaged after twenty-three years
of laissez-faire parenting.

'Shh,' I whisper,
monkey-hunched before my Macbook.
'I'm burning something.'

#39 - This Is The Best Villanelle Ever

2009-11-26T15:04:00.000Z

I explained: It's awfully clever
My fidelity to a traditional form
This is the best villanelle ever

Light-touched like the stroke of a feather
Yet homely and earthy and warm
I explained: It's awfully clever

I showed it to my poet friend, Trevor,
He told me: 'It went down a storm!
This is the best villanelle ever!'

'Would you lie to me?' I asked him. 'Never!'
Said Trev, 'When I speak I inform!
I explained: It's awfully clever!'

So he published it all bound in leather
And left copies strewn all round the dorm.
This is the best villanelle ever.

Though it may not give hints about whether
The Beatles will ever reform
I explained, it's awfully clever.
This is the best villanelle ever.

#38 - Shame At Bill's All You Can Eat Diner

2009-11-26T14:52:00.000Z

The hot sauce
The pepper pot
The red and white checked tablecloth
Patrons' wedding rings sucked off their digits like boiled sweets
The light fittings, bulbs crunching in gullet
The specials board, licking off each stray chalked apostrophe
The waitresses' false eyelashes
The fritzing jukebox
The autographed photo of Ben Kingsley
Three packs of plastic-backed cards and a cribbage board
The reluctant lino
Boris, the proportional dwarf
The cash register
The hygiene certificate
Bill
The small pouch of tobacco
The police's armed response unit
The horrified media
The skeletal autumn trees
The setting sun
The cola black darkness

#37 - Sky Fortune

2009-11-26T14:41:00.000Z

Ah, the ripe legends of those endless acres
and the first farmers who strapped balloons
to their belts and rose up to claim them.

They sowed the peculiar postscript of their laboratories
and reaped a viscous bounty - cordial tears
streaking church steeples while vicars inside

lectured on the perilous path of the Godplayer,
aiming pedagogical forefingers at each member
of their dwindling congregations, like men

handing out cough sweets.

Of course it ended in disaster. These stories
always do. Oceans soured and expired;
fish turned their dead bellies to the moon.

We tell these tales to keep our heads down;
to boot our flighty feet
and keep us heavy on the ground.

#36 - Sleeping Myself To Death

2009-11-26T14:32:00.000Z

In my dream, I am talking to you
but glancing over your shoulder at Death

who stands in the corner of the party
holding a quart of rum and looking bored.
Though I love you so much that,
sometimes,
I remind myself
don't squeeze too hard,
imagining a bagpipes full of porridge scenario,
I think Death and I will probably
hook up in the end.

In the dream,
there's a grim inevitability about the whole thing.
I can feel the gravity well of His indifference
tugging on my groin and I know,
if you don't catch us at it one day,
it will be the other way round:

me, home from work early,
finding you on the living room carpet,
Death's ribs wrapped around you like
a wonderful cage.

#35 - The Best Nothing Ever

2009-11-26T14:11:00.000Z

We rifled through our pockets for stuff
we wouldn't miss
to toss into the void.

Tilly threw a Costa till receipt
wrapped round a 2p piece for heft.

When it hit the purling vortex
it went off like a flashbang;

we were left staring at a photo negative
of her outstretched arm
for minutes, giggling
at our newfound blindness
and that lingering instant.

Leonard threw on a conker
that evaporated in a tickle of larksong;
Uncle Craig flung in his trilby

then realised too late
his cashcard was tucked inside.
'Oh fuck!' he cried,
watching it buckle in on itself like a souffle
before sloughing apart.

Something in that moment caught me.

I was unzipping my flies;
my trousers hit the void and smashed
into a hundred and fifty creamy moths;
Tilly's bra detonated like the far-off
crump of ordnance;
eye-glasses
turned the air thick with incense;
we threw everything

into that sucking mouth

so black it shone,
so deep
it filled us.

#34 - Fuck-Steam

2009-11-26T14:02:00.000Z

As it transpired, we lacked the passion
to push a small brass flywheel
through a single revolution.

'Oh come on!' I exhorted,
dealing my winky a backhanded slap
like it was an uncooperative suspect.

Your accusatory looks did nothing
to help the situation, but then,
you have always been about light and

contrast. Suddenly, the sun caught
your teethtips just right - I couldn't help
but grin. 'Choo choo!' I cried.

'Here comes the steam engine!'

#33 - Too Happy To Write

2009-11-26T13:54:00.000Z

I glimpsed infinity once -
dull as a circle.
Contentment has no flaws to clutch
your cleats into

and for that reason
I'm out.

Whenever a girl ends a relationship with me,
I feel the ringing in my ears
and the cold surge at the front of my cranium
and I think:
oh good,
I can use this to curry favour
with an audience at a later date.

When things go well, I get edgy
as a wireframe dodecahedron.
There is no grist in this pleasant
candlelit dinner,
I tell myself,
and pass the shitting salt.

#32 - In Defence Of Long Poems

2009-11-26T13:44:00.000Z

If you must know, I find low self-esteem
charming. Haikus have a swagger
that makes me want to dry retch,

like some kimono-clad arts professor
who swans into the party's second room,
announces some recondite maxim then

about-faces, inscrutible smirk
smeared all over his cheeks like jam.
Fuck him

and his lack of stamina
mascarading as high truth. Let us
each in turn follow him out that door

then buttonhole him in a corner
of the kitchen, lecturing him at the length
about the shape of conches

and appalling glue
till he cannot stand
for shrinking.

#31 - John Berkavitch And His Amazing Travels To Cambodia

2009-11-26T13:31:00.000Z

He touches two fingers to the side of the King's neck.
'Dead,' he says, gravely.

Gasps throughout the palace. The Queen
slumps and is carried away.

Rising, John licks the tip of a digit. 'No trace of poison.
This assassin was direct.' He straightens his hat,

then climbs out of the blast crater,
through the mulch of King Sihamoni's legs.

He sparks a cigarette. 'Don't worry Prime Minister.
I'll get those bastards yet.'

#30 - Why I Can't Accept Your Friend Request

2009-11-26T13:22:00.000Z

We are too alike, you and I,
like Hitler and

Mecha-Hitler - allied in ideology
yet destined to fight

and believe you me there are those who would
egg us on, slapping coshes or lit sticks of dynamite

into our callused palms, hissing:
'He said you eat bellends on toast. He called your mum

the Blowjob Queen,' into our eager ears.
I don't want that. I know

you don't either. The chanting, sweaty circle,
the Korean bookies with their chalkboards

and prodigious memories. I do not want to have to
stay my hand as a hundred gargoyled spectators yell:

'Kill! Kill! Kill!' Your splintered nose; your pregnant wife,
wracked and anxious, waiting for the big purse.

#29 - Event Cancelled Due To Promoter Illness

2009-11-26T13:18:00.000Z

'This was the worst idea
for a band name ever,'
says Eddie, our drummer,
glumly regarding the empty hall.

'Shut up,' I say,
and my words echo
like applause up a mineshaft.

#28 - Dramatic Exits

2009-11-26T13:07:00.000Z

The emoting in the serious burns ward
is too hammy for the casting director.
Someone moans like a walrus

and he pinches the bridge of his red nose.
'Jesus.' He's after something
a little more muted - 'just a smidge,'

he adds, with an arched brow that suggests
extreme understatement. We try soap bubbles
but he scowls at their tweeness;

the white dot zap of a TV
makes him exclaim 'Bastard!' and slap me
across the chops with a rolled up copy

of The Tribune; obituaries ink themselves
in reverse across his sweaty palm.
Finally, watching a bath drain,

he gives up. 'It's useless,' he sags,
and, just like that,
he finds his finale.

#27 - And Here's A Poem I Prepared Earlier

2009-11-26T12:56:00.000Z

An elegant, portentous blimp
Rumbles into the first stanza,
Lightning streaking the sky either side
Like air quotes.

Under the gondola, a ski-masked champion
rappels down a black line
onto a skyscraper giddy with swivelling turrets.
He is killed instantly.

The disappointment of the watching crowd below
is probably a metaphor
for the end of childhood
or maybe marriage,

you decide,
Godzilla trudging glumly through downtown
like a bag lady.

#26 - The Stereophonics

2009-11-26T12:45:00.000Z

meet bimonthly in a gazebo
that Kelly Jones renovated himself.
Javier Weyler brings a plate of Viennese Whirls.

'Oh great!' says Kelly, tucking in,
'I love these.'

Richard is taking the minutes,
but aside from this nod to formality,
the meeting proceeds with the easy conviviality
and good-natured ribbing of a family
Christmas dinner.

Kelly has written a song 'about meeting a ghost
from your past'; he hums the melody
and everyone agrees it will be a keeper.
Javier suggests an Asterix theme
for their next tour
but is shouted down.

When they leave, Kelly takes one last sniff
of the gazebo's distinct
creosote and old wood aroma,
then locks the door
with a big brass key
he keeps in the glove compartment
of his Suzuki Grand Vitara.

#25 - Ring Me With Your Schisms, Nick

2009-11-26T12:38:00.000Z

The gaps between calls get shorter.

'Eating is out for me, this week,'
he asserts, breathy and effete.

I think he is trying to be sexy.
'Is this some pathetic attempt

to seduce me, Nicholas?' I say, affecting
a cod Parisian accent, 'or something more

sinister?' A dial tone before I reach
my last syllable. The clever bastard.

I trace the call to the apartment downstairs.
When I confront him, a man in a string vest

eating grilled mushrooms on toast,
he is unrepentant. 'I found an absolute truth once,'

he boasts. 'Light slid off it. It was slick
as a larded marble.'

The absolute truth, surely, I think,
and smirk at this small victory.

#24 - Hot Tea And Tragedy

2009-11-26T12:29:00.000Z

This is the way the Brits like it:
Jesus all pronged by croquet hoops on the east lawn,
Ophelia face down amongst the koi carp -
that sort of lark.

Never better than when framed
by chunks of blasting architecture,
the bulldog dragging his game leg
through runny landscapes of beef
and offal, pocket watches gleaming
in stiffening hands,
mechanisms seized with something
dark and acrid.

What are we without a Blitz
to turn us to whizzing shards?
Where are we without a bully
to present our glass jaws to,
to wait for that exquisite crunch?

#23 - Otter Chaos

2009-11-26T12:16:00.000Z

'Hello? I'd like to add a driver
onto my insurance.'

I hear the sibilance of webbed paws
on a keyboard. 'Hello?' I repeat.

In the background, excited chittering,
the distinctive slap-slurp of freshwater fish

getting brained then noshed.
'I'd like to add a driver onto my insurance.

Is there anyone there who speaks English?'
I am ashamed at my own impatience;

I slather my resentment in guilt - it is like trying
to hide a corpse with a tablecloth.

Of course, you can't go slaying them wholesale
without upsetting some holier-than-thou Zoroastrian.

'Hello?'

The chittering is beginning to sound suspiciously
like mocking laughter.

#22 - Sestina For Your Mum

2009-11-26T12:06:00.000Z

Each night, she’d trudge home sluggish and shagged
From the shop floor, wave ta-ra with work-leathered palm to Roger,
Angus, Trevor, board her bus; a journey taken to the bum
Score of phone wire Jays and foil-cap foiling Blue Tits,
Milky-beaked and shrill as the hot, grime-shafted
Axles grinding, grinding, refusing to keep mum.

A stinking palanquin to a familiar door and cries of: ‘Mum!’
Sticky mitts padding cold coat, the huff of coarse-shagged
Sheepdog, wet-plodding, tongue-lolling through narrow-shafted
Banister rails. Your father’s grin-greeting was a wan Jolly Roger
As he scrubbed at the brown-speckled roasting pan. ‘Shit – it’s
Baked on!’ he’d cuss, cursing his ostensible bum

Luck now she was in earshot, hoping to bum
Help from the children’s more capable mum.
Your mum. So she would scrub each pot. ‘It’s
Okay,’ she’d say, while Dad lit an amply-shagged
Pipe bowl, puffed peaty clouds, asked after Roger,
Trevor, Angus. Never her. In the moonlight-shafted

Kitchen she scrubbed alone; her wrists felt glass-hafted
In the tepid sink water. Your Dad would snore like a bum,
Snort-splutter short bursts like a radio: ‘Roger!
Low visibility...’ Snippets from his RAF days; a maximum
Of four words before they dissolved into a shagged,
Sleep-drugged drawl. Your father dreamt. It’s

Hard to say of what; perhaps volleys of Great Tits
Hurtling through sun-uddered cloudbanks like plump-shafted
Arrows; maybe a basset hound, asleep on a lavishly-shagged
Hearth rug, or the muted bi-bum, bi-bum, bi-bum,
Of a distant brass band’s bass drum; certainly, your mum
Did not know. Bathing her wrists, she’d think of Roger

From the shop; tall, kind-eyed, slow moving Roger,
Who once, all auditorium-mouthed, told her: ‘Don’t fret. It’s
A fog-swirled and seasick thing, being “Mum”;
A sour draft and a bronze and silver shafted
Gift; a straight flush from a dirty deck and a bum
Deal designed to leave you woe-drunk and shagged.’

Of course, they shagged. She begged him to roger
Her up her slack bum. He squeezed her tits –
That is, I did, son. I’m Roger. I shafted your mum.

#21 - Fight Fire With Adverts

2009-11-26T11:56:00.000Z

Via a graphic and controversial billboard campaign,
the government managed to make self-immolation

antisocial. Suddenly, those newsreels of speed-charring Vietnamese monks
felt dated - we wondered how we managed to watch

those stuntmen in flame-retardant suits stagger across
sound stages without wrinkling our noses.

You would see friends gently dispossess friends
of cans of paraffin at the end of the night,

a synapse spark of fraternity jumping between them
as their eyes met, yet refusing to light.

#20 - Fuckingham Palace

2009-11-26T11:48:00.000Z

'I loved the Queen Mum,' Greg says
with a conspiratorial air

I don't quite comprehend.
'Right,' I sympathise. 'I suppose
she was a human being, just like you,

or Martin there.' I point to Martin,
playing the Cluedo pub trivia machine.
Good old Martin.

'No.' Greg is suddenly vexed.
'You don't understand.
I loved the Queen Mum.'

He rises and pumps his elbows.
'But I'll never sell my story,' he says,
sitting back down.

Martin gets the last answer right
and the machine ejects twenty gold likenesses
of her majesty.

#19 - Emergency

2009-11-26T11:40:00.000Z

If you're lashed to the mast
the sirens lose their power.

An ambulance shot past
in the opposite direction
so fast, its dopplered wail
sounded like a baby
falling past a tower block window.

I kept my head down,
hands out of trouble in snug pockets,
a half-smile under my hood
as behind me

the first charge went off
like a blast of spume.

#18 - Gutter Sunrise

2009-11-26T11:34:00.000Z

We awoke in the tacky caul
of communion merlot, a vernix
of old fags about our cracked lips.

We could hear
From the noise of the milk float's tyres
that it had rained overnight
then we felt it in our coats.

Bottles we'd drunk deeply from
now clanked about our ankles
like shale or blown-glass crabs.
I would have kicked them aside, but my legs

were vacuum tubes in a burnt-out set
and we hadn't had breakfast, yet.

#17 - Recital At Turkey Point

2009-11-26T11:21:00.000Z

The gulch had a cow skull in it
which we worried was too much
then agreed on as being 'pretty fucking cool'.

I began standing on a rock
Next to a saguaro cactus like a shrapnelled ogre.

'These are the people who have offended me,'
I intoned, opening a scroll that unfurled
with a flourish, the far end bouncing off my boots
then rolling the several metres to my colleagues.
On the horizon behind me, an electrical storm
Gathered itself above a tan mesa.

'One, the man at the airport, who said I had
filled in my entry card incorrectly.'
Sporadic applause like apathetic sniper fire.
'Two, the French mathematician Jacques Tits.'
At the back, Rudy guffaws.

'Three, Rudy,' I say,
making a hasty amendment with my ballpoint pen,
'that crass bastard.'

#16 - Bad Slice

2009-11-26T11:09:00.000Z

'Don't tell me how to play golf,'
Wanda reprimands the strange, wild-eyed calisthenics instructor

who has wandered onto the green,
dispensing advice like vol au vents.

But she knows he is right.
This only stokes her ire. Her eye

ticks like a gnat's licking at her tear duct.
'And anyway, I don't see you

struggling under the weight of umpteen
pro-am trophies, Nick Faldo,' these last syllables

dripping with especial sardonic relish.
She wields her five iron righteously.

The man's vim drains like pus from a boil.
His eyes moisten; as he slopes away

he remembers to bend his legs.

#15 - No Bricks

2009-11-26T10:58:00.000Z

I call them
'Socialism via the backdoor'
and leave it at that.
Hateful clods.

Give me a lovely mud hut
or log cabin, the massed pats
of cud-chomping cattle,
a marquee, a glass palace,
a dumpster, a cardboard crawlspace,
a treehouse spackled with heron poo,
reeds threshed into a shelter,
the boot of a Nissan Micra,
a trench, a brolly,
a spare room -
I'm not fussy.
Just spare me the footsoldiers
of Communism. Those bland,
indistinguished grunts
locked together
like sad slabs.

#14 - I Would Like To Take The Opportunity To Introduce Myself

2009-11-26T10:46:00.001Z

This is my scrimshaw chess set
and this is my hat -
see how the fine brim doubles
as a mischief balustrade.

I stiffen my felt death warrant
with mercury. This is my pet
barrister, Stephen Quinn.
Say hello, Stephen.

This is the standard waiver
I give to all new acquaintances.
This is a painting of some breakfast.
Think nothing of it.

This is my left glove.
As you can see
I am wearing it on my right hand.
I am something of a practical joker.

This is my fob watch.
This is my monogrammed cigarette case.
This is my mobile phone.
This is my Neighbours ringtone.

This is Stephen's first attempt at batique.
I realise it looks like a bloodied handkerchief.
Don't panic!
This is my bloodied handkerchief.

This is my memoir.
This is my dedication:
To Alexander,
You'll never get it, will you?

#13 - Hurricane Futures

2009-11-26T10:37:00.000Z

We'll watch cows and red pickups
double helixing and think
do you remember the days
before this felt clichéd?

Gusts will be expected to pluck
a gobbet of peach ice cream
from one punter's cone and drop it
intact in the socket of someone's

cup and ball game fifteen miles
down the road. We will yawn at
clattering shutters, maelstroming
uprooted mailboxes, their little red flags

clacking up then down, like a critic
sighing: 'Next!
Next!
NEXT!'

#12 - Variations On A Jaffa

2009-11-26T10:25:00.000Z

I strafe past the historic market

flinging them like shurikens:
'It's all in the wrist

you complacent bourgeois bastards!'
I later write in my blog,

'One hit the tarpaulin
behind the lady selling secondhand books -

she looked very unsure!!!'
The next day I check my comments

to discover someone with the handle 'Danny_Weston'
has called me 'sad wanker'. Ha!

I picture him alone in a cold cellar, leaning
against an old cobwebbed boiler and weeping

as he pushes disc after disc
into his sad, dry mouth.

#11 - The Creep

2009-11-26T10:17:00.000Z

It starts with a mottling of the extremities -
in some cases, minor tufts
of fur, like bread mould -
perhaps you find yourself

looking at your Saturday morning reflection and catch
a glimpse of another eye
behind your own, peering
out the iris like a lovely porthole.

Doctors will insist you have
'nothing to worry about' -
which has never been true -
only to get you out of their offices;

the fact is, this putty frame
could never hold you.
It's sloughing off like tallow.
At last, you're becoming yourself.

#10 - Nathan And The Willy Tree

2009-11-26T10:07:00.000Z

'Right now, they're like sticky, puckered grubs,'
says Nathan, tapping one of the willies

with a bit of twig.
Nathan has a way with similes
because, before he became a willy farmer,
he was a poet

who specialised in pastoral scenes.
'Some people eat them young -
early willies have a certain...'
he circles his twig in the precise, sharp Spring air,
conjuring le mot juste,
'... piquancy. Poignancy?'
He looks at me,
smiling sheepishly.
'Do I mean poignancy or piquancy?'

Behind him, each willy is a soft, pale
chrysalis and I think
he has never looked so beautiful.

#9 - My Book's Better Than Your Book

2009-11-26T09:58:00.000Z

I open my book in a cold autumn park -

a child immediately topples from the swings,
blood drooling from his blameless eyes.

Am I claiming there was a causal link?
Well, let's just say that page 24,

paragraph three, has the phrase: 'Children
bleed from the eyes because they are manipulative.

What they lack in restraint they make up for
in grand guignol set pieces. We ought to

give them a small, ambiguous trinket each time
they act up like this and say: "Here

is your reward," coldly, the way a traffic warden
might when tucking a ticket behind the windscreen wiper

of an empty car in Winter.' I slap
my book shut -

a tramp's skull collapses
like bellows.

#8 - Five Level Opera

2009-11-26T09:49:00.000Z

'Bel Canto my
vast, gourd-like bosoms!'

mutters the Valkyrie,
backhanding pretzel crumbs

from her wet moustache.
She has a face like thunder.

On the glitching TV behind the bar,
a chorus line of animatronic pigs

is singing Rogers and Hammerstein numbers
on a set built to resemble an Atlantic cruise liner.

'Pigs,' she spits. 'The lot of them.'
She glares at the bartender,

a slight man with a wet moustache
like a Sharpie prank.

He pulls her another beer, glancing nervously
at the shelfloads of intact glassware.

#7 - The Mail Order Bride Loses Her Looks

2009-11-26T09:43:00.000Z

These days, the mirror is getting to be
Her dearest friend.

'Good morning mirror!' she trills
in her best RP salutation.

Her face looks increasingly like a suit
stuffed into hand luggage on a long haul -

one crease in particular looks thrillingly
like a scar from a knife fight.

She runs an index finger down its smooth vertigo,
then begins to brush her long,

dry, thinning hair, singing a lullaby
in a language she can no longer think in,

grey strands coming away with the bristles
in threes, tens, great wretched clumps.

#6 - Fuck Denmark

2009-11-26T09:35:00.000Z

cussed Hamlet,
tore off some wax paper from a big roll
in the kitchen

wrapped a bit of coffee cake in it
then buggered off.

He went to the beach first,
plunged his forearm into rockpools

and brought up shells, wet pebbles
that gleamed like magic eggs.
He listened to the soft clacking sound

they made as they jostled in his cupped hands
then let them drop back in
through a skein of black bladderwrack
like a drowned girl's hair.

#5 - Mr Gristle

2009-11-26T09:29:00.000Z

He's vigorous, at least;

grasping at the wet-lipped ventilator
over his tracheotomy hole whenever he wants
to belch something especially emotive:

'Russell! Russell!' his good eye
roving from the pink slump of his head
like a tinker peering
through a knothole,
'Russell! Russell!'

And, of course,
I come running.
'What is it this time,
Mr Gristle?' adding
a pantomime eye roll,
trying
not to look at the mass
of keloid scars
decorating his chest like a botched tattoo.

'Are we going to play
silly buggers again?'

#4 - Infinite Gary

2009-11-26T09:22:00.000Z

Gary was fooling no one
except his girlfriend, Brenda,
(a credulous beast at best for whom
falsifiability and the scientific method

were alien as beards on starlings -
'Let me introduce you to my friend
Mr Occam and his Incredible
Razor!' friends would jeer when shattering
another of her ridiculous and capricious
beliefs)

and the media, who popped
and shutterbugged below like a tide

of exploding lobsters; he rested
his fists on his hips and looked down.

'Citizens of Cheam,' he announced into a bank of microphones,
his voice deep and even as a trench,

'do not fear.
I am your hero.'

His cape billowed and flapped
like a pirate flag.

#3 - A Baker Falls Over

2009-11-26T09:16:00.000Z

There are whispers that the whole thing was
faked.

'I heard
he was angling for a reality TV deal,'
said Dempsey

through a caul of steam,
pulling a rack of sponges from the oven
like toe tagged John Does.

Then, Dempsey always was a vicious bastard.
Once, I caught him laughing himself sick
over Youtube footage of a man getting kicked

in the groin a lot, in a park
in Athens. The title of the video was:
Top Baker Gets Kicked In Nuts -
HILARIOUS!!!

#2 - Bank Job

2009-11-26T09:10:00.000Z

The safe cracker was appallingly unfit for purpose -

a sort of novelty balloon
in the shape of a lightning bolt
with the words:
Open Sesame! printed down both sides
in a fancy pseudo Arabian script.

I sighed inwardly and,
with it floating a little way
above my stockinged head,
I approached the clerk
and explained that I was Zeus,
and would she please begin tossing
tens and twenties into
a paper bag
like a yesteryear grocer.

#1 - Do You Want Some Company?

2009-11-26T09:00:00.000Z

The vicar sidled up to me with teeth
like toffees pressed into a new wound.

'I could help you decide what to cook your
beloved for tea,' he simpered, 'we

could do a jigsaw together,' and I heard
the shuck as he produced a 500-piece

fractured painting from beneath his cassock. 'One side
is Constable's "The Hay Wain", the other is beans.'

I imagined hundreds of man-sized baked beans
bottlenecking at church exits in a panicked stampede

trying to flee one of his interminable sermons,
his arms flailing as if he were a traffic policeman

his pulpit a blur of flame and bad static.