Monthly Archive: December 2014

(The 70’s series) Fantasy about cooking a policemen derived from a French film

black fat rain-like on that duffle coat day

Would be November as we had gutted the bangers and made big ones in bean tin shells strong enough to burst like splinter farts. I had sulphur and a lighter, Steve T had petrol, Steve B had detonators from the railway sheds. These orange cordite eggs ready to fry or batter were a treat. Tramping down the St Mary’s we passed the Lullingstone where belly fat cropped menboys heeled the walls like storks and drank straights from fists. The estate is dark, lit by yellow piss stained walks planted with white dog crusts. Down a hole crouching toad-like we lit up and petrol blue seared the night fog frost with waving flares and bangs and slaps so loud that springing drunk with acrid smoke we drank our reddest hate till the policeman popped by. “Pig down pig.” Pushed flat back across the flames. His black skin we tore a strip by striped strip into scraps that sang in the sulphurous flames. Our eggs blew his thighs and eyes and thumbs like raspberries. Then we set about scoffing these scraps, in our slab patched estate of stale grey wheatabricks with the best smoked streaky we had ever tasted.

Spot

My friends friend lived on an island
No bigger than a dot
In a salty lake by bus 20 minutes or less
from our spot inland in the green heart.
He rowed to us and took us out to his special spot and…
From there to here I cannot remember so much as a drop
of what, not a drop more that that said.
Yet that drop has stuck like honey
Spread across my day time dream as a sweet spot sunny delight,
a boat a friend a friends friend a dot
no bigger than a dust smut whipped up by a Tuscan puff puff
In my eye of my time pastime.

This sad man (A Dickension rant for Christmas in Tadcaster)

Stiff collared, strung waisted and hitched up high
He approaches his town and his two a.m. sober stretch home to his hall
His business day is behind but night hides behind these wet December streets
Sludged and hair thin greased by the tears of those he has hurt.
He’s happy.

Passing are the public houses baking his bread to break at St Mary’s
Private brash badges, the cocks arse, the right git, the bastards brewery all his
Silent salons spill into the street like swamp
They speak only drowned cries from those he has hurt.
He’s happy.

The ill, the poor, the powerless, the deserving, the loyal, the workers
Smothered by his pillows of justice, pillows of the establishment he puns
Untroubled and flop wellingtons ahead squeezing a last note
From a Christmas croon – i – o, i – o, i – o – here’s to those he has hurt.
He’s happy.

Void shop boarded tight no souls or sales of sweets here .
Santa Humph marches on knuckle tapping sure the shutters in time to his song
Bars of begging bodies lie mixer stacked inside
Outside he rolls them with his foot in his head to the gutter – here’s hoping it hurts he says.
He’s happy.

Over his bridge, his river water bed of ale and rose struck Christmas lights
That should bloom gold in December in the wake of Harris tweed and soft sweet beer
But It runs rancid blue with the smith stain as he skip steps over
Fair fairy light like he flops toward his hall – the high walled hall built on hurt
He’s happy.

This is our hall in our flat faced slab of vale in our Yorkshire market town held hung by him
who’s claim is nowt but his mum and dad and other dead smiths
to wreck lives, to prosper and puff up his cocks arse, right git, the bastards brewery
till Sunday when he is forgiven – heres hoping he is – this sad man

Posterity take Tad back.

Speech for a poisoned rat

In our bungalow we are so close, one skin pressed to another
holds us head to foot pillow foot to head head together, held like breasted babies.

Though a crack under the sink in the gap under the floor till
where the house sits in its own shit.
Broke in on Monday night late shopping for dripping we
could smell them, smell us, and call our call to feed.
We can run like whips, in there’s more like eyes, dry eyes on plates asking to be eat and
straight off we’re stuffing on blue, the blue dry eyes, snorting soap flakes and Fairy
bathing in beef fat like Sunday dinners. What a way to go kids!
But what a thirst.
And she drank the wash water till she pissed herself and me we laughed a week.

She’s the one fat with a brood – just Tod
A drowned rat – just Tod
Still going though, can’t keep me down – just Tod.

Monday.
Her belly fatter than can ever be seen true.
Our babies inside fill up with gas like ripe cheese pop tarts.

If I could I would regret for them and her while
wrapped around the hot water pipe us two beef drunk lovers while
Sucking up the stuff like drains while
Sucking up the blue dry eyes while
Sucking, snorting, pissing, waiting to die and stink like rats do.

Lettuce and lit

In the midst of Trollope and Bird Song
Our hostess popped out for some lettuce
After nine o’clock this struck us
As right queer to say the least.

Was it the Trollope that had led her
To vacate in such a rush
Or Birdsong – garden – lettuce
A train of thought perhaps.

Our suspicions began to mount
As books were hardly a cause
For lopping away at a lollo
Or inching an iceberg out.

Closing the proceedings in haste
And gathering all of our thingies
With caution we snuck in the garden
Alack flat out in the veggies

As hard as a neglected beet
Purple from head to feet
With a lettuce limp in her hair
Bit Ophelia like we said.

Returning to Birdsong and Trollope
We said they were hard to compare
Our hearts however weren’t in it
With our leader composting out there.

We convened an emergency meeting
A theme for the very next meet
In honour of Beaty our hostess
The Lettuce and Lit (and une sweet
roma(i)n) beat. Agreed. Beat.

No lie no angst just tea

1) On the way we would stop in a lay-by for tea.
2) With powdered milk and perhaps a chocolate biscuit.
3) While we were there we would take a turn to pee.
4) Dad would struggle to light the wretched gadget.
5) Mum would say ‘See you can smell the sea.’
6) Dad would say ‘By nine o’clock we’ll make it.
With luck we’ll be able to park without a fee.’
7) The tea would scald and smell and taste of plastic.
8) Cars would pass the passengers looking pitifully.
9) The site of a folding family of four how tragic!
10) Our lay-by lives laid out for all to see.
A mum, a dad, a boy, a girl, just tea. A classic.
For once in these poems no lie no angst I’m happy.

(The 70’s series) Here to hear the bluebells ring

It’s blue but doesn’t ring they never do a bluebell at night should ring like the clappers to avoid feet like ours stamping all over them instead they hide in a black mush that smelt of horse and puddle the same black mush everything else is hiding in except us friends on a mission tonight you see we are here to set fire to stuff that is everyone except her she was here not to disappoint us oh no she won’t do that for she’s with Steve and Steve won’t let her disappoint not here to hear the bluebells ring except they never do not at night not ever not after we have trod them down and she and Steve have lain it then we can let rip and huff and burn the lot down not her though she is here to hear the bluebells ring she’s holding one now see it’s blue but doesn’t ring they never do.

We’ll hang teddies

Two boys too big to play with two teddies
Hang them by the neck from an open window
Like windless kites they scut and scitter
Bouncing tummies and bummies
The two boys don’t care that their pop eyes
Bird strung and flutter mandarin and black
On filaments till their heads roll and
stuff comes out.

The two teddies draw figures with their feet
Torville and Dean we shall liken them
They glance with their plug chain beads at
The sky the floor the floor the sky
“A wonder, what nursery is this where we fly
till the cow jumps the dish runs
and our heads spin like tops till
stuff comes out.”