Never Trust a Womble

Nu Metal Sonnet

2012-02-05T11:49:00.000-08:00

A sonnet that didn't quite make the cut for http://28sonnetslater.blogspot.com/ I thought you might like to read it anyway. I'm afraid it doesn't show me in a very flattering light...

The best songs are the ones that say fuck

WhenI consider how my youth was spent

arush of shame still washes through me,

asI recall myself. I could not see

itwas Nu Metal marked my dark descent.

Intwisted, misspent youth I lived content

topardon every wanton dropped D.

Ilearnt the words to Korn religiously;

woreblack like the perfect malcontent.

Ifmusic shapes our fragile teenage minds

whathope have I of being well-adjusted?

Davis,Shaddix and Durst were just enough.

It'ssacrilege! Hip-hop and rock combined!

Mymusic taste is not to be trusted.

Whilethere's still a chance I may Break Stuff.

Coming Out

2012-02-04T03:00:00.000-08:00

Coming out

Some people mistake

my intensity for hate.

My propensity

to speak candidly

is something youdespised in me.

I started out, tooyoung to see

why I was an atrocity

why you'd avert yourgaze from me.

My crime was to speakopenly.

But I'm too wise to letfear rise in me.

I baulk at yourmendacity.

Still I won't letduplicity

put on the brakes andhinder me.

I'll be what I was bornto be.

Your anger fills a wellfor me

I'll deeply drink yourjealousy.

Your actions, once ahell for me –

repugnant in ferocity –

spurred me to make themost of me.

A glorious tenacity.

Nourished bycatastrophe

and painful, blunttoxicity

of you who swore I'dnever be

that which I'mcompelled to be

that which flows insideof me

and sweeps throughoutmy entity.

I let it out and nowit's free.

And now you're just aghost to me

And I am who I'm meantto be.

28 Sonnets Later

2012-02-01T10:28:00.000-08:00

Three wonderful poets (and me) were set the challenge to write a sonnet a day during the month of February. The result? 28 Sonnets Later, a blog celebrating the form in all its fourteen-lined goodness! Today, day one, See Andy Bennett contemplating the untold wonders of hoover bags, Egyptology and Ozymandias. Look out for my first sonnet tomorrow!

http://28sonnetslater.blogspot.com/

Writer's circle post - January

2012-01-29T01:42:00.001-08:00

Kaleidoscope

The room wascold and Grant pulled his hoody closer around him. The blood on thesleeve had dried, but it still glistened black under the light fromthe bed-side lamp. He pressed the bandage against his forehead andwinced at the pain from the wound underneath. The smell of antisepticstill clung to his nostrils, mingled now with the faint scent ofcleaned vomit. The nurse sat at a computer behind reinforced glass.

Grant fishedhis phone from his pocket and pushed the buttons fitfully. He wantedto call someone. He felt his left leg begin to twitch and consciouslyshifted his weight over the ball of his foot to heighten thesensation. The leg trembled violently and Grant pressed his heel intothe floor, releasing the trapped nerve. His legs continued to shake.Shock was setting in.

But at leastthe ward was quiet now. Now more accusatory stares from the otherpatients. No more stages whispers from behind cupped palms. Theydidn't know what had happened. How could they possibly be expected tounderstand?

Grant riskeda glance at Sophie, and immediately wished he hadn't. His stomachlurched and a vein in his temple throbbed painfully, the familiardizzy sickness of guilt. There was no way he could make up for this,no way she would ever forgive him. If only she hadn't been drinkingthat night, if only he hadn't let her words get the better of him.Even now, after all that had happened, Grant couldn't bring himselfto touch her. Fear lodged behind his tongue and he coughedconvulsively. The nurses regarded him with detached disdain.

The clock onthe opposite wall had just struck five and the watery light of dawnwas slowly beginning to filter through the gaps in the blinds. Theyhad only been here two hours. It felt much longer.

Grantdisliked hospitals, particularly St John's. He had only been theretwice before and each time he had made a promise to himself that hewould not return. The wards were old and narrow, and the dark greenwalls reminded him of the interior of a submarine. The long,windowless corridors seemed as though they were several hundredmeters below the pacific ocean and the distant, rhythmic tones ofheart monitoring equipment might easily be mistaken for sonar.

Claustrophobiawas not something which Grant would freely admit to suffering, buthere, the walls pressed against him like the sides of a collapsingtent. He stood up and felt a rush of blood to the head, litres andlitres of blood that seemed to pool behind his eyes. An inkyblackness began to nibble at the edges of his vision. He sat downheavily.

Suddenly, hewas very aware of his hands; great clumsy paws, knuckles bloodied.They were still slick with disinfectant from the alcohol wash stationand he rubbed them on his jeans to remove the grease, juggling hisphone from palm to palm as he did so. His hands remained stubbornlywet, lubricated by sweat which made it hard to operate the touchscreen of the mobile.

There was aplastic cup filled with instant coffee on the table between his chairand the bed, but it smelt like wet earth and he couldn't bringhimself to drink it. He didn't think he would capable of swallowinganyway, not with his heart in his mouth like this.

He glancedabsently about the ward and noticed a bony nurse with straggly blondehair shuffling briskly through the ward, alighting at each bed andchecking the charts. She switched off the few lamps that had beenilluminating the room and silently opened the blinds so that the pinklight cast long shadows across the linoleum floor. Grant lookedacross at Sophie. She looked so small in the vast white bed, blanketsexpertly folded up under her blackened chin. The bruises on her facestood out against her pale skin and there were dark circles under hereyes. She smiled softly as she slept; it was hard to imagine thatshe was same person as she had been the night before.

Findinghimself unable to dial, Grant shoved his phone back into his pocket.In truth, all he really wanted to do was ring Moira. Or Dad. To letthem know what had happened. To let them know he was ok. But theconversation would be too hard. It was hard to speak to his father atthe best of times, and Moira would only worry. He would ring them inthe morning, once he'd got everything straight in his own mind.

Hewondered absently if the other patients knew. If they could somehowtell by his face, or the way he slumped in his chair. There were twonurses standing at the end of Sophie's bed now. One clutchingSophie's chart and whispering in hurried tones to the other, whostared unwaveringly at Grant. Straining his ears, Grant caughtthe phrases 'car crash' and 'drunk-driver.' Of course. They allthought he was tanked up. Grant fumed. His hands involuntarily balledinto fists and he felt every muscle in his body tense. He baredgritted teeth to the two women and they paled and shrunk away to thedesk behind the glass.

'Fuckingpassed the breathalyser, didn't I?'

In the bedbeside him, Sophie stirred. She'd been given her a lot of sedative,how could she be awake already? He wasn't ready to talk to her. Notyet.

He had thesudden, overwhelming urge to run. He didn't want to be there when shewoke up. He knew he wouldn't be able to tell her the truth, butequally, he couldn't lie to her. There was no way to make it allright again. It was an accident, he protested, I didn'tmean to hurt her. I just wanted to scare her a bit. I just wanted herto shut up. I didn't mean for this to happen.

It was agood line of defence. He almost believed it himself.

He decidedto leave the room. He'd just go downstairs and sit in the canteen fora few hours. He'd still be in the building, so he wouldn't reallyhave left her. Really, he'd just be giving her a bit of breathingspace. It was the best thing to do. He felt like he was going tothrow up. He was a coward, just like his father had always said. Hegingerly shifted in his seat. The chair creaked ominously. He stoppedbut Sophie's sleeping form remained still. Trying to make as littlenoise as possible, he pressed his palms onto the arm-rests of thechair and deliberately eased himself from the seat. The chair slippedbeneath his grasp, its metal legs clanging against the floor like thechains in a dungeon.

'Grant?Grant, is that you?'

Grantshuffled the chair closer to the bedside and leant his elbows on themattress. It felt like concrete. He carefully moved aside the tubesthat snaked from the machines into Sophie's arm, and took her handtightly in his own.

'It's meSoph, I'm here.'

He felt hersqueeze his hand; three short pulses and a longer one. The signal shealways gave him, like Morse code. It frightened him. He let go.

'Grant, I'mscared.' Sophie breathed unsteadily, 'What happened?' She moved herhead from side to side. 'I can't see you.'

'It's okSoph. We... we had an accident. We're at the hospital.' Grant's eyesfelt suddenly itchy and he used his free hand to rub them hard, untillittle bursts of light appeared beneath his eyelids. 'You're hurtSoph. But you're gunna be all right. The doctors are coming in a fewhours to see how you are. Then we can go home.'

He oftenforgot that she was only seventeen, but here, without make up or herskinny jeans and with her dark hair scraped back into a severeponytail, the difference in their ages became starkly obvious. Shelooked so fragile, like a china doll. It was strange to think she hasbeen capable of all those barbed comments; that such an acidic tonguecould lie within such a delicate skull.

'What? Whataccident? What time is it?' She asked him. 'Grant?' Sophie graspedat the air with her hands. Her eyes, though open, remained strangelyunfocused. Grant caught her hand in his. It felt warm beneath hisfingers.

'We were atMike's party, babe.' Grant said gently. 'Do you remember? Then weleft and we had an accident and you got hurt and now you need to restuntil you feel better.'

Sophiesighed.

'Ifeel weird Grant. My head feels funny. And my eyes. What time is it? Do you think the doctor will come round in the morning?'

'It'smorning now babe. The doctors are coming round in a few hours.' Hepaused. 'Do you really not remember last night at all?'

'No. Notreally. I mean, I remember the karaoke. And that lethal gin punch.And when Jay's brother hit that guy that Sadie was with and they allhad to leave. I remember saying goodbye to Matt and Lorna and Eddie.But after that...there's nothing.'

Itwas almost perfect.

'Well, erm,we left Mike's and we stopped for petrol on Roe Hill. You had apacket of Smarties and I bought some blue Rizzla. I rolled a fag inthe layby, then we went home. We went the back way, past that houseyour Mum used to live in, West Fen Road. We had an accident Soph. Thecar skidded and I couldn't get it back on the tarmac. We hit a tree.It was an accident and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry...'

Sophie feltthe shiver of emotion run along Grant's arm as his shoulders rose andfell convulsively. He tried not to make a noise, but his choked sobsechoed around the ward. One of the nurses discreetly shuffled overand placed a box of tissues on the end of the bed. It went unnoticed.

'I didn'tmean for this to happen.' Grant wailed. 'I'm sorry.' He lent over andrested his head on her chest, his face hidden in the folds of thebedsheets, wetting her hospital gown with his tears.

'Hey,' shesaid, stroking his hair. 'Come on. It's ok. I'm fine. Honestly. Don'tget upset now! You're supposed to be the one supporting me, not theother way around!' She brought his hand up to her face and kissed itgently. 'It's ok, I promise. Sometimes these things just happen. Nolasting damage, right?'

'But Soph,don't you remember? When the ambulance came? And you were screaming?And there was blood everywhere. You said you couldn't see. You hityour head so hard. They think you've damaged your brain.' Grantsniffed again. 'You might not ever be able to see again.'

Grant cameback from the canteen to find Sophie awake and staring at theceiling. They had given her a lot of sedative, and she had beenasleep for over sixteen hours. Grant sat down in the chair beside herbed and placed the plastic cup filled with instant coffee next to theother three cups that remained undrunk.

For a while,no one spoke. The only noises came from the steady metronome of theclock and the gentle buzzing of the medical equipment. Somewherewithin the bowels of the hospital some one coughed.

'It'sfunny.' Sophie murmured, lying motionless on the bed. 'It's dark, Imean, it's completely black. But there are these weird triangles oflight. They started off in the corners, but now they're moving aroundall across my eyes. And they move around when I move my head. It'skind of like a kaleidoscope. Like there are all these shards ofcoloured glass in my eyes, all mixed up. None of the pieces fittogether, but it makes these amazing patterns, you know?'

She inclinedher head towards Grant. 'It's like what you said last night before wehit that tree. We're a fucking mess, right? Like broken glass in akaleidoscope. The whole thing's totally fucking chaotic. But it'sbeautiful too, you know?'

'I'm sosorry.'

'I know.'

Codpiece

2012-01-15T07:21:00.000-08:00

For Megan

Codpiece

So, fat with mead andhumble,

to the bedchamber westumble,

to partake in lustfulfumbles

there upon the bed ofstraw.

And my lord, withfingers itching,

moves to loosen all thestitching

of his codpiece whichis twitching

and to the floor doesfall my jaw.

For my lord's professedprotrusion

is naught but anover-stuffed illusion

and he is under muchdelusion,

if he thinks his membergreat.

There is nothing worththe shock

of finding oneselfunder-cocked

so my chastity beltstays locked

until Sire's pantsregain my trust.

Twenty Pence Venus

2012-01-14T14:55:00.000-08:00

A bit of a departure from my usual style here. I was trying to experiment with varying metre and rhyme - beat-poet style! Let me know what you think.

Twenty Pence Venus

There's a gentle,subtle poetry

in the flesh that foldsaround your knees.

A glowing, goldrotundity:

your nudity's not rudeto me.

You may think you'reimperfect,

and the nose job mightbe worth it

but the skin you'rein's a sure fit –

even your moles havegot great hair!

And you may think thatI'm simple

if I praise you foryour pimples

and the cellulite-ydimples

which grace your amplederrière.

But it's those littleinconsistencies

that make up yourappeal to me;

skin speckled withbrown freckles

and a scar or two butsee,

it's easy to be choosy

when you look at modelswho seem

to be made of air andpubic hair

and skin stretchedtaught like wire.

They're all geometriccorners

and you'd think thatthey would warn us

that these women,though beguiling,

are a species that isdying

and the body shapeideal is just a closely guarded ruse.

So believe me when Itell you

that as ladies we'd dowell to

stop listening to themagazines

that say we must loseweight.

So fuck youCosmopolitan

with the botoxand the collagen.

You're not the sum of your fake boobs –

what counts is in your mind.

Ambition or Live your Dreams

2012-01-08T05:29:00.000-08:00

They said I could bewhat I wanted to be,

They said I should liveout my dreams,

But I don't want tofind myself naked at work,

My clothes havingturned into steam.

I don't want my teethto all fall out

To be replaced by aparaqueet's bill.

(Though my singingmight get a bit better,

Eating chocolate wouldtake much more skill.)

I don't want to spendmy life running

From a spider with JohnMotson's face.

I don't want to falldown a black hole,

Or lock myself in asuitcase.

I don't want a bomb inmy handbag

To explode with analmighty BLAM!

And really, it wouldn'tbe practical

To only sneezestrawberry jam.

Careers advisers aretotally batty

If they think I shouldlive out my dreams:

I don't have access to thatmany weapons

And I'm sure I'd getsick of the screams.

So I told them I'd be amechanic

To end the interviewwith some ease.

I don't want my dreamsto all come true,

At least till I lay offthe cheese.

Writer's circle - December 2011

2012-01-03T11:33:00.000-08:00

Shrapnel

Characters:

GARY– a man in his late fifties, slightly over-weight and a compulsiveliar.

JENNY– a care assistant in her early twenties. She is kind andconsiderate if a little bit timid.

SOPHIE– an agency care assistant, in her late teens. Naïve and trusting.

Time:

Presentday, around 2 PM.

Place:

GARY'sflat, Clapham Common. A neglected bedsit. Dirty and cramped, with achair and a television being the only furniture.

SCENE1

GARY'sHouse. There is a single chair in the centre of the stage. On thechair sits GARY. His right ankle is in bandages. His hold a TV remotecontrol in his hand and there is a pile of newspapers, magazines andbeer cans at the foot of the chair. GARY is staring out into theaudience, occasionally lifting the remote control to change thechannel.

Thedoor bell rings.

GARY

Comein, it's open.

JENNY,a care assistant in a white uniform, enters. She is about twentyyears old, enthusiastic but a little timid. She stays a good distancefrom GARY while she speaks to him.

JENNY

Goodmorning Mr Robertson. How are you feeling today?

GARY

Well,you know. I don't like to complain. But I have been feeling quitesore. And my whole leg is stiff. I feel like a bleeding elephant,truth be told.

JENNY

Anelephant?

GARY

They'vegot no knees you see. Can't bend. They can't jump either you know.It's one of the reasons why I can't abide Fantasia. All themelephants prancing about in tutus, doing ballet. It's just notrealistic. I respect that mouse fella though. Just trying to get ajob done quick, he was. But if there's one thing I've learned inlife, it's that you oughta do a job properly. That girl I had in lastweek. Prime example. Didn't even heat my beans up properly. Didn'tfeed Princess either, even though I asked her to, twice. You're notscared of dogs are you love?

JENNY

Notat all. She's out the back is she? I'll feed her when we're done inhere.

JENNY sets her bag down on thefloor and rolls up her sleeves. She takes a notebook and pen out ofthe bag and begins ticking things off.

JENNY

You'veshowered this morning then Mr Robertson? Got yourself dressed OK? Andyou've...managed...with your...your morning routine?

GARYlooks confused.

GARY

I'vehad a shit if that's what you mean. No problems there love. Digestionworking like a charm.

JENNYpulls a face. She ticks a few things in the notebook then puts itback into the bag.

JENNY

OK,cool. Sounds like you're coping quite well now. I'll just make usboth a cup of tea, shall I? Then I can get around to changing yourdressings.

JENNYexits. GARY stares ahead, idly watching the television. He changesthe channel several times, pointing the remote control directly atmembers of the audience. He puts the control back on his lap andlooks down at his bandaged left ankle.

GARY

(Absently,to himself.) Yeah, it hurts quite a bit. The ankle. But you've gottaget on, haven't you? I used to work the tables in the restaurantsdown by the docks, you know. Never a day off in me life. Came to workno matter what. Didn't matter if you were puking your guts up, youstill had to earn your keep. Stayed there for twenty years. The placewas closed down in the end. Unhygienic, they said. Didn't pass theminimum food safety regulations. People got ill off the chicken. Wejust couldn't understand it. It's Health and Safety gone mad! Thesekids today don't know they're born. Benefits, flexi-time! Paternityleave! I ask you! Never had a day off in me life until this.

GARYpauses and changes the channel once more.

GARY

She'sa nice girl though, this one. Sometimes they aren't. Sometimes theypinch your shoulders, or hide your best mugs. Or nick your walletthen say you lost it. Yeah, I've had some wrong'uns come round here.She's got a kind face though. As long as she makes a good brew, Ican't complain. I'm not one for complaining, me.

JENNYreturns with one mug of tea which she hands to GARY with a warmsmile. He holds it with both hands but doesn't drink it.

GARY

You'vegot a lovely smile love, really beautiful. I bet a cracker like youcharms all the fellas.

JENNY looks away, embarrassed.She smiles coyly and continues her routine.

JENNY

I'veopened all the curtains for you Mr Robertson, and I've opened thewindows in the bedroom. It was a little bit musty in there. There'sclean sheets on the bed and the dirty ones are in the washingmachine. I'll let the next girl know so she can pop them in thetumble when they're done. They're sending down someone from theagency, I'm afraid. The girls at head office feel you'd benefit fromsomeone new to look after you.

GARY

Anothernew one? I barely get used to one girl before she's gone!

JENNY

Yes,I'm sorry about that. But hopefully we'll be able to see each otherevery morning. I hope we can get to know one another. I want you tosee me as a friendly face, rather than a grumpy nurse. Now, is thereanything else I can get you before we start?

GARY

Well,I've got this pain in my hip love. I'm not one to complain, but it'sreally bad. Have you got any codeine in that magic bag of yours?

JENNY

Sorry,head office don't allow me to give medication yet. I haven't passedNVQ level three you see. I can see if you've got any spare pills inyour medicine cabinet for you though, if you'd like.

GARY

No,no love, there's nowt in there but me haemorrhoid cream. No, that'sgrand, thanks, erm...

JENNY

Jenny.

GARY

Jenny?Like Jennifer? That's a lovely name, really beautiful. I once had apitbull called Jennifer. Sweet-natured thing she was. Swallowed agolf ball once. We had to put her down in the end. She had a gutinfection. Almost turned her inside out, poor bugger. Still, I'vealways liked the name.

Pause.

GARY

Sorrylove, I know I'm waffling. It's me war wound, y'see. Giving meterrible gip, it is. The pain's almost unbearable, 'specially at thistime of day. Sometimes it gets so bad, I can't see. My vision goesall cloudy and black. Sometimes I can't even feel my fingers.

JENNY

ButI thought it was just your ankle that you injured, Mr Robertson?

GARY

Theshock of it all, I suppose. Never known anything like it. Funnything, shock. Can do all sorts of strange things. I know how tohandle shock. I once helped an old boy who was in shock. White as asheet, he was. Got jumped by some kids, tried to take his wallet. Ofcourse, when we saw the old git was about to keel over, we gave backhis stuff. It was only a bit of fun, you know? I regret that. Notleast for the time in the detention centre. I'm joking with you,love! Might never be able to walk again, but at least I can stilllaugh!

JENNY

Don'tbe silly, Mr Robertson, you'll be right as rain in no time. Now,let's take a look at that ankle, shall we?

JENNYkneels down beside GARY and inspects his ankle. GARY winces in painas JENNY touches the limb, but lets her unwrap the bandages.

JENNY

Lookat that! That was a nasty wound wasn't it.

GARY

Shrapnel,it was.

JENNY

(Ignoringhim) Yes, it's healing up nicely now. You've obviously been giving itplenty of rest. You'll be back in action within weeks.

GARY

ThankGawd for that! I don't like sitting around here all day. I miss thehustle and bustle. The sky, you know. I'm a pilot you see. Work forBA mostly, though sometimes Virgin Atlantic beg me to fly for them.Freelance, mostly. Cash in hand. Keeps the tax man at bay. It's apretty complicated job; you've gotta be pretty smart to fly them bigjets. Land 'em safety. No accidents, no casualties. I'm like asurgeon in that respect. Saving lives every day. Of course, we can'tthink of it like that, we'd get big-headed. (Pauses) We mostly fly tothe Americas, the Caribbean, Los Angeles, Narnia, New York. Exoticplaces. You ever been to New York Jenny?

JENNY

No.

GARY

Lovelyplace. Lots of buildings. Great big park in the middle. You'd loveit. Maybe we could go together?

JENNY

MrRobertson? I don't think that's appropriate.

JENNYcontinues unwrapping the bandages around GARY's leg. Silence for fivebeats.

GARY

Idunno Jenny, it really makes you think, doesn't it? I mean, onemoment, you're living your life, flying around the world, runningmarathons for charity, cooking gourmet meals for friends andadmirers. Then, all of a sudden, WHAM! The rug's pulled out fromunder you. You're an invalid. Suddenly, life doesn't seem quite soendless, you know? (Pauses) I dunno, makes you think, dunnit?

JENNY

Uhhuh.

GARY

It'slike, I know I've lived a very interesting life, but you can alwaysdo more, can't you? I always wanted to write a novel. I've had thestory planned out for years: there's these two kids, right? And theylive with their dad who is a lawyer. He's defending this black lad,right? Who everyone reckons raped this white girl. Only, here's thetwist, he couldn't've done it, coz he's got a gammy arm! It's set inWigan in the 1980s, a real story for Thatcher's Britain.

JENNY

Areyou sure that story is entirely original?

GARY

How'dyou mean?

JENNY

Itjust sounds very similar to the plot of To Kill a Mocking Bird,that's all.

GARY

ToKill a Mocking Bird? Never heard of it. Is that based in Wigan too?

JENNYshakes her head and folds away the soiled bandages. She takes somefresh bandages from out of her bag.

GARY

Yeah,but like I say, sometimes you've gotta take the bull by the horns.Live every day like it's your last. Carpy Dee-um. That's what theyreckon. (Pause) I'm not a big fisher meself. Seems like a bit of awaste of time. Time that could be spend piloting.

Thereis an awkward silence. JENNY starts to bandage GARY's ankle.

GARY

Weshould get married.

JENNY

What?

GARY

Weshould get married.

JENNY

Toeach other?

GARY

Wellof course to each other. You seem like a nice girl. I could make youhappy. We could be happy together.

JENNY

ButI barely know you.

GARY

Youcould get to know me. You already know a lot about me. You know aboutthe flying. The piloting I mean. And I don't like tuna. And I oncemet Sir Jimmy Saville. (Pause) Look, Jenny, it's just... I don't knowif you've ever had a near-death experience? It really puts thingsinto perspective. Makes you re-evaluate your situation. So, what doyou think?

JENNY

I'lljust finish this dressing first, then we can talk about it, OK?

JENNYwraps the dressing around GARY's ankle and secures it tightly. GARYwinces.

GARY

Icould use someone like you around the house. A good, firm hand totend to things.

JENNYstands up and backs away a little.

GARY

No,no, I just mean. Christ, this isn't going well, is it? I justthought, well, you seem like such a nice girl. And, I'm just worriedI don't have much time left. I don't want to die alone.

JENNYStifles a giggle behind her hands.

GARY

(Enraged)I don't know what's so bleeding funny? Here I am, on me deathbed,pouring my bleeding heart out, and you stand there laughing. Ithought you was meant to be a carer, eh?

JENNY

Look,Mr Robertson, Gary. I'm sorry. But, you're not dying are you?

GARY

Whatdo you mean?

JENNY

Well,you've had a fall. You've got two compound fractures in you leftlower fibula. You'll be fine in six weeks. You had a nasty lesionacross the ankle...

GARY

Thatwas from the shrapnel.

JENNY

...butthat's healing nicely. What shrapnel?

GARY

Theydidn't tell you? I picked up this injury in combat. Asganistam. Blownup by one o' them road side devices. Terrible it was. Fifty men died.I saved some poor bloke's life. Threw myself over the top of him,like that guy did in that film. I'm a bleeding hero!

JENNY

Ithought you were a pilot.

GARY

(Pauses)Well, I got called up to the front, didn't I? National service. Onaccount of my unique set of skills.

JENNYremoves a notebook from her bag.

JENNY

Itsays in my notes that you are long-term unemployed Mr Robertson. Itsays that you haven't had a job for nearly ten years.

GARY

Doesit?

JENNY

Yes.It also says that you sustained your injury while falling down thestairs of the Lusty Boar in town. You fell badly, broke your ankleand landed on a broken beer bottle.

GARY

Itwasn't shrapnel?

JENNY

No,it wasn't shrapnel. You've never been to Afghanistan, have you?

GARY

Ishot a man once.

JENNYlooks concerned.

GARY

OK,so it was only a paint ball gun, but he had a welt come up on hisarse this big (He indicates with his arms.) What else does it say inyour notes.

JENNY

I'mafraid I'm not at liberty to discuss patient notes with unauthorisedparties.

GARY

Unauthorised?I'm the bloody patient! Give it here!

GARYsnatches the notes from JENNY's grip. He reads them out loud.

GARY

Fantasist?Difficult customer? Delusional? Possible bed-wetter?!

JENNY snatches the notes back andstuffs them back into the bag. She begins tidying away the usedbandages and getting ready to leave.

GARY

So,you're not going to accept my offer then?

JENNY

I'msorry Mr Robertson. Your life is just too exciting for me. I don'tthink I could keep up.

GARYtakes a sip of the tea that has been in his hands all along. He spitsit out almost immediately.

GARY

Christ,what the hell're you trying to do, poison me? What is this?

JENNY

Itwas two sugars, wasn't it?

GARY

Noit bleeding-well wasn't! I can't have sugar in me tea. It gives meterrible cramps. Not that I'm one to complain. It didn't tell youthat in your fancy medical notes, did it love?

JENNYsighs heavily and smiles a tight little smile at GARY. This smile iscompletely different from the one he complimented earlier.

JENNYcocks her head, as though listening.

JENNY

Well,it has been a lovely visit, but I think that's the agency carer I canhear driving up. I'll leave you to it then. Have a nice day. See yousoon.

JENNYturns. She fishes a mobile phone from her bag and punches a numberinto it. She places the phone to her ear.

JENNY

HelloShelia? It's Jenny. Yeah. Listen, can I come off the rota for numberthirty two? Yeah. (Laughs) Yeah, you were right. Total perv.

JENNYexits.

GARYsits alone. He stares out into the audience once more, then changesthe channel on the TV remote control.

SOPHIEenters.

SOPHIE

Hithere! It's Gary, isn't it? I'm the carer from the agency. I hope youdon't mind me letting myself in? Shall I start making the dinner? Howabout spaghettibolognese?

GARY

Thatsounds just grand.

SOPHIEsmiles at GARY.

GARY

Hasanyone ever told you that you have a lovely smile? Really Beautiful.

THEEND

Parallel Parking

2011-12-31T02:34:00.000-08:00

I'm in such a hugerush,

an hour late! At a push

I could tell them mydog died today?

No space in the carpark!

It's starting to getdark!

And the road is all payand display!

My meeting is vital

which means I'mentitled

to park across this loading bay.

I'll be back in a sec,

so no need to lookvexed.

Too late, myindicator's engaged.

The space is prettytight

but I think it's allright

I'll just drive innose-first if I can.

Christ! The steering isshot!

And the engine's toohot!

I just need to come upwith a plan.

It's parallel parking

on which I'm embarking

(I last did this on myroad test!)

Can't see the blind spot!

Gear box is in knots!

Cars beeping theirhorns make me stressed!

I'm reversing up-hill –

going fine up until –

I tapped the next caralong and I fear

there's a bit of adent.

But I'm pretty content

it was like that beforeI got here.

And it would be allright

But I've just smashed thelight

of the car next tomine, a cop van.

Broken glasseverywhere.

(I regret that lastbeer.)

I can't take any moredriving bans!

So I drive away now

and I'm wondering how

I'll explain theno-show to my peers...

It's only grandma'swake

for sweet heaven'ssake!

There'll be more familyfunerals next year!

Self Service Seduction video

2011-12-29T09:38:00.001-08:00

Filmed by Ed Sinclair at HEADcrash cabaret on 21st December 2011. Thanks Ed.

Rock Star

2011-12-24T05:31:00.000-08:00

A touring musician'slife is tough,

The fame and thestardom are trying.

But if I said thatrather be working in Boots,

You'd know that thisRock Star was lying.

The long months on theroad are exhausting

And there've been timeswhen I've slept in the van.

I almost got signedonce by Defjam,

And I've had two numberone hits in Japan.

I've lost count of thenumber of women

That I've slept with(or at least slept quite near.)

I live a pretty wildrock and roll lifestyle,

Though I'm allergic todry ice and beer.

I have had my fairshare of rehab.

(I peaked a twelvetwixes a day!)

You're never cured,only placed in remission,

Now I'm plagued withsevere tooth decay.

So what if my brother'sa lawyer?

And my sister runs herown fleet of vans?

My ex-wife might havemarried a doctor,

But nine to five wasnever part of my plans.

My reputation'sstarting to soar now –

And no band means Idon't have to share

The superb egg andcress sandwich buffets,

The ten quid fees andthe free taxi fares.

I'm a consummate,modest professional,

A maestro in totalcontrol of his craft.

I once played a churchquite near Wembley,

I'm not afraid of alittle hard graft.

I was once in the bookof world records,

Non-stop playing fromLudlow to Tring.

I'm the only Rock Star Campanologist

You've not rocked outtill you've heard me ring!

My music's beenlabelled progressive –

I scream profanities inbetween peals –

I'm banned from theCounty of Essex

For burning down eightglockenspiels.

So come see me and buymy cassette tapes

(Just don't distributethem or I will sue!)

I'm the only Rock Star Campanologist,

Coming soon to a churchfête near you!

Zombie Love Song - video

2011-12-22T12:53:00.001-08:00

Filmed by Ed Sinclair at HEADCrash Cabaret at the Birdcage 21st December 2011.

A Cat in a Fez

2011-12-17T02:49:00.000-08:00

While taking a swim offLos Mochis

in the temperate Sea ofCortes,

I happened upon a smallisland

on which lived a Cat ina Fez.

As I stumbled ashore Ifirst glimpsed him,

a flash of tassel andred through the trees.

There were rumours thathe granted wishes,

there were rumours thathe ate your knees.

I'd never been fond ofmy knee caps

and I was in need of anew microwave.

So I crept along afterthe beastie

and followed him into acave.

The inside of his lairwas astounding

and I fell to theground in my shock.

I could see hats of allkinds in the cavern;

perhaps my sanity hadtaken a knock?

The Cat in the Fez satthere knitting

an elaborate woollenberet,

around him werethreads, scissors, fabric

and the needles andyarn for crochet.

To start with I thoughtI was crazy

till the magical moggyexclaimed,

'Good morning, may Igrant you some wishes?

'As it is wishes forwhich I am famed.'

I explained about themicrowave oven

then came the reply ofthe Cat:

'I'm afraid that I onlygrants wishes

that involve theprocurement of hats.'

'I can see that you aredisappointed,'

he continued to knit aswe sat.

'It's a specialistfield, I realise,

'but don't forget thatI am just a cat.'

I had to concede himthe point there,

I'd been blinded bymaterial greed.

So I ordered a Stetsonand a Cloth Cap

and a Sombrero made ofribbons and tweed.

I'm still waiting formy items to come through.

They've beendispatched, so the email says.

But really I think Iwas swindled,

swindled by a Cat in aFez.

Illustrated by Hannah Radenkova at hannahradenkova.blogspot.com

Aliens

2011-12-11T07:27:00.001-08:00

And then one day, thealiens came,

In space ships thecolour of sand.

We knew that nothingwould be the same;

We nervously awaitedtheir plans.

But they didn't havecool laser guns,

Or advanced,enlightened thought.

Though they'd come fromdistance suns,

Our relationship wasfraught.

They took forever toget things done,

Motivation was nottheir strong suit.

They ignored their ownneeds in favour of fun,

Their self awarenesswas less than acute.

They had the capacityfor real good,

But peer pressure hadmade them weak.

They didn't look afterthe poor, as they should,

They took advantage ofthe meek.

They were selfish,Machiavellian,

Brash, impulsive,impolite.

Their bureaucracy wasOrwellian,

But they refused to seethe light.

They were quick toanger, slow to think,

Frequently fighting,gruff, unkind.

They reminded us ofsomething,

But we put that out ofour minds.

They made up stupid,needless laws.

They never admittedtheir wrongs.

Used any excuse tostart bloody wars.

Our deja vu wasunbearably strong.

They destroyed oneanother eventually,

Over some ridiculous,wasteful spat.

So we buried them underthe Irish Sea,

And agreed that thatwould be that.

For years we hadromanticised them,

Science Fiction fuelledour lust.

When they arrived wehad to despise them,

For they were just likeus.

Christmas Cheer

2011-12-10T03:50:00.001-08:00

It's now mid-Decemberand the season is here

To fill the lounge withtinsel and stock up on beer.

Buy more food than wecould possibly eat in a year

And cover our house incheap lights to make the neighbours sneer.

That couple opposite,they've got twelve light-up reindeer!

And a robot nativity, it's aBethlehem/Skynet nightmare!

We've wrapped up allthe presents with utmost of care,

Well, apart from thatone that was shaped like a sphere.

I tried sticky tape,glue, blu tack; it just wouldn't adhere

So I stapled the paperto the gift, my chin and my ear.

Now the present isperforated, stained with blood and with tears.

I'll tell my cousinit's personalised; buy giftvouchers next year.

The tree has shed it'sneedles, half the branches are bare,

We've covered it inbaubles but it still looks austere.

Aunt Margaret says it'sa metaphor for fiscal policy this year.

(Aunt Margaret’ssense of humour was always a bit queer.)

Granddad makes a racistjoke, we all stop and turn in fear

To see the reaction ofAunt Kate and Uncle Amir.

Uncle Greg gets drunkon non-alcoholic ginger beer,

Eats too many turkeysandwiches, turns green and disappears.

(I'm not implying he'sa magician with what I said just there.

Instead, imagine he's'redecorating' the en suite upstairs.

In a manner sovociferous that everyone can hear!)

We just hand out themince pies and pour out more beer.

I open presents fromDad and try to look sincere

when thanking him fornovelty socks (the same as last year.)

Then out comes thescrabble and before I can interfere

Mum and Dave arearguing over how to spell 'Chandelier'.

And Betty's lent over acandle and set fire to her hair.

We douse her witheggnog while she creatively swears.

While watching Dr Who, my parents loudly despair

At the slowly shrinkinghemlines that the ginger woman wears.

Though my Dad, ever thehypocrite, is not subtle as he stares.

And we all agree we'drather be anywhere but Albert Square.

As I clean away the charred remains, I breathe a silent prayer:

Can't we gosomewhere else for Christmas next year?

Mathematician's Lament

2011-12-04T06:40:00.001-08:00

I think this would be the perfect song for Rhianna or Katy Perry to pop on their next album. (Call me Girls!)

Mathematician's Lament

Howdo I love you? Let me quantify the variables.

Thereare no constraints on the meta-data of your tables.

Ilove you as pi to the forty sixth decimal place;

Notheorem yet devised can define the beauty of your face.

Ilove youwith a p-value significant to zero point zero five,

Yourcorrelation coefficients cause my blood pressure to rise.

I'vestudied your hypotenuse, and your angles I've defined.

Thecircles of our Venn Diagram are perfectly aligned.

Yourbar charts are remarkable, your line graphs make me melt.

Reviewing your index notation Is the best I've ever felt!

Myscattergraphs suggest our hearts have strong positive correlation,

But our love can never be: too vast is our standard deviation.

So I Married a Bond Villain

2011-12-03T02:35:00.001-08:00

Veronica Kent knew thatthings weren't right

when she found asevered hand in recycling bin one night.

Bloody fingers on oldmagazines were an unexpected fright.

Veronica Kent knew thatthings weren't right.

She confronted herhusband (who hadn't been the same

since he had a fullface transplant and changed his name.)

He said that he'd foundit, an excuse somewhat lame.

So she thought she'dsneak around; play him at his own game.

He often left hisThumbscrews untidily on the floor.

There was blood on hisshirts that he couldn't account for.

His favourite y-frontsconcealed a grappling hook and claw.

She'd washed his pantsa thousand times and never seen those before!

She found a suitcasefilled with cash, in small denominations

and a drawer filledwith blueprints and sinister machinations.

His browser history wasfull of research on the United Nations

(which wasn't a popgroup, as he'd claimed, but an international organisation.)

All this weirdparaphernalia made Veronica stop and think:

there was the filthyAK-47 lying in the sink,

and photos on thenotice board with people crossed out in red ink.

There was a realisationto be had here, and Veronica was on the brink.

Now she put two and twotogether, it was as clear as day,

Harry didn't work inthe factory on Mount Pleasant Way.

Those trips toWashington DC were more than holidays

and whenever he saidhe'd “get a Chinese”, he never returned with a takeaway.

So those vials ofsmallpox in the fridge by the chicken

were not a culinaryingredient to make cake mix thicken!

But what really causedVeronica's heart rate to quicken

was the package theyreceived, in the post, that was ticking!

2011-11-06T10:23:00.000-08:00

Hostage - A Sestina

I burst through thetrees on screaming, screeching tyres,

bark out my commands:“Get in the fucking van!”

You are scared; younever did like my driving.

And the nausea risesoff you in waves.

Your face, damaged bybetrayal and surprise.

Deep lines across yourbrow, frozen in the dark.

No one could imagine itwould get this dark,

despite the rush ofblood, I'm still so tired.

You won't stopscreaming, though that's really no surprise.

Bound by your wrists inthe back of the van.

The ridges in thetarmac crest and fall like waves.

Anticipation makes fora longer drive.

It's difficult, now, toenjoy the drive

when I can hear yousobbing in the dark.

Your breathinglaboured, you sigh like ocean waves.

I smell your fear andthe scorched, burning tyres.

All I can think is thatthis is a rented van.

You've yet to recogniseme, much to my surprise.

There's nothing quitelike the element of surprise.

I keep my mask pulledaround my face as I drive.

I whistle a little andit echoes inside the van,

a canary singing down amine in the dark.

I glance at you, thestreet lamps make you look so tired,

yellow strips thatlight your thin face in toxic waves.

Your hair falls acrossyour eyes in waves.

Those baby blues stilldarting with surprise,

though you've stoppedprotesting now your voice is tired.

I feel like I'veforgotten how to drive.

Your hair is blondenow, I liked it better dark.

Though it's hard totell when you're tired up in a van.

Ten minutes later, Istop the van.

A woman on the pathahead waves

and switches on thelights, blotting out the dark.

I knew they'd be here,but I am still surprised.

Since we began, Ithought of nothing but the drive.

That, and the damage tothe tread on the tyres.

A dark way to persuadeyou to take a drive? Perhaps.

Spending your birthdayin the back of a van, courage wavering.

But you did say youwere tired of the conventional surprise party.

Kinky Boots - a Lipogram

2011-10-26T12:58:00.000-07:00

Andy over at hippierage.blogspot.com challenged me to write a lipogram about the fall of the Roman Empire without using the letter U. An impossible task. That was until I found out that some historians consider the fall of Constantinople in 1453 to be the final death rattle for the Roman Empire. When I unearthed the story of Emperor Constantine's purple boots, I knew I'd found my poem.

Kinky Boots - The Last Roman Emperor

A snappy dresser,Constantine,
always down with the latest trends.
Battleward in lilac robes.
A fashionista right till the end.

Sieges didn't stop his flare
for weaving feathers in his hair.
Nor did raging, warring Ottomen
stop him wearing diamonds and pearls like Sophia Loren.

A snappy dresser, Constantine,
defended Constantinople.
Stood by his men in times of strife
wearing chain-mail carved from opals.

And when, at last, his Empire fell,
Conny let forth an ear-splitting yell:
"Come on lads, let's get the twats
who got blood on my vintage trilby hat."

The snappiest dresser, Constantine,

never strayed far from his pavonine roots.
Soon the Marble Emperor of violet will wake once more,
as patron saint of kinky boots.

A Family of Astronauts - Lipogram

2011-10-17T10:31:00.000-07:00

A lipogram is a type of constrained poem in which a letter or a group of letters are deliberately omitted. This is a lipogram written without using the letter E.

A family of Astronauts

My pain is still raw.
                           That night -
half-hungry, half-mad and full
of longing - I watch your sky for
signs of stars. That night I saw
four. Stars for all of us. Gold
insignia marks you out for him
                         in photographs.

(Don't do anything drastic.)

Mostly, I am happy.
                                But that night
I saw your ghost crawl fitfully along
his brow; an ugly torpidity of past
scars. And you, a youth who ran hard
and fast and lost his way among cold
lights of stars. I am not hurt,
                                         not now.

(Don't do anything drastic.)

I am almost happy. But,
                                    I saw him
look at your photographs with warm
admiration again. I will not allow our
son follow you, chasing shadows to
distant lands for King and Country.
No gold insignia. I will not put on a
                             black shroud again.

Shaving Grace

2011-10-16T11:27:00.000-07:00

You've asked me six times now, I assure you I'm certain,
that I will not wax the hair off my fuzzy love curtains.
While you might enjoy the plucked chicken look
I'd rather not get razor rash on my intimate nook.
I like my crotch-blossom and no matter what you say,
my short and curlies have not out-lived their stay!
My map of Tasmania will not be deforested,
and if you come near with Immac I'll have you arrested!
What's wrong with you? Have you only seen women in porn?
This is one meaty pocket that will not be shorn.
You resistance on this issue leaves very little scope for me
so I'll just flatly refuse to indulge in any pubic topiary.
No landing strip or Brazilian - my lady garden unweeded -
I might even buy extensions if my words are not heeded.
I'm a mammal not a mollusc, let me stay hairy!
Surely the twelve-year-old girl look is a little bit scary?
If we can't come to a compromise our sex life can't be saved
(and by compromise I mean that I'm not getting shaved!)

Eve - A Univocalism

2011-10-11T02:42:00.000-07:00

A univocalism is a poem that contains only one vowel. This is my first attempt at one of these, and I've only used the vowel E. Let me know what you think, and see if you can spot any cheeky a, i, o or u that might have crept in!

Eve

Present tense.
Seven twenty seven PM.

Eve enters between beech trees.
Dressed decently:
red tweed dress,
her emergency dress.

Nerves peck her neck:
needles, nettles.
Pete, defenceless, smells mercy.

Serves entrée.
Entente held.
Eggshells.

Then Eve sneers.
She tells Pete he's been left.
'Jeff resembles Derek Hess,' she tells Pete,
'Nevertheless, Jeff's better.'

Perplexed, Pete begs Eve.
Eve leers, rejects Pete.
'Jeff!' She trembles, 'He's three men!'

Jekyll/Hyde/Jeff?

Pete's strength left.
Rejected, he
requests the cheque.

Eve sends Pete letters.
Eleventh September:
'Herpes?'
Eve's just desserts.

Writer's Circle Post - September 2011

2011-09-21T07:27:00.000-07:00

Having taken on board some of your comments from the last few months, I decided to work on character and voice this week. While I personally am not comfortable with swearing in writing, I've had to give it a go because this character is a swearer. If you're offended by casual swearing, please don't read this. Members of the circle, let me know if you think the voice and character are distinctive. Comments are welcome and encouraged!

Service station

I guess the first time I realised I was in Hell was when I saw the price of the burgers. Up until that point I figured I was just having a mental breakdown. Or a blackout. I'd taken a lot of pills that night, not all of them had smiley faces on 'em either. I've had blackouts before. No big deal. And fits. Something about the brain firing off random electricity that makes you see all kinds of weird shit. Last fit I had was when I caned three grams of speed just after I'd started taking my meds. The hallucinations were wild. I could hear colours and smell shapes. It was fucking sick. I got sweats in the night and I kept thinking there was this woman with a kangaroo's head locked in my bedroom. As I recall she had fourteen breasts, more tongue that a girl should and pretty low self esteem. Not a bad experience, even if I was in a coma for six months. Doctors reckoned I lost fifteen percent of my brain cells that night. Fuck knows how many have gone this time.

I started my night in a hotel room in Soho, nestled between the thighs of some bitch I'd picked up in the bar. She was about as lively as cold salami, but I didn't have nowhere else to be and besides, I felt like I was doing her a favour. The poor bitch looked half-starved and I was gunna offer her free run of the mini bar, post-fuck. Then, mid-thrust, I'm suddenly here. There's this blinding white light all around and I'm lying face down, mouthful of lino, nursing a painfully unspent load.

The floor was fucking cold. That kind of squeaky, plasticy shit that sticks to your trainers so you have to tear your soles away from the surface, like you're doing some kind of shit dancing. Like the floors you get in cinemas. Christ, it was revolting. All I could smell was the stink of re-fried potatoes, bleach and vomit. A total buzz kill. I sobered up pretty quick and lost my erection even quicker, I can tell you.

I read somewhere that in dreams you can't feel pain – and my neck was fucking killing me – so I guess I should've realised then that something wasn't kosher, but my head was fucked from the blonde in the hotel and all that whiskey. So I didn't clock that something was wrong. I just figured I was having another 'episode' so I might as well enjoy the ride.

I flipped over on my back and all I could see was this massive white space, reaching up out of sight above me. Like the building was taller than it was possible for me to comprehend, you know? And the whole place was painted white, like a fucking sanatorium or something. But it was a dirty white, like there'd once been a flood, proper biblical-like, that'd left a thin film of shit over everything.

There were lines of neon strip lights built into the walls, just pumping in this sickly, white light. It kind of made the walls look even more dirty, like teeth stained with nicotine. And there was this buzzing, like the sound of air conditioning, but the weren't no breeze. Like someone was playing the noise of AC without bothering to actually blow any God damn air through the place.

After a good few minutes, I thought I better get up and take a look around, see if there was any lager in this shithole. I got to my feet, a little unsteady. If I was hallucinating, then my imagination had been fried along with the rest of my brain.

First thing I noticed, once I was on my feet, was the arcade. Some small alcove on the opposite wall filled with those massive arcade machines like they used to have in the Trocadero. Next to that there was this tiny shop selling skin mags and bottles of water. There were a few plastic tables and chairs clustered together in the middle of the hallway between me and the arcade. No people though. Not a fucking soul.

Behind me was a row of three fast food joints, selling disgusting shit – burgers, fries, kebabs – real down-market shit. They weren't fucking cheap either. And I hate to pay over the odds for shit that I'm not even gonna fucking enjoy anyway.

So it's clear that I'm in some sort of weird motorway service station. And the burgers cost too much and there's no sign for the bathrooms and I walk across to the shop and even the women in the porn mags look miserable and bored. And I can't even play the fucking slot machines coz I left all my money in my other jeans.

It must be hell. I must've had a heart attack while screwing that blonde. I can't believe this. I'm only 32. I was only 32. Christ, I'd got some much shit left to do. I never even had a threesome!

Still, if this hell, then it's not as bad as the Sunday school teacher said. No fire and brimstone, no demons with red hot pokers. No enforced sodomy. At least not yet. Ha, just had a quick look round, in case some fucker with his cock out was creeping up on me. Nothing yet though. Just that God Damn buzzing. It's pretty hot in here too.

I don't even know how long I've been here. Maybe they've buried me by now. Maybe that bitch ran out on me in the hotel room, left the maid to find me the next morning. What a way to go. I never liked waiting for shit. Instant gratification, that's what the therapist called it. He said it was one of the traits of my disorder. What a prick. There's nothing wrong with me. Just a bit of temper. Can I help it if people get on my tits? Christ, I wonder how long I've been here. It could have been days.

I guess it must be my own private hell. It'd explain why there's no one else here. And why I'm waiting. Fuck, I hate waiting. I told him, 'I hate waiting. If you make me wait, I'll make sure you regret it.' I fucking warned him. You can't say I didn't warn him.

The light doesn't change, you know? It doesn't get dimmer in the night time, or brighter when it's day. So I can't even tell what time it is. There aren't any windows. No exit either. The shit in the kitchen of the burger bar is bland but edible. I still haven't seen anyone else. There must be someone here though, coz the fridge is always full. Unless it's some kind of weird hell-magic. I guess that's it.

The video games aren't even working. On the screen on each one is some weird little message: 'Loading, please wait.' I stood in front of one machine for hours, but the fucking thing didn't load. It didn't even load when I kicked it. Stupid fucking machine.

I wonder how my mum's coping without me. She's probably relived. I was a total fucking nightmare. We hadn't talked since I went back inside. Even when I got out in 2010, she didn't call. I guess there are some things even a mother can't forgive.

I barely notice the buzzing now.

Uniform

2011-09-11T12:20:00.000-07:00

He clothes himself in hooded armour tonight, woven from the unemployment line, through which no closed-circuit could pry. Frustration is his uniform and apathy falls across his narrow shoulders like a flag unfurled.
The vanguard wears identical costume, scarves hide their faces and expose the harshness of ourselves. Expose the loss of everything. Everything but the uniform.
A company clothed in anonymity. A freedom from consequence sewn into the seams and threaded through the fabric. Shards of shame do not pierce their hooded armour, this feral generation, shielded from recriminations by the shadows of the flames. In a livery of deprivation, their lines are blurred and their edges sharpened.
Homogeneous and singular, the regiment rise as one and raze the city to the ground.

Failing to be Cool

2011-09-11T06:50:00.000-07:00

Wearing jeans so tight I can't feel my legs,
Telling the girls I'm vegan, though I still eat eggs.
Wearing factor 400 to keep my skin paler,
Once overdosed on my blue inhaler.
Getting a SNES controller tattooed on my torso,
Keeping a copy of Nietzsche on view in my Corsa.
My beat-up leather jacket cost five hundred quid,
Got all my loose skin pierced 'cept my right eyelid.
Wearing thick-rimmed glasses though my vision's perfect,
Playing jazz bassoon 'til the beats are wreaked.
Taking photos at gigs with my SLR,
Riding a unicycle to work though I could take the car.
Taking a misinformed interest in current affairs,
Buying every item of clothing that Alexa Chung wears.
Trying to be eccentric but coming off contrived,
The pursuit of a bohemian lifestyle is what's keeping me alive.
Almost got the look down and then they go and change the rules,
I'm always one step behind, failing to be cool.

Regular Exercise

2011-09-03T03:00:00.000-07:00

Welcome to Tone'n'Groan's Gym! 'Your passport to slim!'
(It looks like you came just in time.)
We've got a myriad of stuff to help you get buff
and coax you back into your prime.

Maybe you're keen for the Rowing Machine
or to try the sports field for a run?
You'll feel a pleasant sensation from the Power Plate's vibration,
so wipe down the seat when you're done.

We've got weights for your biceps and straps for your triceps;
contraptions that make grown men cry.
Working on the Cross Trainer, you're guaranteed to gain-a
new muscle below your left eye.

Some of it may look sadistic but the training's holistic
and included within the fees too!
But try to remember, when on the Ab-Extender
today's safety word is 'kangaroo'.

How about the treadmill? A pointless struggle uphill,
great for those with a lack of ambition!
Run as far as you can and end up where you began,
such is the futility of the human condition.

We'll push you to the maximum to tone your legs and thighs and bum
but our technique has become more sedate
since – on the point of collapse – one bloke had an anal prolapse
While straining too hard with the weights.

Writer's Circle post - August 2011

2011-08-26T12:34:00.000-07:00

Three stone steps led down to the club from the street. The bar was private and a sign on the wall by the door proclaimed it to be 'A high class establishment, accessible by invitation only.' Someone had vomited on the floor just beyond the front porch and the heavy door had been pushed aside, smearing the regurgitated curry across the flagstones like a scented welcome mat.

The bar itself was vast and low-ceilinged; a subterranean gymnasium where her thoughts seemed to echo off the dripping brickwork. She felt the expanse of the space rather than saw it. The noise of her footsteps fell away unseen. The bar was dark, not through lack of light, but rather from the abundance of darkness. It clustered around the tables and weaved across the floor, until the woman in the nurse's uniform felt like the room was writhing with shadows.

It was a place to be endured. A seedy, sorrowful, squalid, stinking pit of human misery. It was the sort of establishment which could be unfavourably compared to major bowel surgery.

If he was anywhere, it would be here.

Three snooker tables crouched, stock-still and mesmerised by the green-shaded lamps under which they stood. The tables were roughly-hewn and bestial. They creaked and groaned, moving their weight imperceptibly from foot to foot. Snooker balls rolled within their vast bellies, growling like claps of thunder. Each table was tethered to a vast iron bolt on the floor, linked by heavy steel chains. The chains were taught and the tables were crowded by the door, like baize-skinned guard dogs, sniffing the air and snarling at the intruder.

The woman in the nurse's uniform took off her sun glasses and deftly wove them through a shirt button hole, ensuring they emphasised the curve of her breasts. She smoothed her hair, which flowed to her shoulders in red, glossy curls, and peered into the foggy gloom. The air was thick with scents that seemed to have solidified, reducing her visibility to just a few metres ahead of her. Breathing through her month so as to avoid the stench, her tongue became heavy with the taste of sweat, as if she had licked the armpit of the Chaos God himself. I just won't breath she told herself. And she stopped.

As she walked on through the maze of upended tables and chairs, she noticed a parade of gambling machines and mechanical pinball games, slumped against the columns that ran the length of the room. Each machine bore a science-fiction theme; their lights provided a temporary source of comfort, like the glow from a lighthouse might calm a vexed sailor in a storm.

Lilith was sure, then, that her disguise had been the right decision. She would get the information she needed.

After several uncertain steps – and a careful detour around what she hoped was a sleeping man – Lilith perceived the neon glow of the bar itself rise up out of the mist like some incredibly disappointing medieval fortress. The bartender, a small man with elaborately-styled ear-hair and more teeth than was necessary in one mouth, wiped a greasy rag along a greasy bar. He wore a T-Shirt bearing the slogan 'Klingons do it in full battle armour' and he was missing the third finger of his left hand. Congealed at his lips was a fat cigar which he chewed incessantly, like a cow chewing cud.

The bartender had noticed the woman as soon as she had entered the club. His eyesight was keen and his loneliness keener still. How could he have failed to see her? She was everything he had ever wanted in a woman. Tall and achingly beautiful, with masses of red curls that flowed from her head like a white dwarf going supernova. She wore a nurses' uniform, cut unprofessionally high on her rounded thighs, so that a flash of stocking-top was clearly visible. The cherry lace of her underwear made the bartender feel light-headed, and his long-forgotten libido stirred fitfully in his trousers.

The woman stopped walking and wiped a bead of sweat from her collar bone, her tapered fingertips brushing her bosom as she did so. The bartender was an observant man. He had already noticed that the woman in the nurse's uniform had blue skin. What he also come to realise, in a moment of giddy pleasure, were her breasts. All three of them. A small moan of excitement escaped the bartender's thin lips as he felt a bolt a fission ricochet through his body, ending in a curious tingling in the missing finger of his left hand.

Lilith looked at the bartender from beneath her eyelashes, smiled coyly and placed a cigarette between her lips, lighting it with a match she had retrieved from one of her cleavages. The bartender stared open-mouthed.

'Ere, you can't smoke that in here!' he whispered, unsure of his position. He took an ill-timed drag on his own cigar, 'It's 'ealth and safety.'

The blue woman smiled again. For a moment the bartender thought she may not have heard him. But, as he watched, and without taking her eyes off him for a second, she plucked the lit cigarette from her lips. Then, without warning, she pressed the burning ash into the skin of her breast. The bartender flinched as he heard the sizzle of burning flesh. The sound set his teeth on edge, (a dangerous notion, considering just how many teeth he had.) He wiped the greasy rag across his forehead, which left a trail of residue on his already filthy face. The woman continued to smile. She had discarded the spent cigarette now and moved closer to join him. She lent forward, resting her ample bosom on the bar. Her breasts were unblemished.

'I'm looking for Pete.'

She touched the bartender's arm with her long fingers, her eyes boring into his soul. He felt like she could ask him anything and he would comply. Just to taste that blue skin, to catch that perfect flesh with his lips. He might even be persuaded to remove his cigar.

'Where is Pete?' The woman asked. 'If you tell me, I might make it worth your while.' She performed a complicated and obscene gesture with her hands that made beads of sweat run down the bartender's back. Something in his heart (or some other blood-filled organ) told him he should help the nice young lady, but his thoughts were interrupted by a voice from a far-off corner.

'Leave him alone Lilith. I'm over here.'

The blue woman winked at the bartender. 'Maybe next time, cutie.' She purred,before retreating towards the direction of the voice.

The bartender considered going down to the cellar to gather his thoughts.

***

'I knew I'd find you here.'

Lilith perched on a low bar stool and lit a cigarette. She had reverted back to her normal human form, aware that Pete would not speak to her if she was in 'whore mode', as he so affectionately described it. Her ability to shift shape in order to capture her prey was one of her more interesting qualities, a sort of sexual camouflage that allowed her to feed and move among the shadows, gathering knowledge and harvesting men's souls as she went.

Pete was slumped in a stained leather armchair, a pint of breakfast lager squeezed tightly into his fat fist. He had gained at least three stone since Lilith had last encountered him and lost almost all his hair. The remaining follicles were bright white and clumped together around the crown of his head, as if the individual hairs had sought safety in numbers.

Lilith offered Pete a cigarette. He made a face and waved the packet away with his left hand, while simultaneously draining his pint. He belched contentedly.

'Well,' he said after a time, 'you've found me. Now what is it that you want?'

Lilith shuffled in her seat and ignored the question. 'What is this place? It smells like something died in here!'

'It's a themed pub.'

'And the theme is..?'

'Existential despair.'

Lilith nodded. Hair was mousey brown now, shoulder-length and uninteresting. She was of slight build and the nurses uniform she had filled so impressively as the bartender's fantasy, now hung limply around her bony shoulders, as if the shirt still contained it's coat-hanger. Her face was still beautiful, but it was an unconventional, understated beauty. Subtlety was what attracted Pete.

'What are you doing here anyway?' She asked.

Pete coughed and pointed the rim of his empty pint glass to a poster on the wall behind him. Lilith peered through the gloom to decipher the crudely written calligraphy.

'Darts Tournament?' She said incredulously, 'I don't understand.'

Pete placed the glass on the floor by his feet and arched himself forward in the seat, his large hand foraging in the pocket of his jeans. He removed a pound coin from his trousers and rolled it around his plate-like palm.

'Prize money,' he said simply. 'Two hundred and fifty quid for chucking a few arrows? Easiest money I'll ever make.'

Lilith narrowed her eyes, then opened them wide with a look of shocked embarrassment. 'You can't be serious Pete? After everything you said about using your powers for the good of humanity?' She looked away. 'If you needed money, all you have to do was ask.'

Pete spat on to the polished floor. 'I know how you earn your money. Besides, this place doesn't mind how I win, as long as I buy the rounds.'

'Sure. And how much of that two fifty goes straight back into the till at the bar?'

As if on cue, the bartender scuttled over, bringing Pete a fresh pint of straw-coloured ale. He seemed genuinely surprised to see Lilith, unaware that she was his blue goddess unmasked.

Pete waited until the bartender had disappeared into the gloom. Then he leaned forward, his voice barely even a whisper. 'Look, Lilith. You gave up the right to give a shit about me three years ago. So don't you dare come here and tell me how to live my life. I didn't invite you back, so just say what you've got to say and get out.'

He threw the pound coin down onto the table that sat between them. His fingers had deftly moulded the metal into a precision spinning top, which whirled across the counter between them. The Queen's face stretched across the surface of the ornament, slightly squashed by the metamorphosis making the monarch look more than a little cross-eyed. Though maybe this was from dizziness rather than from supernatural manipulation.

'I know you felt it.' Lilith said, watching the misshapen coin spin across the table. 'We all felt it. The call.' She paused for a second, studying Pete's features carefully. His face remained expressionless. 'We've been summoned.' Lilith said, rubbing the back of her neck with her long tapered fingers.

Pete took a long slug from his beer. His eyes were already beginning to slide out of focus. 'I didn't feel nothing' he said thickly, the metal of his belt buckle bowing beneath his rising emotions. 'Even if I did feel it, I'm not going back there. It's not my responsibility. I'm happy here.'

Lilith sighed and rose from her seat. 'If that's the way you feel about it, I guess there's nothing I can do.' She shrugged her handbag onto her shoulder. 'It was nice to see you again Pete,' she whispered, before disappearing off through the gloom.

After several minutes, he heard the door of the bar close and knew that she had left his life forever. He set his pint down on the table and collected up the knives and forks which lay around his chair. The force of his emotion had pulled the cutlery towards him and distorted each item horribly. He stuffed the metal wares down behind the armchair cushion and sighed. The fingers of his fat hands pressed the flesh at the back of his neck. The microchip there buzzed and vibrated like a trapped insect. It was the call.

Song

2011-08-20T12:53:00.000-07:00

And they began to sing.

At first it was barely a whisper. A memory of melody. It lifted the faces of weary commuters and alighted on the lips of tourists. It burst forth from mouths of men and women, shaking the tired circles from their eyes as they lifted their faces skywards and breathed in the rhythm. There were no words, only the realisation; the gentle, glorious dawning of the song.

Slowly, the sound of the traffic died away. Drivers left their cars and stood in the street, the song dancing on their tongues. As more voices joined the chorus, the tune began to change. The beauty of the music soared, multiplied and manipulated by the variety of the voices. It rose and fell with the intonations of thousands, all accents and languages merging into music, into song.

The music changed and the voices grew stronger. More people came. The low, primal notes leapt from their lungs until the air oscillated with their music and their joy. The song spoke of what could be. The vital, visceral sounds of life, amplified by many mouths, many hearts. They sang. And in singing, they knew they were not alone.

Interview with Daedalus

2011-08-14T01:17:00.000-07:00

A tragic hero? My Icarus?
Why do you journalists make such a fuss?
His sense of caution was lacks
Arrogance in feathers and wax
And the tale of his downfall's ridiculous.

I sent him to Greece for a newspaper, fags and some bread
He took my newly-made wings to skip over the Med
He got his feather licence last year
But he crashed and I'd give him a thick ear
Apart from the fact that he's dead.

He took my beautiful wings, with wax as their glue
I wrote the instructions on an envelope, so he knew what to do
'Don't fly too close to the sun!'
But pay attention? Not my son!
He would have jumped off a bridge if you said not to.

So off he flew to Greece to get my kit
We were having Welsh Rarebit for dinner and needed bread for it
His reckless flight's not defensible
I think he thought he was invincible
He broke my wings too, the little shit.

He never wore his wing-belt and didn't think or care
He just wanted to fly higher with the wind flowing through his hair
Before he could walk he wanted to run
So he got too close to the effing sun
The insurance will be a nightmare.

If he was still here today, what would I think?
I'd say 'You did me out of my Daily Mail, you little ratfink!
'But here's no need for contrition'
'Since your hubristic ambition'
'Has landed you right in the drink.'

Publication - Pins on The Pygmy Giant

2011-08-10T23:30:00.000-07:00

The Pygmy Giant - an online showcase for British writers of short prose, poetry and non-fiction - have published my short 'Pins'. You can find it here:
http://thepygmygiant.com/2011/08/05/pins/

Publication - Forward Press Poetry

2011-07-31T00:56:00.000-07:00

My poem 'self service seduction' has been picked to be published in an anthology published in October by Forward Press Poetry. 200 poems were chosen, but the 50 that the judges deem superior will be put forward to the Poetry Slam competition. Poets will perform their work in front of judges and an audience and the winning poet will receive a publishing contract with Forward Press or £1,000 cash! Fingers crossed and wish me luck.

Publication - Trashed Organ Magazine

2011-07-22T04:46:00.000-07:00

Trashed Organ is a Newcastle based literature, music and events collective which seeks to bring 'gutter poetics' to the masses. The Organ Grinders have recently branched out into zine publication. The first issue 'Music'

was published in early 2011 and the very first poem in the collection is one of mine! So that's nice.

I sent in two poems for consideration, and I actually prefer the one that they didn't publish. Both submissions are below, see what you think...

Accordion
Twirling a metaphorical
moustache, the squeezebox
bellows. An instrumental gentleman,
wheezing melodies through
pleated cloth. Folklore spills
from keys like history tamed
in minims. An asthmatic zephyr,
he sings The Suburbs to sleep.

The Prophet
The screech of the accordion;
a lacklustre, discordant hum,

eerie as the beating drum,
as final as the setting sun.

The thread of time is finely-spun,
and all round the buskers come

to hear the prophecy of one
who bellows that the race is run –

'The end is nigh! The horsemen come!'
'Repent! Recant! What have you done?'

The sands of chance through glass have run,
and still the music carries on.

The keys are worked by fingers numb,
a warning played with blackened thumbs

'Time is short, we have but none.'
'Are you proud of what you've done?'

And still the music carries on,
pressed to your chest like a loaded gun.

It rises through the panicked throng.
That lacklustre, discordant hum,

inducing dread in all who come.
As eerie as the beating drum.

Pray for release and find ye none,
the rhythm they cannot outrun.

The busker taps a hoof cloven
In time with the accordion.

Zombie Love Song

2011-07-09T00:25:00.000-07:00

I fancy you rotten, to the point of mutation,
I'm basically falling apart,
And if I had left some vaginal sensation,
I'd want copulation to start.

But I'm too fragile right now to start dating my dear,
My lips might come off in your mits
I've already lost all my teeth and one ear
You're smile's got me falling to bits.

Or it could be the exposure to intense radiation
That's left me with aches and with pains?
I'm quite open to rational negotiation:
Shag me or I will eat your brains.

I'm not bad to look at, if you close half an eye
And beauty's only as deep as the skin
I shed mine fortnightly and it's the reasoning why
You should give up and let my love in!

If it weren't for this virus that's eating my flesh
Would you regard me with more than disdain?
We could steal a night of passion, start out afresh?
It's that, or I will eat your brains.

I've been chased by great films stars, Bruce Campbell, Will Smith,
Charlton Heston to name but a few.
I'm still in demand though my body's rotting and stiff
But the only human I want is you.

They say that we women are manipulative
When we find we have something to gain
But just want a man to settle down with.
Well, that, or I could eat your brains.

Whatever you want it to mean, Honey.

2011-07-02T08:21:00.000-07:00

Pronoun verbed.
Noun verbed adverbedly.
Preposition proper-noun, pronoun verbed
conjunction verbed conjunction verbed.
Adjective noun.
Verb.

Writer's Circle post - June 2011

2011-06-25T13:24:00.000-07:00

Self Defence

It was self defence.

Angelo swerved. The car skidded as it took the corner, engine screaming, and lurched forward onto the highway into oncoming traffic. Angelo flung up his arms as if to block a blow, as pain seethed through his muscles like venom. The wheel span beneath his grasp and he wrenched it to his right, wrestling the vehicle like a matador with a bull, until the wail of the engine subsided, and the car settled down to a steady pace, heading west.

Angelo shook his fringe from his eyes and glanced into the rear-view mirror, scanning the street as it rushed away and disappeared over the crest of the hill. The black Mercedes that had veered through the traffic over the bridge, almost perpetually bathed in the glow of his tail lights as it clung to him, had vanished. Angelo let out a deep sigh, coughed and ran a hand across his brow. His fingers came away wet. He was still bleeding.

Another glance into the mirror, this time to study his own face. His eyes were hollow, encircled by shadows, and dark bristles crept across his throat. The cut on his forehead was beginning to clot and he pressed his fingers to the bruising on his cheek, wincing at the pain.

He looked past himself, at the road behind. Still nothing.

The tires purred on the uneven concrete as Angelo took a right turn, followed by a left, then another left. The urban sprawl was unfamiliar to him, and each road – lined with signs he could not read – seemed disconcertingly similar to the last.

He might have been anywhere in Europe. There were no distinctive landmarks which might give away his present location. This part of the city contained no houses. No one lived here. Instead, vast office blocks loomed up from the pavements, glass and steel cascading upwards towards unknown peaks. The offices and factories were lit, but the light was static, still, dead.

The bundle that lay on the passenger seat occupied Angelo's every thought. It was all he could do not to stare at it. To stop the car, there on the highway, and peel back the silk in which it was wrapped. The idea filled him with nausea and he felt the bile rise in his chest, hot and painful. The package rolled drunkenly across the seat as the car turned another sharp corner. It disgusted him. Taking one hand from the wheel, Angelo tried in vain to wedge the object between the ridges of the upholstery, but it evaded his grasp.

He had only left the hotel fifteen minutes ago, but it felt as though he had been travelling for days. Would they be looking for him now? The carriageway plunged into a tunnel and Angelo wondered if he ought to make plans. A harsh yellow light strobed across his face as he drove beneath a string of street lamps, the unnatural glow reducing everything in the car to ghostly shades of grey.

In the absence of inspiration, Angelo took a right.

Every few seconds, he lifted his eyes to the mirror. With each stolen glimpse, his anxiety grew, twisting and squirming in his chest like a great caged animal. How long before they checked the room?

He shuddered and the car lurched a little as his right foot twitched involuntarily on the accelerator. The package had come to rest against his jacket on the passenger seat, but Angelo's mind was still drawn towards it with a dangerous magnetism. A morbid fascination washed over him, one which could not be quenched by these furtive, sideways glances. He wanted to fling it from the car window, sending out onto the highway to be crushed beneath the wheels of an articulated lorry. He wanted to drive until reached the sea and bury the sinister parcel beneath the waves. He wanted to open it.

He would try not to look again.

The glass and steel had gone now, replaced by neat rows of terrace houses and strips of neon light emitting from late night bars and betting shops. Here and there groups of men stood, talking animatedly and smoking cigarettes. They paused in their conversations to watch the strange car as it drove past their homes, in that disconcerting way that local people sometimes do. Angelo focused straight ahead, while the men stared. He felt their eyes on him as each man tried ferociously to recognise his face, distorted by the glass and the darkness.

Sweat dripped from Angelo's hairline. It bristled at the edges of his eyes and seeped into the deep lines around his mouth. The air in the car was acrid and as dry as tinder. He felt at any moment it might catch, and everything would burst into flames. Despite the stifling heat, he could not bring himself to open the window, not while there were men on street corners.

And a small, irrational voice had entered his head.

It had started in the hotel room, just after the white noise had cleared and the fog had lifted. After he had realised what he had done. It spoke with her accent, the little voice in his mind. An Irish lilt, with overtones of somewhere he could never quite place. Softly at first. Growing louder and stronger. Begging, pleading with him.

“No! Please! Stop!”

If he opened the windows, the voice might escape, and then everyone would know what he had done.

What had he done?

A sweeping curve in the road caught him off-guard and he was jolted from his reverie in just enough time to steer clear of the crash barrier. He felt a sickening thud as the bundle beside him rolled and slammed against the plush, leather interior of the car. It was a noise he felt rather than heard. Like the crack of someone striking him n the ribs with a pool cue.

Outside, the suburban landscape had fallen away, and in its place, hedge-hemmed fields and scattered farm buildings slipped past quietly, shadowy and grey-green in the darkness. There were fewer street lights out here, among the deep folds of the hills. But the glow of industry in the distance clouded the sky with a haze of red which obscured the stars.

Angelo checked the mirror again, but found that he was completely alone. The hotel room flashed uninvited into his skull and the scene flickered and stuttered across his mind's eye in sepia tones. It seemed like a thousand years ago now. In reality only a few minutes and a few miles separated Angelo from that room.

So much blood.

He changed into fifth gear and pressed firmly on the accelerator. There was nothing for it now but to keep going. The road had narrowed considerably, and was now only just wide enough for a single vehicle. Withered, spidery branches pulled at the bodywork as the car pushed through the flora along the track. Each time a leafy tendril struck the roof of the vehicle, Angelo felt his heart convulse. Even the smallest noise rang out like a gunshot.

A row of rosary beads hung from the rear view mirror, dancing an angry foxtrot across his field of vision with each pothole the wheels of the car encountered. Suddenly infuriated by their existence, Angelo reached up and ripped them down. The delicate brown wooden beads rained over the dashboard and into the foot well. Angelo cursed under his breath.

It was then that he heard it. Out there in the darkness, crouched beyond the reach of the head lamps. An other-worldly tattoo, low and accusatory, thumping against the metalwork of the car, as if the engine were trying to escape. The tone rising and falling in time with the rising and falling of Angelo's chest.

It stopped just as suddenly as it had begun. Each empty beat wavered in his chest, and he felt his shoulders loosen in time with the silence.

Four seconds.

Five.

Six.

Angelo felt a shiver, despite the intense heat of the car. The knocking of the engine jarred uncomfortably against the ever-quickening beat of his heart. He swallowed and felt his throat constrict. His breath escaped in laboured gasps, wheezing across his over-large tongue. The noise of his own body resonated in his ears and deadened the external senses. His breathing was too loud. His heart too fast. He took a deep breath and held it. The wheezing continued, rasping like a saw through his skull.

Gripping the steeling wheel tightly, Angelo shot a look to his left. The package had fallen onto its side. A deep stain was radiating from a pin point, sprawling across the material, like a delicate crimson flower.

The wheezing continued. Long rattling breaths that caused the air in Angelo's lungs to vibrate. He slammed on the breaks and the shaking wreck ground to halt. Edging towards the door, he grasped for the release. But terror clung to him, stapling him in place.

The package lay, face up, on the seat beside him. A small triangle of material jutted out, in slight relief. As he watched, he was aware of a slight movement of the cloth beneath. As the breathing continued, the wrapping gently rose and fell.

Impossible.

He was dimly aware that he was screaming. He could hear it as if from far away and under water. He saw the material swell and undulate in time with the deep grasping breaths and felt the gaze of cold, dead eyes, swivelling beneath silk to meet his own.

The screaming grew louder.

As if through a fogged mirror, Angelo saw his own hands reach down and, through the noise of his own screams, he ripped off the material, and opened the package.

Displaced

2011-06-19T01:25:00.001-07:00

'Just think of it as a camping holiday.'

Zainab raised her weight onto the balls of her feet, lifting her head above the crowd to judge the distance to the front and the entrance. As she rose, she continued to hold onto me, so that I was forced closer to her. When she lowered herself back down, her grip on my shoulders remained strong. I complied. Feeling the fear radiating from her in the last few days had quelled my natural desire to bother her.

I worried at the sleeve of my jumper, pulling it down low over my fingers and teasing a thread from the frayed hem. Had we been at home, Zainab might have scolded me for such behaviour, but here, amongst the crowds and the noise and the heat, she paid me no mind.

We had travelled for three days to get to the spot on which now stood, anonymised by the crush of people, all edging slowly towards the gates of the compound. A place in the camp was not secure, even after we had journeyed this far on blistered feet. The government had issued quotas to each of the camps, and the rules were strict. Zainab said that if we did not get in to this camp, we could walk to the next. But when she tried to smile, that same anxiety flickered behind the lids of her eyes.

She had taken me out by nightfall. We took the train to the edge of the city, then walked across fields until we reached the camp gates. My father had waved us off at the threshold of our home, saying he would follow in a few days. But his wounds were too severe, he would never be admitted to the compound. My mother was already dead.

It was barely even dawn, but already the beads of sweat had begun to glisten at my forehead. I was restless and the smell of thousands of tired bodies swept over me like a tsunami. My arm began to itch and I felt Zainab's eyes upon me as I scratched it. When I lifted my head to meet her gaze I saw that she was no longer looking in my direction, though she held me so tightly it was all I could to keep breathing.

'Don't worry,' she murmured, as if to reassure herself rather than me, 'we'll be safe soon.'

The gates loomed up in front of us as the crowds ahead were assessed with efficiency. Those who were not admitted were put on the back of trucks and driven away. Their screams – their pleading screeches – pierced the air and subdued the crowd. We did not know where the rejected were taken.

There were men dressed in white overalls at the gates, members of the army, Zainab said. They wore gloves and thick rubber boots and they flinched at the slightest sound. They were scared, these men. With guns at their belts and masks across their faces, still they were afraid. The guns were to protect us, Zainab said, and the masks were to protect them from us.

Zainab grew paler as we neared the entrance. I think she feared the close, darkened confines of the decontamination chambers. The machines were built like vast metal coffins, stood on end, and decorated with wires and dials like futuristic Christmas trees. Each man would step into a sarcophagus and the door would be closed, sealing his fate. I caught the taste of vomit in my throat and pulled my jumper closer around my arms.

When we reached the gate, Zainab spoke hurriedly to the guard, in Arabic, so that others might not hear her words. She told the guard that I was claustrophobic and we would need to be exempt from the decontamination process. I tried to interject, but she pushed me aside, using a heel to sweep me behind her legs. Angered by this dismissal, I fought the urge to bite her hard on the hand. She offered the guard things that I did not understand and he eagerly accepted, motioning for us to follow him.

We slipped through a door, and then down miles of corridors, all windowless and lit by florescent tubing, giving the impression that we were suddenly underground. We passed a room in which three white-suited guards sat watching a television. With their masks removed, I could see that their faces were prematurely-lined, their brows furrowed like the fields we had crossed. Our guard paused to listen and the new reader continued, a bodiless voice speaking over images of burning cars and bodies lying in Oxford Street.

“...are fleeing the cities of London and Bristol after news that the virus has spread to these areas. All evacuees are urged to remain calm and head for the designated safe zones. Anyone showing any symptoms of the disease should be locked in out buildings and left to starve. Experts now believe that the virus is transmitted through infected wounds. The public are advised to remain calm and to avoid bites and scratches from diseases persons at all costs. The Prime Minister is working with the World Health Organisation to determine...”

Our guard shook his head sadly, muttered something about his cousins, and continued down the airless corridors. We came, blinking, out into the sunlight, this time on the opposite side of the fence. My sister looked relieved and hugged me. She urged me to wait while she collected tarpaulin for our tent, then walked off towards the guard who smiled broadly.

I stood still, watching her go. My arm twitched. The bite had begun to itch once more.

Mantis

2011-06-17T12:44:00.000-07:00

She sits apart, with lips like darts.
In fits and starts, she'll slit their hearts.
She spits and barks, omits no parts.
With fingers arched, she'll slit their hearts.
A question mark, no maps or charts.
In fits and starts, she'll slit their hearts.
Lips split apart, the man is marked.
In fits and starts, she'll slit his heart.
She'll get what's asked, make no remark.
With fingers arched, she'll slit his heart.
She splits apart, a witless art.
In fits and starts, she slit his heart.
And in her teeth are bits and parts
Of that poor boy's beating heart.

Publication - Crumpets and Tea

2011-06-06T10:27:00.000-07:00

Crumpets and Tea is an online space for writers of fiction, creative non-fiction and poetry. My piece 'Zero' has been featured on the site today. See it here:

http://crumpetsandtea.me/zero/

Let me know what you think.

publication - The Pygmy Giant

2011-06-04T01:25:00.000-07:00

The Pygmy Giant is an online space for writers from the UK. It publishes short fiction, flash fiction and poetry and the writers on the site are incredibly talented and innovative.

I got my first submission published on this site this weekend - an informative article on Meerkats - which you can read here:

http://thepygmygiant.com/2011/06/04/meerkats/

Writers' circle post - The North Pier

2011-05-27T12:19:00.000-07:00

You stand on the railings with your back to the shore. You've seen the Victorian hotels that line the promenade a thousand times. You've seen the way their elegant, painted façades stretch four storeys to the sky, their distinguished faces rubbed raw by the sea air and the rain. The sun shines on them today; the candy-coloured brickwork, repainted for the coming summer season. But you've seen that all before.

The wind advances across the sea like a vanguard, attacking the coast in great waves of nausea. Coloured parasols and striped deckchairs litter the beach, agitated by the tempest, their fabric bodies flapping madly with impotent frustration. Seagulls stand resolutely on the retreating sand and process over the flats, hunting for juicy shellfish and dropped chips among the rock pools. The screech of the gulls reaches your ears despite the roar of the waves, but you don't turn around.

No colourful lights illuminate the fairground rides on the pier at this early hour. The theatre complex and bingo hall are closed now too, but you can hear the early morning vacuums lapping at the shag-pile, peeling popcorn from beneath the seats. The theatre's windows all face shore-wards, as if the building itself were nostalgic for a simpler time.

You squint against the rising sun and stare out at the horizon. It's as straight and sharp as folded paper and as still as the grave. Despite the swell rushing over the iron girders beneath you, out there in the distance the ocean is calm. Abby would say that this evidence that all chaos is fleeting; you would prefer to say that serenity is a trick of perspective.

The south pier – a redundant name now, since the North Pier burned down – is an escapist's paradise, swathed in gaudy lights and colours like a painted harlot. You stand on its railings with your back to the shore. You've renounced that shore and everything it ever took from you.

Your bare feet burn against the cold iron of the pier, numbed by the chill wind and the rawness of the season. The thin summer dress gathers around your pale ankles like an incoming tide. You didn't bring a coat, despite the cold. A coat would only weigh you down now. Still, isn't it a little too cold for these theatrics? Do you want to catch your death?

Catch and keep it and never let it go.

Simon liked this dress. He liked the way it showed your shoulders and neck. You would never let him see you wearing it now. Like magnets, you feel your hands reach for that neck. The scent of salt catches in your throat and you run your fingers across the scars of your swimming-pool skin. The rippled burns sit heavily on your chest, as if someone had dropped a pebble into your heart and your skin parted like water to swallow it whole.

Without turning back towards the shore, you climb the rungs of the railings and carefully slip your legs over the apex of the bar. You balance on the iron frame, clinging onto the pier a little too tightly, and staring at the white foam that crests and falls on the waves. The struts beneath the pier are covered in thousands of sharp, purple barnacles and the waves dart around the metal, slicing at the structure like knives.

'Excuse me dear.'

Your feet slide from the metal and you grasp tightly onto the railings to keep from falling. The old woman startles you so much that you find it impossible not to look around. The candy-coloured Victorian hotels still dominate the promenade but the sun is higher in the sky now and the first dog walkers can be seen on the sand in the distance.

The old woman is sitting on the bench, just metres away from where you are seated. It's hard to tell how long she has been there, but she has a half eaten sandwich in her lap, so she may have been watching you for quite some time. You didn't hear her arrive. You were too busy – caught in the romance of your own pain – for any kind of awareness of the world around you.

She has moved your belongings from the bench in order to sit down. They now lie in a neat pile by her feet: your keys, shoes, handbag. Her grey hair is held in a scruffy bun on the top of her head and she is wearing a bright striped scarf wound tightly around a thin, grey neck. A large bag sits next to her on the bench. It looks to be full of shopping and a bunch of bananas peek out from the hessian, their golden skins almost luminous compared to the turgid grey waves. In her hands she holds a copy of some broadsheet newspaper, folded origami-style so that the puzzle pages are given rightful prominence. A biro, chewed to within an inch of its life, protrudes from her lined month. Perceptively, you see an ex-smoker, re-appropriating a new object to fulfil a long-held oral fixation.

In the distance, you notice a milk float creeping up the hill behind the Victorian hotels, and a postman on his bicycle, hurtling down the steep street like a runaway train.

'Excuse me,' the old woman says again. 'I wonder if you could help me before you go?'

You see her eyes flicker momentarily to your chest, but she makes no comment. She only smiles benignly, expecting an answer. But you do not answer. You just look at those crinkled eyes, treacle brown and deep as the sea.

'I'm stuck on this last clue,' the woman explains, her voice quiet yet audible above the crashing waves.

Bewildered by the banality of her request, you nod dumbly, indicating that you will hear her riddles. Tears are stinging your eyes now. Perhaps it was the shock of being interrupted? Or the relief?
The woman smiles kindly again. She cannot be more than five feet away. If you jumped now, would she reach out for you?

'To present voluntarily more than three times, seven letters.'

You shake your head, embarrassed. Your grip on the bars loosens and you look down into the surging tide below. You squeeze your eyes closed and shift your feet on the iron, as your toes burn against the cold. The old woman smiles and nods sagely. She scribbles a few letters onto the newspaper and places it carefully on the bench beside her. Struggling to her feet, she lifts the bag onto a withered shoulder and leaves, without a single word.

You sit and watch the old woman as she walks up the pier, back towards the shore. You sit and watch her for a long time, until the yellow of the bananas in her bag disappears and the bright stripes of her scarf fade to a hazy grey. You watch her as disappears into one of the candy-coloured Victorian hotels.

Alone now, you turn back to face the sea, as sharp and straight as folded paper against a golden horizon. The waves still crash against the pier, but they do so almost in silence, as if they ocean were holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

You climb back onto the wooden slats of the pier and stoop to pick up the newspaper, which despite the wind, has not been carried away. There is no crossword. Only an article on illegal perch fishing and a photograph of school children receiving an award for some small success. But, written in neat copper-plate handwriting in the top margin of page, with a biro that has been chewed to within an inch of its life, is a single word.

Forgive.

Publications

2011-05-24T13:52:00.000-07:00

Good news everyone! My prose poem - The Astronaut, was commended in the Leaf Books micro fiction competition! It will be published as part of their winners collection! I've read some of the work that will be included in the book and it's of an incredibly high standard. So if you'd like to purchase a copy, you can do so here:

http://www.leafbooks.co.uk/New/Books/Pod.htm

None of the proceeds will go to me, but it's definitely a step in the right direction!

My poem 'Accordion' was also accepted for the first edition of Trashed Organ, a Newcastle-based Zine which brings together poets, musicians and artists into one lovely big creative ball. More information can be found here:

http://www.trashedorgan.co.uk/

I will put both poems up on this blog after they have been published. Watch this space.

Pins

2011-05-22T04:10:00.000-07:00

That summer, I cut my hair to an awkward length. I found a pair of blunt scissors in a drawer in the dormitory kitchen, and simply removed the excess. All that dead wood – that thicket that fell over my breasts and back – was clipped away, until the blunt bristles skimmed the nape of my neck. My discarded plumage lay limp on the linoleum, and the memories with them had been plucked from my mind.

It was odd to feel the summer's breeze on my shoulders then, a violation from which I had previously been protected. My shroud had been shortened by circumstance. In its place, a sheet of spines now lay, pins flowing from my temples, puncturing the past until it died in my hands. So, with the vulnerable skin of my throat freshly exposed, I was sent home, hoping to find new solitude in my disguise.

The house looked just the same that summer. Red brick walls and iron gutters stood squarely at the end of the terrace, rhododendron and foxglove clamouring for space against the austere façade. The little pond - no more than a puddle due to the lack of rain - was punctuated by the soft fleshy commas of tadpoles. The old ford sierra sagged in the heat of the mid-morning sun like a damp rag on a washing line. The door to the house was still blue, the paint still peeling.

Victor sat on the steps that led up to the porch, staring coldly at me as I descended the path. He was smoking one of those filthy roll-up cigarettes and as I approached, his face clouded with confusion. A small, ugly ridge appeared between his brows as he recognised me.

I felt the jagged whiskers of his chin bruise my cheek before he had even stood to greet me, and each time I moved my head, the brush of my own hair would dig into my throat like pins into the soft flesh of a jumper. His eyes penetrated me, searching out my motives. My nerve flickered and he smiled.

Of course, he knew why I had done it. And with his knowledge, Victor seemed more dangerous to me than he had in January, when he had stroked my face and told me that he loved me. The jagged edges that sat just below my ears would not dissuade him, and I had been foolish to think that they might. Next year, I would shave my head.

Character-driven sketch

2011-05-13T23:46:00.000-07:00

“Oh my God! You won't even believe it Cherise! I'm still shaking now! He was here! It was that film star. Yes, he was hear when you were on your lunch!

You know, that bloke who was in that film with the woman with the big face. Oh, you know, the one who does charity work and has five children from six different husbands. No, she wasn't here. But that film star was. The one that was in that film with the big-faced woman. You know, that film about the farmer and the ski instructor. We saw it at the cinema. There were loads of explosions, and this film star takes his shirt off in the middle of the supermarket.

No, not Asda's up the road! I mean in the film he takes his shirt off. The film about the ski instructor. Yes, the guy with the tiny eyes. Yes, he was here! In the shop! He ordered a coffee and everything!

No no, you're thinking of his brother. The one who never married, if you catch my drift. No, I mean the one who was in loads of films. Like the one about the man who turns into a three piece suite. Or the one about the aliens with five heads. And he played the middle head. You know, he has a band too. They were in the charts last year with that song that goes, di dum di dum. You remember? The drummer of the band had no toenails. Surely you remember him?No, the drummer wasn't here. But the guy who was in the film about the ski instructor was.

He was absolutely dreamy! Much taller than he seems on the telly. And he'd grown a bread. Really tangled and matted it was. I think it was a disguise, so the public wouldn't recognise him. But I knew who it was straight away. I went straight up to him to take his order. Honestly Cherise, I was more nervous than when I saw Jimmy Saville in Ikea!

He must have been researching a film role. No, not Jimmy Saville! This film star. What's his name. American guy. Though he hid his accent pretty well. Yes, he must be doing a film over here, because he was trying out his Glaswegian accent on me. But I knew it was him. He must be researching a film role. Why else would he be in Chiswick? He must have been working hard too, because he smelt really musky. You know, like he'd been working out with a personal trainer or something for hours. He must have to take his shirt off in his new film. He was looking a lot thinner than he does in the films. Though I suppose he must be playing a down and out. I think it's called method acting. You probably haven't heard of it.

We discussed his films. We, I spoke and he listened. I think he must have found it refreshing to meet someone who knows about art and culture like I do. He said he was just in the café to avoid the rain and that he hadn't any money. I knew what he meant. He was hiding out from the paparazzi and he'd probably left his wallet in the limo. I got him a coffee and a muffin. I'll pay for them later Cherise!

We were getting on so well, so I asked him for his number. He said he didn't have a phone. Which is a bit weird. But then I suppose he's one of these celebrities that's into those weird cult-y religions where you shun worldly possessions and give all your money to charity. His clothes were certainly second hand, and really, it's nice to see successful people giving back to the community. Honestly Cherise, I'd like to see you give some of your Addidas knock-offs to Oxfam one day – give a little back you know?

Still, I got his autograph. Three times. Well, my little cousins would kill me if they knew I'd been talking whatshisname without getting his autograph! I was just nipping into my bag to get my phone so I could have a picture with him, when Elise shouts at me to clean the milk frother. When I came back out the front, he was gone. I suppose he had a showbiz premier to get to. Shame really, we were getting on so well.

Yes Cherise, that guy with the blue eyes and the black hair. He was in that film about that horse that could tap dance. Yes! That's the one. God Cherise, you're finally up to speed! I've only been talking about him for the past five minutes!

You what? He died? Four years ago? The guy in the film about the ski instructor? Are you sure? Well, yes, I suppose a helicopter accident is nothing to joke about. But are you sure we're talking about the same person?

Oh.

So, who just signed my left breast?”

Ironically comparing an obese nation's obsession with food to a warped religious fevour

2011-05-11T14:05:00.000-07:00

Worship at the Church of gluttony,
Where hymns are bacony and prayers are buttery.
Chocolate and crisps are never missed,
By pious fizzy-drink recidivists.
Burgers and beer are our deities,
A parishioner's badge is diabetes.
We live in abhorrence of the diet,
Only sticky buns will our spirit quiet.
Eating just to fill the hole,
Till biscuit crumbs encrust our souls.
Our minds shrink down as our stomachs swell,
But an empty buffet is our hell.

Writer's Circle Post - April 2011

2011-04-20T11:51:00.000-07:00

Last Rites

The writing was small but clearly legible, though the words themselves were foreign to me. The ink was red. The bloody smearings from the broken nose of a fountain pen decorated the four by two inch square of card that I held tightly to my chest.

This was my last chance.

I was worried that I might not be able to pronounce some of the more complicated syllables. It was vital to get every utterance exactly perfect. A mumble or misplaced 'e' might mean conjuring that which I did not intend to invoke. Rumour has it that a slip-up such as this had sired Kilroy. A burden that no world should have to bear twice.

I found the card in a book at the charity shop. I was admiring the full length skirts in the fuller-figured section – having just cashed my pension for the week and being in the mood to treat myself – when I noticed the black business card peaking from the pages of a dog-eared Mills and Boon. The tiny advertisement seemed to have been placed there just for me, so completely did it match my needs. Like finding a pound coin in your slipper, just as the ice cream van trundles into view. Serendipity had smiled upon me, and finally I would be able to recapture Frank's memory.

I placed the card carefully on the coffee table. I had covered the scuffed surface with a navy blue towel. It was closest I had to a black alter cloth, and was more appropriate than the table covering patterned with snowflakes that I used at Christmas time.

Bunty had been shut in the dining room, and the dimmer switch had been employed to give the room an ambience that it might have otherwise lacked. The porcelain figurines had been turned to face the wall, so as not to witness any of the diabolical goings-on. With this kind of affair, preparation is key.

Despite the fact that it was just after four pm, I shut the blinds in the lounge tightly. I often had a nap at this time of afternoon, after Countdown, so the warden would not be too incensed by my darkened window. I didn't want Maude or Lucy to drop by unexpectedly either. Maude's heart was weak, and she might not be able to handle a visit from the dreaded apparition. Lucy was built of sterner stuff, but was such a terrible gossip that the entire sheltered housing association would know before the day was out. I would never be asked to join the WI if they knew I were dabbling in the occult.

I fished a fat black candle from out of the draw in the kitchen and took Bunty a biscuit. The little dog yelped apprehensively, ever the voice of reason. But this was important to me, and since all other avenues had been exhausted, I was prepared to take drastic action. Once this was explained to him, Bunty became more subdued and while he did not expressly give his blessing, his protests were silenced.

I lit the candle in a saucer on the coffee table and, suddenly nervous, I removed my false teeth and raised my glasses to my cataracts. After a few deep breaths (and a sneaky glass of sherry to calm my nerves) I began the steady Latin chant, as the card instructed:

'Aquila, Antithesis, Nocte, Nacho, Carpe Diem,Lapis Luzuli!'

A great plume of smoke erupted from the candle's flickering flame, filling the room with acrid blue smoke that shimmered as if studded with stars. Or human eyes. The smoke caught in the back of my throat, tasting of fear and other people's vomit. I cast my hand out, searching vainly between the sofa cushions for my inhaler when, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the smoke vanished.

A great beast stood in the centre of the room, dwarfing the three piece suite and looking out of place beside my old record player on the side board. The demon's legs were similar to that of a goat, but his bare torso was a vivid green, with muscles that rippled and flexed beneath the surface of his emerald skin. His tail was fat and bushy, like a cat's, and swung about the room, knocking several of my Dorchester figurines off the mantelpiece. Had he been an ordinary house guest, I might have been moved to chastise him for this indiscretion, but as it was, I was too dumbfounded to utter a single word. I cowered in my seat, my gaze focused unwillingly on his blood red eyes.

“Who summons Shendu, all powerful demon and slayer of men, to the mortal realm?” The demon bellowed, wheeling his heads about the room menacingly, his tusks grazing the fringed lampshade.

“Erm, I did.” I squeaked, rising slowly to my feet.

The abomination looked me over haughtily. “Do you know that which you have unleashed upon the world? Can you even comprehend my might?” He waited for a response, and when none came, he continued with his sales pitch. “I have the power to smite your enemies, to cause unspeakable suffering to those who have wronged you. I can make your most sadistic fantasies a reality in one glorious, shining instant. I can send your adversaries to the depths of madness, plunge mortal minds the very pits of despair. I can even make unpleasant smells follow a school bully for the rest of his days.”

He held out a pamphlet that bore the heading 'Diabolical Services: A Menu of the Macabre'. I took it and held it limply in my shaking hands.

“Er, no, actually.” I squeaked. “I was interested in your other services.”

The demon raised all five of his eyebrows and surveyed me quizzically. Then his eyes fell to the card on the coffee table.

“Shit.”

He sat down heavily on the sofa beside me, his heads sagging against his domed chest. My bronchitis started to act up and I coughed noisily, flecks of spittle falling around my lips. As I wiped the moisture away with the sleeve of my cardigan, I could feel the monster's eyes upon me, the muscles in his cheeks twitching with ill-suppressed disgust.

We sat in silence for a few moments.

“Look,” Shendu breathed finally, “The smitings and slayings...well, they just don't bring in the cash like they used to. People are going soft. No one wants bloody revenge any more! All anyone seems to want nowadays is 'closure' and 'mediation'. I tell you, the day the invented marriage counselling, I saw my profits HALF! And then the recession hit, and things have just gone from bad to worse.” He looked up. “I had to diversify.”

I patted his knee and made soothing noises.

“But,” He continued, “And don't take this the wrong way, you're not quite the client I was imagining when I started this little sideline.” I felt all six of his eyes resting on my stained cardigan, baggy stockings and grey, thinning hair. “So, if you had any enemies you wanted me to crush instead..?”

“Look here!” I said, my confidence rising in line with the sense of indigence at being misled. “It says on your card that for twenty quid you will 'Take me to the depths of depravity and plug the mouth of hell with your sizeable demonic forces'. That's what I want. None of this revenge and murder nonsense.”

The demon sighed, expelling all the air from his lungs. His tail swung listlessly at his waist. I plucked a crisp twenty pound note from my purse and placed it on the table. “I'm just going to put a pot of tea on.” I said. “Let me know if you change your mind.” I got up from the sofa, and made as if to leave the room.

“All right love,” the Titan said, snatching the money from the table and pushing it into the pocket of his trousers. He eyed my cold-sored mouth dubiously, “But no kissing.”

Bag Lady

2011-04-11T12:12:00.000-07:00

Her deep love for handbags had reached fever pitch,
Only a clutch or a holdall could scratch this peculiar itch.
'Till simply purchasing satchels just wouldn't suffice,
Instead smoking suede and snorting leather became her new vice.
She would swallow duffles and briefcases, and chew down on totes,
She once got a three-piece set of luggage caught in her throat.
Soon a build-up of buckles had impacted her guts,
And a zip got tangled in her tonsils, it was driving her nuts.
After five emergency operations, and twelve endoscopies,
Now the closest she'll get to a handbag is an on-trend colostomy.

The Prophet

2011-04-10T00:54:00.000-07:00

The screech of the accordion;
a lacklustre, discordant hum,

eerie as the beating drum,
as final as the setting sun.

The thread of time is finely-spun,
and all round the buskers come

to hear the prophecy of one
who bellows that the race is run –

'The end is nigh! The horsemen come!'
'Repent! Recant! What have you done?'

The sands of chance through glass have run,
and still the music carries on.

The keys are worked by fingers numb,
a warning played with blackened thumbs

'Time is short, we have but none.'
'Are you proud of what you've done?'

And still the music carries on,
pressed to your chest like a loaded gun.

It rises through the panicked throng.
That lacklustre, discordant hum,

inducing dread in all who come.
As eerie as the beating drum.

Pray for release and find ye none,
the rhythm they cannot outrun.

The busker taps a hoof cloven
In time with the accordion.

The Company Picnic

2011-03-25T10:06:00.000-07:00

So it seems the cries of freedom were uttered in vain,
Though, at the sound of protests, our hearts seized.
The tannoy bursts forth with a joyless refrain,
"Disturbance over, back on your knees!"
So you go back to the dystopia that's almost Orwellian,
Back to a life filled with grovel and fawn.
But all is not lost! In a small act of rebellion,
You shat on the president's front lawn.

The problem with Ely

2011-03-20T04:25:00.000-07:00

Ely is a lovely city - incredibly posh and up-market - with a nice big Cathedral, lots of wonderful tea shops, a fantastic independent bookshop, the best antiques dealer in the county, and a beautiful river front. But...there's one person soiling it for everyone. I have immortalised the issue I have with this person in the form of a rhyme.

The Problem With Ely

It's a beautiful city, with one major downside,
the streets are slick with sick on which to slide.
On Friday evening the streets are clear,
but come the next morning, the unpleasantness appears.
It's regular as clock work, universally hated,
some posh toss-pot who struggles being inebriated.
Yes, the Ely Vomitter strikes again!
with chunks of peacock and grouse and hen
poured on to the streets in suspicious piles
so that getting to Waitrose is like a hurdles time trial.
The whiff of regurgitum floats on the breeze
and in a fit of despair I sink to my knees
(this is difficult to do with the streets washed with vom
but I find a dry patch to be melodramatic upon.)
'Why Ely Vomitter, do we really deserve this?'
'To have Saturday mornings marred by your gastric disservice?'
I've bought some wellington boots and some disinfectant spray
I won't let this upper-class up-chuck ruin my day!

The Thief

2011-03-19T02:58:00.000-07:00

Bumped into a woman and lifted her bag,
Hid round a corner and eyed up the swag:
Twelve snotty tissues, a hair brush, some fluff,
A flask of tepid tea; where's the valuable stuff?
Pick-pocketed a wallet from a man in a suit,
Slipped into an alleyway to count out the loot.
Two for one coupons from Pizza Express
And photos of his kids, nothing more, nothing less.
Pinched a tourist's backpack as she queued for the loo,
Sat down on a bench, with stolen goods to go through.
A leaflet for Tussaud's, a Union Jack souvenir
Nothing worth pilfering to be found anywhere.
The recessions affected us all, so I implore you
If you care about others, keep your handbag in full view
Instead of sending off cash to some worthy charity
Keep some pennies for a good cause, in your pockets for me.

Mrs Henry B. Nunn, the Taxidermist's Wife

2011-03-19T02:20:00.001-07:00

Blood on the table,
entrails in the loo,
a taxidermist's gotta do
what a taxidermist's gotta do.
But she had a strong stomach
she didn't mind the gore;
in fact morbid curiosity
was what she married him for.
Skins drying flat
in the shed round the back,
glittery glass eyes
arranged all in stacks.
He was the best tanner in town,
endowed with a gift,
his fingers were nimble
and his service was swift,
but it wasn't his profession
which proved the last straw,
it was the regular mounting and stuffing
of Valerie next door.
When the taxidermist's wife
found out what he'd done,
it was the last the town saw
of Mr Henry B. Nunn.
Twenty years later –
when the old woman died –
agents came to the house
and found a nasty surprise:
the mounted remains
of Mr Henry B. Nunn
(she'd used his own tools
to ensure he couldn't run.)
Seems the taxidermist's wife
had learnt a thing or two,
though one of his eyes had come loose
as she'd used inferior glue.

Immodest Symphony

2011-03-07T07:11:00.000-08:00

When you play the violin,
you'll always find me smiling.
Your elbows wild and free,
fingers dexterous as a flea.
Your E Sharps so beguiling,
sweet music you're compiling.
You play Brahms in the chord of C,
and I imagine you're fiddling with me.

Writer's circle post - February 2011

2011-02-25T11:20:00.000-08:00

Snap

"Tom Cruise?"

"Yours."

"David Beckham?"

"Yours."

"Robert Downey Jr?"

"Mine."

"What?" Spluttered God, spilling his orange juice into his goatee. The juice dribbled down his chin and soaked into his Hawaiian shirt, staining almost instantly and leaving him looking like a sweaty fruit salad. He sighed heavily and bought both hands across his face, removing the facial hair and shrinking his nose while widening his cheekbones. With a flick of his wrists, the soiled shirt became a white t-shirt printed with the slogan 'I'm with stupid.'

"I do wish you wouldn't do that." Said Satan, peering with fascinated disgust at God's latest face. "It really creeps me out. Besides, your eyebrows are wonky."

God ignored him.

"Why do you get Robert Downey Jr?" God asked petulantly. The Devil took a sip of orange juice from his glass in order to delay answering. The glass - an ornate goblet made from the inverted skull of a shop-lifter - looked somewhat out of place in God's new walnut and granite fitted kitchen. Like eyeliner on a budgerigar. Still, Satan liked to maintain an air of malignancy, especially at brunch.

The Devil buttered a scone carefully and took a small bite, chewed thoughtfully and then swallowed. He took a crimson handkerchief from the pocket of his jeans and wiped his mouth slowly. God knew that he had to indulge Satan when he was in one of his antagonistic moods, or risk him sulking and holding his breath until he fainted. Again.

"Come on now" Said Satan, in answer to the question posed some paragraphs ago, "You know the rules! A prison stay, drug abuse? He's clearly one of mine."

"It just doesn't seem fair. You get all the rock stars and gangsters and all I get are the philanthropists, noble prize-winning scientists and country and western singers. If I have to hear about the discovery of the double-helix one more time, I think I'm going to scream!"

God sat at the breakfast bar (which the builders had kindly installed free of charge when he caught them pissing in the sink) and sighed again. "Sure, Darwin was fun for a while - remember when we showed up at his funeral and you told him he was going to your place for what he'd said about evolution? And I was dressed in my finest smiting robes? I hadn't worn them since the old days! The look on his face! But now who have I got to look forward to meeting? Justin Beiber?" He dissolved into silent sobs.

Satan sat down opposite God and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. "There, there. You've got Mandela to look forward to."

God's shoulders stopped juddering and he looked up through newly-grown pink dreadlocks. His red-rimmed eyes twinkled with recognition. "Yeah," He said, "Yeah, I bet he'll have some good stories to tell!"

The Devil looked down at his perfectly manicured fingernails for a few moments, and a sly smile crept up his neck and onto his face like a particularly acrobatic woodlouse.

"Of course," He said slowly, "Mandela has been incarcerated."

God's face, now that of a stern West Indian woman, crumpled and fell.

"But, that was a corrupt regime, he was innocent, surely that doesn't count?"

"Rules are rules," Said Satan, massaging his knuckles gleefully. "My Goodness! What fun we'll have! Cocktails with Nelson and Adolf on the veranda, with a marvellous view of the fire pits. I can introduce him to Vlad and Benito, and Caligula will be thrilled to finally have someone to play boules with."

God was crestfallen. He demanded that they consult The Rule Book. The two deities spent twenty minutes searching for the text, which they found being used to prop up a wobbly table leg in the study. In removing the book from under the table, they displaced the cat from her perch atop a yellowing collection of What Car? Magazines. The cat had been lazily musing on the nature of existence, and whether God could be tried by the court of human rights for calling her 'Mrs Pussy Lumpkins.' She had concluded that, being a cat, she was not entitled to due judicial process and resolved to speak to her representatives about putting together a case for extreme mental cruelty. She was tipped from the table and shooed from the room. She croaked her displeasure, and went to phone her solicitor, to see if she might be entitled to compensation for wrongful dismissal.

Satan whisked the leather-bound Rule Book from God's hands and opened it out on the table.

"Here," He exclaimed after several minutes perusal, "Rule 64. No soul held in penal servitude can be eligible for entry into the Glorious Hereafter. See!" He picked up the book and shoved it in God's face. God squinted at the print before snatching the book from Satan and pulling it close around him, so that the Lord of the Underworld could not read it. God furtively removed a biro from the dinner jacket he was now wearing and hunched over the book. The sound of scratching came from within.

"Ah ha!" Said God triumphantly, a moment later, "You forgot to read the exceptions! You're going to be disappointed!"

The Devil smiled a tight-lipped smile and scratched his cheek with his middle finger, simultaneously making a rude gesture at his host. God didn't notice.

"'No soul, blah blah blah, except prisoners of war, Boy George and Nelson Mandela.' So there!"

"Boy George?" Satan pulled on the covers of the book, forcing them downwards and towards him, pulling God's fingers away one by one from the spine. He coupled this attack with a jab to the ribs and bit down hard on God's left shoulder.

"Now come on!" Said God, in a perfect parody of the Devil's pomposity, "Rules are rules, you said so yourself!"

Satan kicked him hard in the shin and God relinquished his prize with a yelp of pain that dislodged his eyebrows once more.

The Devil held the book open at arm's length above his head, while God danced around him, trying to catch hold of it again.

"Hold on," He said, placing his palm on God's nose and forcing him downwards and out of the way. "Wait a minute! That last bit is written in pen! In your handwriting!"

God shrugged. "I knew it was a bad idea to put Boy George in there. I got greedy - I'll admit that. But I just love Culture Club so much!" And with that, he stretched out flat on his back on the floor and sang Karma Chameleon at the top of his voice.

Satan listened for a while, but by the end of the second verse his patience began to wane. How could dreams and love be coloured red, gold and green? Not only was it inaccurate, it was positively garish. The Devil had always preferred Duran Duran.

"OK," He relented, "I'll give you a chance to win Nelson back. Think of it as a wager. A challenge. We'll play for his immortal soul!"

Those expecting a dramatic clap of thunder at this point will be left wanting, although the cat did emit a small burp from her seat on the stairs. Mortified at her own impropriety, she retreated to the relative safety of the bedroom.

God pulled himself to his feet, with the aid of a conveniently-place lamp-stand, which clattered to the floor as he rose from it. His face had changed once more, so that he now resembled a old farmer, complete with cloth cap and mutton-chop sideburns.

"Chess?" said God hopefully.

"No," Replied Satan. "I am sick to the back teeth of playing chess with you! We'll play cards, and you'd better turn off your omnipresence. I know you've been cheating at Gin Rummy. Poseidon has lost a lot of money through your tomfoolery!" Satan pressed his pockets, searching for a deck of cards. "And don't you think of cheating like you did last week with Diana."

God smiled benignly. "What a lovely girl." He said. "To be honest, she wasn't really qualified for your place."

"No, but she'd have some stories!"

"She does indeed," Said God smugly. "Why, only last night, she and Mother Teresa were discussing..."

"Shh,I'm not interested. I just don't think its fair that you failed to mention that you were the Deities and Demi-Gods Secondary School Tiddlywinks champion for six years running!"

"What can I say, I was athletic in my youth." Said God, without a hint of irony.

They had, by this time, returned to the kitchen and were now sitting opposite one another across the breakfast table. The scones and jam sat between them. The Devil produced a deck of cards from his left sleeve and gave them to his opponent to check.

A lengthy discussion followed about whether it was appropriate to be gambling for a man's immortal soul with 'Dr Lovelength's Extremely Naked Ladies' pornographic playing cards. Finally God found a more appropriate pack in his kitchen cupboard.

"Five card stud?" Suggested Satan, fanning out the pack with his thumb and shuffling the cards deftly. "Aces are high, jokers are wild?"

"Snap."

Satan dropped the cards mid-shuffle.

"You chose last time," Said God, "It's my turn to choose the game, and I choose the most formidable test of skill and dexterity, of observation and cat-like reflexes."

"Snap?"

"Snap."

So the game began in earnest. God placed down a jack, Satan followed him with a four. God played a six, the Devil countered with an ace. God put a king down and Satan conceded a ten. Sweat began to form on Satan's brow as he watched the pile of discarded cards grow with not a pair amongst them. God's fingers shook as he placed a nine down over a seven. The tension was almost non-existent.

Eventually, after what seemed like hours, each entity was down to his final card. The ace of hearts sneered belligerently up from the top of the deck, the only member of the cohort to truly recognise the ridiculousness of the situation.

God looked Satan square in the eye and pressed his last card into the deck. The two exchanged a long stare, neither wanting to be the first to break eye contact, yet both desperately wanting to see the card. In an instant, both pairs of eyes snapped down towards the pack.

The ace of spades.

God's reflexes were sharp, but Satan was faster.

"SNAP!" The Devil bellowed, as God slapped his own hand down impotently. "SNAP!" He shouted again, "And I think you'll find that means that Mandela is mine!"

God shot him a sour look.

"That's not fair!" He whined, "You cheated!" God folded his arms. "I'm going to tell on you!"

Satan sighed. The Man Who Ruled the Universe did not approve of God and Satan bickering. He would probably stop their pocket money, and Satan had his eye on a lovely new tidal wave.

"All right," Satan sighed, "I'll let you have Mandela." God's face shone with pleasure, which was especially eerily now that he has luminous green skin. "But," Satan continued, "You have to let me have Boy George."

Turmoil etched itself into every line on God's face. It was a tough decision.

"All right." He said at last, "You can have Boy George."

Satan cursed inwardly. He had always preferred Duran Duran.

The Madness of Lyssa

2011-02-20T04:28:00.000-08:00

Jimmy had never held a gun before. The smooth wooden shaft, which had at first been so cold to his touch, had now warmed beneath his grasp, until it was almost an extension of his own arm. It felt as though the blood that coursed in his veins also flowed through the workings of the machine, in a kind a perverse symbiosis that had begun as soon has his pale fingers stretched across the hellish device.

Moonlight glinted off the metalwork as Jimmy stood by the empty house. The scene was a study in shades of grey, as unreal as a black and white movie, in which his own eyes served as shutters. He pushed his eyelids shut, and kept them that way for a long time. The continuing weight in his arms confirmed the reality of the situation.

Unlike most in his position, Jimmy had never felt the need to own a gun. His father had a few shotguns in the house, but those had long since fallen into disrepair. Besides the land on which the herds grazed was so remote that cattle rustlers were seldom seen, and any thief foolish enough to creep by the house would be seen to by the dogs. He had locked them in the house tonight, but they didn't bark and whine like they might ordinarily have done. They were scared too. This was not a night for dogs.

Jimmy moped his brow with the back of his shirt-sleeve, juggling the weight of the shotgun from arm to arm as he did so. The yard was still in the moonlight. Not the calm stillness of a summer's evening, but the tense, expectant silence of a narrative yet to reach completion. Jimmy looked about the yard furtively, the gun poised against his shoulder, muzzle pointed out ahead like an eyeless touch. He knew that she was locked in the barn, but the trip to buy the gun had taken longer than he had anticipated, and there was every chance she might have worked her way loose from her temporary prison.

The madness had descended suddenly upon her that day – like a mist rolling in from across the hills – leaving behind little but a familiar husk, empty like the discarded skin of a rattlesnake. She tore through the yard, hissing and snarling, baring sharp teeth and lashing out at the farm hands as they tried to calm her with gentle words. Jimmy had called to her with infinite softness, and seen her turn from him in confusion and denial. It was then that he realised that he must purchase a gun.

He couldn't buy one from the village. He was too well known there, and folks would like it odd that he had chosen now of all times to suddenly acquire a firearm. No amount of explanation would quell their feverish curiosity. It was better to be secretive, and to end an epidemic before it was given the chance to take root. Jimmy was afraid of prison, but he was more frightened of the suffering that she might endure if he failed to act quickly. She had always been loyal to him. It was only right that he perform this final act for her.

So the gun was sought with quivering hands, purchased at a store two towns over, from a man who didn't ask questions and didn't check his cards. The gun was sought and driven back to the barn, which lay still and silent in the twilight, a sharp contrast to the disturbance of his mind.

As Jimmy stood facing the barn across the yard, he shivered, though the evening air was frustratingly close and warm. The house at his back did not feel like a protective cavalry, as he had hoped it might. It was more like an accusatory jury, peering down at him from the darkened windows, judging him before the crime had even been committed. A nervous cough escaped his lips, as he tried to clear the cotton that choked him. The sharp noise awakened her and the inhuman howling began afresh. The barn door shook in its frame as she threw herself at it again and again, trying in vain to escape, and to bite. Snarling, frustrated and increasingly unhinged, issued from the building, like the howling of a trapped animal hungry for flesh. She threatened him through unseen jaws, her unintelligible ranting making Jimmy's heart thud painfully against his chest, willing him to fly and leave her to starve in solitude like rat in a trap.

The frame of the door buckled and sagged against the barrage and Jimmy could see the whites of her eyes, red and streaming, searching him out through the cracks in the panels. Those eyes that had once looked at him with nothing but obedient affection were now so filled with menace and fear, as if she were drowning in her own maddening rage.

Without warning, Jimmy's knees failed, and his legs collapsed like a folding chair beneath him. He landed face down in the dirt, prostrate before the rising tide. The gun pressed painfully against his ribs, cradled between his body and the earth, as if he were shielding it from the horror of the night. He could still hear the bolt straining to contain her as she heaved against it with all her strength. He could still hear her shrieking and howling, her yelps twisted by fear and malice. These sounds seemed fainter now, as if he were suddenly very far from the scene, and all the time moving further away. The earth smelt familiar and comforting against his face.

He did not know how long he lay there, drinking in the heady scent of earth and slipping in and out of consciousness. When he finally rose, shaking, to his feet, the gun still clutched close to his body like a treasured infant, the barn was quiet. Had she exhausted her passions or had the door been broken in weary persistence whilst he slept? The barn remained intact and he stroked the shaft of the gun absently, relieved that the defences had held during his absence.

Without knowing just how he had achieved it, he found himself at the entrance to the barn, looking back at the dark shadows of the house and the scuff marks in the dirt where he had fallen. Now that he was closer, he could feel a low growl emanating from the building, like the grinding of a rusted engine, painful and pitiful in comparison to the sounds of blind fury which had preceded it. She was entering the final stages now, exhausted from the thrashing terror and consumed inwardly by the disease. There was still a chance that she might lash out when cornered, and an infected bite would draw the madness deep into his own blood. There was not a doctor for miles, and the cure was worse than the disease.

His hand stretched out towards the heavy iron bolt, as he struggled to position the shotgun against his shoulder, which was bruised from the fall. In his youth, he had often seen his brothers shoot tin cans, and tried to remember the correct stance. The bolt in the centre of the door was rusted and creaked as he touched it. The soft growl within grew louder. The breath caught within his chest as he wrenched the bolt sideways and swung open the door.

Nothing.

The growling continued, coming now in laborious, racking bursts, almost like sobbing. Jimmy stood motionless on the threshold, waiting for something to happen. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could see her, stretched out across the bales of hay in the centre of the room. She was panting heavily; her eyes rolled upwards into her skull and her head jerked backwards in painful spasms. Her limbs were contorted beneath her, twitching and flexing in agony as she struggled to breath.

Jimmy steadied the gun against his good shoulder and took aim. He closed his eyes tightly and, conflicted by sin and duty and half hoping to miss, he fired a single shot. All at once, the panting ceased.

He threw the gun aside and ran to her. He couldn't touch her. The fur of her chest was already thick with matted blood and the froth that had blossomed around her nuzzle would still be infected. Vowing to get the rest of the dogs vaccinated first thing tomorrow morning, Jimmy wiped his eyes, and went back into the house.

Child-Catcher Seeks Employment

2011-02-19T00:25:00.001-08:00

“Thanks for coming, take a seat,
We're pleased that you could make it
We'll try to keep this short and sweet
But we hope, if the job's offered, you'll take it.

We hear you're from Vulgaria?
Do you have a permit to work in the UK?
The locals would lapse into hysteria
If there was any migration foul play.

A lolly-pop attendant is a grand affair
The reflective jacket confers social stature
But it seems you have experience in childcare
Though here it's 'child-minder', not '-catcher.'

We'd like to offer you the position
I'd feel safe if my kids were in your care
Receiving a CRB check is our only condition.”
And with that, he was gone, like thin air.

Unrequited

2011-02-12T00:43:00.000-08:00

Fold my shoulders
crack my back
let me know you're mine,
my chiropractor
like a tractor
ploughs the furrows of my spine.

Move my muscles
sooth my skin
I've lost all track of time,
musculoskeletal
experimental
every second Thursday at nine.

Transcendental
almost sexual
our bodies entwined,
origami
a spinal Swami
our sessions are sublime.

But you chriopract for others?
And worse than that, you're wed?
I thought you and I were lovers?
I'll take my knotted body elsewhere instead!

A commendation

2011-02-07T23:09:00.000-08:00

My 100th post, and a spot of good news! I have received a commendation for my piece 'The Astronaut' in the Leaf Micro-Fiction Competition 2010. My short short-story will be published in their anthology and I'm really excited! It's not first place, but it's certainly a step in the right direction!

Self Service Seduction (Or being in love with the self-service checkout machine)

2011-02-01T23:12:00.000-08:00

Press her touch screen,
touch her dials,
a velvet-voiced vixen,
with artificial feminine wiles.
You've got your favourite,
the one by the door,
you've tried to keep away,
but always go back for more.
She's a dogmatic dominatrix,
in tones of harsh insistence,
she'll mock your prowess,
'please wait for assistance.'
If you go too fast, she gets quite cross,
she's impatient if you're slow,
and if you treat her badly,
the whole shop has to know.
She's a temperamental nightmare,
a machine that's hell-conceived,
and her obsession with the clubcard
has to be seen to be believed!
You've tried to live without her,
but real assistants aren't as great,
and there's something weirdly satisfying
in the way she makes you wait.
She's a supermarket sauce-pot,
she makes you feel inferior,
But the way she beeps so teasingly
makes you long for her interior.
You want to put something unexpected
into her bagging area.
It's self-service seduction,
a plain and simple fact,
And since you were caught with your tongue in her coin slot,
you won't be invited back.

Writer's Circle Post - January 2011

2011-01-29T13:30:00.000-08:00

No Florence

Lilith sucked lazily at the cigarette that hung from her lip, inhaling the chemicals deep into her lungs. She savoured the power of the smoke on her tongue, tasting it like a lover. Then, when the potency of the vapour was almost at its height, she expelled it out into the cold air. The smoke lingered in the stillness of the dark evening, curling like parchment towards a pale crescent moon.

She wondered listlessly about the evening ahead. Who would she take tonight? A question that had once filled her with passionate longing now fell flat, like a deflated balloon. Work had been such a drag these last few months.

Lilith took a moment to examine the lethargy that lay, crumpled in the place where otherwise a heart might have dwelt. Despite her current feelings, the job had seemed like the perfect way to feed her hunger. It allowed her to abuse her authority to the advantage of her desires. Men who might have run from her were now booking appointments and waiting in orderly queues for her services. It was convenient, there was no doubt about that. Lilith had never heard of McDonald's, but if she had, she might have laughed at the similarities between fast food and her current situation. But there was little challenge in stealing from the generous and the yielding of her victims only served to increase her longing for something more nutritious.

She missed the chase most of all. The giddy nausea that swan under her skin as she selected a victim and initiated the game. It was difficult enjoy the hunt if the fox presented himself to the hounds, rolled over to expose his fleshy underside and parted his fur to enable a clean bite. The game had been spoilt when Lilith broke the rules, and for that she was truly sorry. But it was too late to apologise now and in the end the only person who had been cheated was Lilith. The men would die regardless of how the game was played. Their part in the drama was small.

But her victims always went to their graves happy. How many other demons could boast such a service?

Lilith smiled and inhaled another lungful of smoke. She remembered the face her last victim, the bliss etched into every cell of his skin and they writhed together, performing his last rite. The chase may have been dampened, but the act itself was still exquisite.

Still, in this new shape, Lilith felt decidedly uncomfortable. The Hippocratic oath was anathema to her, and if her sisters could see the depths to which she had sunk...

Lilith plucked at the name badge on her lurid blue uniform. 'Lilith Stevens, Clinic Nurse.' She leant over and spat meditatively onto the ground. It wasn't an ideal situation, but it served her ultimate purpose. That purpose was to feed. She contented herself in the knowledge that she was the duplicitous arachnid, hollowing out the body of a larger insect and using its familiar colours to lure its prey.

And just like a predator, she would wait.

The wind had begun to bite now and frost had already begun to appear on the windscreens of the cars parked opposite the entrance to the clinic. Lilith finished the cigarette and immediately lit a second. There was no reason not to.

She considered returning to the chase. She could leave here and begin afresh. Prowling the nightclubs and seedy back-water drinking dens, where persuasion and charm would ensure that her exacting tastes were met. But it would be foolish to give up on such a good thing – especially given the steady influx of willing volunteers. Most were drifters and would not be missed. Suspicions would not be roused for some time.

As she began the third cigarette, a young man approached the entrance to the building. A dusting of snow clung to his hair and shoulders, and he brushed it off with a gloved hand as he moved through the automatic doors. Lilith watched with detached interest as the man stamped the snow from his boots and crossed the atrium in the manner of a child, fearful of being caught at mischief. Lilith smelt his scent and the taste of blood rose in her throat setting her eyes ablaze. It was time to steal. Time to feed.

She entered the building, moving silently through the open-plan space and alighting, like a glittering moth, at the reception desk. The young man glanced at her through long greasy hair.

“May I help you?” Lilith intoned.

“Yes,” Said the man, whose face was thin and pre-maturely lined, “I'm here to donate some sperm.” The man glanced down at his shoes once more as he uttered the last word.

“This way,” Lilith smiled, leading the stranger towards the donating room. He entered and she pulled the door closed behind him, her hand lingering on the handle. She sighed, it wasn't quite the as satisfying when the lambs came so willingly to the slaughter. She went into the room.

Middle class problems

2011-01-28T12:05:00.000-08:00

When you curse if Waitrose runs out of focaccia.
When you sympathised with Margaret Thatcher.
When an ill-judge tweet costs you your social stature.
You might have middle class problems.
When you feel awkward speaking to the cleaner.
When the okra you cooked has stained the steamer.
When wearing last season ruins your whole demeanour.
You might have middle class problems.
When the rosé's gone flat 'cause you left it uncorked
When the weather's inclement but the pug needs to be walked.
When it turned out it was the postman, and you weren't being stalked.
You might have middle class problems.
When you have aches and pains from your last squash lesson.
When you can't have that barbecue because you've run out of venison.
And when your iphone is your most treasured possession.
You might have middle class problems.
When downloading aps has given you thumb-strain
When your new suede shoes are ruined by rain
When next door's Christmas lights cause you emotional pain
You might have middle class problems.
When your Green Tea you made has too much honey.
And selling home made jewellery online isn't making you money
And no one at the cabaret night thinks your poems are funny.
You might have middle class problems.
Poverty and suffering's all very well,
But an under-dressed salad is your vision of hell.
I think you have middle class problems.

The Contents of a Tabloid Newspaper

2011-01-23T11:53:00.000-08:00

I was once so addicted to morphine,
That I tried to chew off my own chin.
I had surgery to fix my third bum cheek.
I was born with a tail and a fin.
I was held hostage in seventeen bank heists.
I once killed and ate a giraffe.
I foiled a bomb plot with tampons.
I could die every time that I laugh.
I wear women's clothes in the day time,
But a full badger suit after hours.
I've slept with my sister and all three of my dads.
I have an odd urge to eat purple flowers.
My nan is a call girl, my uncle's in jail.
I found a human toe in my pea soup.
I started a cult that worships baked beans.
I'm the only one in my blood group.
I was kidnapped by twelve nesting mute swans.
My knees hold secrets of national import.
I've made this all up for the fifty quid fee.
Enough current affairs, here's the sport.

Supermarket Shoes

2011-01-22T07:32:00.001-08:00

The supermarket was completely full of people. Not only was it a Saturday afternoon, the very worst time of day to go into a large food retailer, but it was also raining. It had been raining all day. And in a town where there was little else to do but sit in the park or stand in the supermarket, the poor weather had given residents little choice but to indulge in the latter pastime. Like flies to rotten flesh, the people swarmed. The swarmed by the entrance. They cluttered up the aisles. They loitered by the cigarette counter. Chatting and laughing, chewing the fat and partaking in idle gossip. It was the most popular social club the town had never had.

I would not have been there at all, apart from the fact that I had no food. All I wanted was some chicken and green beans. Not much to ask in the grand scheme of things. I figured I'd straight in, straight out. I hadn't even bothered to replace my slippers with sensible shoes. My hunger-addled mind had forsaken sensible, food-purchasing shoes in favour of a quicker shopping experience. Straight in, straight out, straight in the saucepan. The food that is, not my slippers.

So I squeezed through the aisles, moving like a gymnast through the complicated obstacles of limbs and trolleys parked askew. The entire population of the town seemed to be contained within the florescent walls of the windowless building, squashed up against each other in some strange consumptive orgy of communal purchasing. The supermarket was a great social leveller. Had I the time, I might have found a quiet corner, somewhere near the carbonated beverages, to sit and marvel at the complexity of the human condition and fascinating shapes of people's faces as they went about their daily mundanity. But I didn't have time. I had to get the beans.

The chicken was already tightly between my hands, and I located the beans easily enough. While some shops were sweet enough to test the mental reasoning capabilities of their customers through a clever scheme of randomised stock rotation, the humble supermarket was reassuring in its aversion to change.

Items acquired, and feeling like a questing Visigoth, bringing home the bounty from a long day's pillaging, I considered that I would need to pay for my dinner before getting it out of the shop. I moved towards the tills, preying that one might be open, reserved only for people with a family-sized pack of chicken breasts and three green beans in a transparent plastic bag. I was sorely disappointed.

As I moved along the shop, it was clear that each till had a larger queue than the last. Tired-looking students, grumpy elderly women and frazzled young mothers snaked out from each checkout, like the arms of a moody octopus. All the pay points were occupied, except for one.

I wondered if I could just join the back of another queue, and endure the prolonged wait, in order to avoid Charles. My stomach growled in protest. I sighed. His till was completely empty. I'd left the house without wearing a bra and everyone knows that queuing in a supermarket, sans supportive underwear, will always, sooner or later, result in meeting an ex-boyfriend. It was too horrible to contemplate. I made my way across to the empty till.

'Good morning,' Darwin beamed, his lips protruding oddly from beneath the thicket of his beard. 'I see you've got some chicken breasts there.' I said nothing, hoping my silence would end his chirpy checkout procrastination.

'Did you know,' Asked Darwin, scanning the beans and then turning the chicken over and over in his hands, effectively commensing a poultry hostage situation. I looked across to the store security guard who gave me a look to suggest I had made my choice at the checkout, and I would now have to face the consequences of my actions.

'Did you know that chicken, and many other bird species, evolved from small reptiles several million years ago? And that similar species of finch in Central America have different-shaped beaks that are adapted to their habitat and the types of food that they eat? Some eat nuts and some eat berries. Some even eat other small birds and mammals.' He looked down at my beans, 'Plants and animals compete for resources you know. The weaker ones dies off while the stronger ones reproduce and the best traits get passed down. Like the lovely green colour in the these beans.'

'I think the colour them after they're picked with chemicals,' I said.

His featured paled visibly under the tangle of his facial hair. Then he broke into another grin. 'Of course not,' He assured me 'It's survival of the fittest. You know, people claim I said that phrase but I never did. Funny what people say isn't it?'

He paused for breath and I stared at the chicken breasts between, willing him to put them through the scanner. Several people from the surrounding queues were throwing sympathetic looks my way, while I floundered like a wounded animal, snared in the man-trap that was Charles at till number five.

'Did you know I've been to the Galapagos Islands? And I once ate a tortoise? And I invented evolution?' He stopped again. I saw my chance.

'I'm sorry,' I murmured apologetically, 'I'm in kind of a hurry.' I pointed down at my feet, 'And I'm not wearing the right shoes for shopping.'

This strange anti-logic seemed to wrong-foot my captor, who dutifully scanned the chicken and watched carefully as I placed the item in my canvas bag.

'I've written a book, you know.' He began again.

'How much is that?' I asked politely.

'Well, the leather-bound first issues sell for thousands of pounds, but you can pick up a paperback copy in the shops for about seven quid.' His eyes flickered for a moment down to my slippers. 'Although, if money is an issue, I'm such you could pick up a cheaper copy second-hand.'

I was offended, but I tried not to show it. I had only come out to pick up the stuff for dinner. I would never normally wear slippers to the supermarket.

'I meant the bill, how much will it cost me to buy the things you've just scanned?'

'Oh,' He glanced around, looking a little lost. For all his biological acumen, he was quite poor at operating a computerised till. 'Yes, two pounds sixty eight please.'

I gave him the money in exact change, and turned on my heel, ready to push my way through the gathering crowd and out into the street.

'Shall I tell you about the earthworms?' Charles shouted, holding out my receipt, which hung limply across his outstretched hand like a dead bird. I ignored him and kept on walking, the chicken breasts and green beans hitting me painfully in the calf with each step I took.

As I stepped out into the rain, I felt a little bit guilty. After all, the poor old duffer was pushing two hundred. But I needed to get home. I wasn't wearing the right shoes for food shopping.

Conditional (a modern love sonnet)

2011-01-21T12:36:00.000-08:00

She might admit that she only said yes to him
While on the rebound from Michael Armstrong.
He propositioned her, drunk and on a whim
They're coupled till better people come along.
Her kissing technique leaves much to desire
While she lacks skill, at least she is keen,
Knowledge of the G-spot he's yet to acquire
But they're comfortable in their routine.
If she had her time over, they'd be history
There's no way she'd fuck him outside KFC
Most of that night's still a mystery
Now they're almost happy, anyone can see.
And comfortable is better than lonely
A three-year stop-gap relationship only.

Last Supper or The President Eats His Peas

2011-01-15T23:57:00.000-08:00

I was eating my peas when the riots began
I had eaten the chips and the bread and the ham
So it was me and the peas alone in the room
And I repressed and oppressed them and spelled out their doom.
I chased my peas around my plate
As parliament burned at the will of the state
I squashed the peas under my knife
As hoards of civilians ran for their lives
I skewered the peas upon my fork
As water cannon and tear gas were finally sought
Diligently I ate my tea
As flags were burned in effigy
I ate my peas with style and care
As hateful slogans filled the air
And as this once great country fell
I ate my carrots and swede as well
Till the gun fire became so loud
I had to get up to address the crowd
I would be informing them I was not pleased
That they had interrupted the eating of my peas.

Wistful and Melancholy Haiku Poems

2011-01-15T10:30:00.000-08:00

When the Snow Melted

Monochrome landscape
fades to sepia with the
thaw; spring draws nearer.

Teenage Passions

Liquorish kisses
stain black my lips and eyes.
I only see you.

Ambition

Waiting for a bus
I dropped my dreams in the road.
They're too hot to hold.

Omniphobia

2011-01-14T11:15:00.001-08:00

Aeroplanes
Hurricanes
Weathervanes
Labour pains
Cellophane
Cycle lanes
Men on trains
Guts and brains
Horses' manes
Horatio Cane
Fresh wolf's bane
Window Panes
Forehead veins
Extreme weight gains
Gravy trains
Trouser stains.

Balloon Animal Ballard

2011-01-09T04:18:00.000-08:00

He didn't know.

With his nose like a navel
at the knot in the balloon.
No mottled brown fur
covering his sausaged limbs
or long black tongue
protruding from his
felt-tip pen smile.
A plastic Pinocchio.
Air sheathed in latex.
Excreted from the
back pocket of a clown.
He always assumed
that squeaky blue skin
and a distinct lack of knees
were as a giraffe ought to be.

It was kinder not to tell him
that one day he might burst.

An Unexpected Loss

2011-01-09T01:27:00.000-08:00

The radiators were still on when we arrived home. No doubt this had accelerated the rate of decay. They lay, huddled and slumped on the table, skin shrivelled and flesh blackened by neglect. My father wept like a child. My mother, that most stoic of women, dropped her suitcase and set about cleaning away the debris.

The compost was an insufficient resting place. The husks would never mulch. Instead they would sit forlornly at the end of the garden, surrounded by potato peelings and grass clippings, reminding us of our carelessness.

There would be no bananas for breakfast that morning.

Queen of the backhanded compliment (or New Year's Eve with Aunt Margaret)

2010-12-14T09:35:00.000-08:00

Your ears look much less saucer-like
When your hair is up like that
But it doesn't do your forehead favours
Consider wearing a hat.

Your dress is so unusual
Wherever did you buy it?
They do your size M & S now
Really, you should try it.

And your shoes are so adorable
What lovely little bows
They're so conveniently pointed
You can barely see your toes!

How are your dear old mum and dad?
Do you still live at home?
I guess it's that much cheaper
Than renting a flat on your own.

And are you still in your old job?
I must say I'm impressed
You stuck to your guns, and didn't give in
To better prospects of money and success.

It must be nice and comfortable
To not be striving for more
Climbing up the career ladder
Can sometimes be a chore.

And no one on you arm tonight?
No new boyfriend to share?
Cheer up my solitary dove
There'll always be next year!

Fairytale Psychiatrist

2010-12-12T03:07:00.000-08:00

In all my years as a psychiatrist
I never knew such strange cases could exist
Till I was seconded to a practise in Fairy Land
The mental health problems there are really out of hand!

The first through the door with a flick of her hair
Was a full-blown narcoleptic, full of despair
'A spinning-wheel spell left me dazed and confused.'
She murmured before falling into a snooze.

I wouldn't have minded apart from that she
Left in an ambulance without paying the fee.
The next was a women who lived in a shoe
So I phoned social housing, to see what they could do

With over twenty dependants (from different fathers too)
She's clear a nymphomaniac through and through.
I gave her some pills to curb her carnal desires
And told her to hold off the shagging, in case she expires.

Goldilocks next came into the surgery
She jumped straight over my desk and sat on my knee
It was clear that this woman had no boundaries
She'd been charged with house-breaking, a minor felony

So I booked her a course of CBT
Hoping they'd help her be less friendly.
A similar trouble for Gretel and Hansel
Whose unhealthy relationship needed some council

After a traumatic experience with a witch in the woods
They'd become much closer than siblings should
And though they were shy and didn't want to admit it
Marks on the boy's neck matched his sister's lipstick.

A phone call was made and police were sought
You can't admit incest and expect not to get caught.
Though their father disowned them, and things were quite fraught
I hope they can all make it up, once they're out of the courts.

The day's end loomed and I was feeling glad
This was the most exhausting job I'd ever had!
The last girl to come in had skin white as snow
And lips as red as the reddest rose

At first, or course, she was coquettish
Worried she might her reputation tarnish
Forced to come by her husband and feeling foolish
She admitted she had a severe midget fetish.

Before she married her man, and settled in France
She had lived with seven miners of diminutive stance
She went on to describe what great lovers they were
And I decided the session should end right there.

With the day finally over, I heaved a sigh of relief
In all my years as a shrink, I've never taken such grief!
As I packed up my bag, one thing was plain
I'll never cover for Mother Goose again!

Frogspawn

2010-12-03T11:30:00.000-08:00

These portable creatures -

suitcases in green and grey -

lay down their luggage,

deposited on the banks.

Venn Diagrams, consensual circles

pressed together.

The vitreous humours

of a thousand unblinking eyes.

A tangled rope of pearls

yielding to the whim

of Vesna and the water's gentle cadence.

All Spring they cultivate duality.

Amphibious, aqueous, anomalous...

flickering like the lights in your eyes.

Till at last, tiny commas break loose

To punctuate the pond.

The Giant Panda

2010-11-28T05:11:00.000-08:00

Giant Panda

The Giant Panda (Latin name Insolitus Vultus Cattus per a Frendo Visio, which literally translates as 'Strangely-shaped Cat with a Bruised Face') is a bear native to the south coast of Britain. It is thought that the first pandas originated from the slow formation of minerals dripping from stalactites deep within the famous catacombs of Southampton. As a result of this, Giant Pandas are composed entirely of sediment, mineral compounds and iron ore. Although this makes them impervious to bullets, their high iron content makes them prone to rust. To combat this evolutionary disadvantage, Giant Pandas are able to hear rain clouds forming at a distance of up to ten miles away, and construct elaborate umbrellas to protect themselves from moisture. In 1921 August Van Cummings experimented with Giant Pandas as the basis for a new type of barometer. Unfortunately, the Giant Panda he was using was ill-tempered and chewed off Cummings' hand before he was able to patent his invention. Unsurprisingly, modern engineers are reluctant to replicate these experiments.

The Giant Panda subsists mainly on a diet of greasy take-away food, which probably accounts for its impressive size. Although most Giant Pandas will eat Curry, Pizza, Kebabs and Fish and Chips, the Giant Panda favours a Chinese takeaway above all others. It is estimated that an adult male can consume as many as fifty pounds of beef chow mien in a single sitting. In the last twenty years there has been a mass exodus of Giant Pandas from their native Britain to South East Asia, where their preferred food source is more abundant and less expensive. It is also thought that Giant Pandas were disillusioned with Western politics, and are sympathetic to the Maoist Communist Regime. (Citation needed.) The few that remain in Britain tend to abstain from voting in General Elections.

The Giant Panda can grow to seven metres tall and has distinctive black and white patterned fur. Scientists think that the two black patches around the eyes of Giant Pandas are a result of bar brawls over territory, although the zoologists that study the creatures are too polite to inquire directly, and the Giant Pandas are obviously too embarrassed to broach the subject. Competing theories suggest that the markings are a result of the Giant Panda wearing too much mascara while watching the X Factor auditions.

Giant Pandas enjoying singing and the sound of Panda song has long been used as a narcotic in some parts of Europe. Similar in style to Barry Manilow, their melodic warbling has been known to put unwary travellers into hallucinogenic trances. In 1989, seventeen backpackers were rendered comatose by one Panda's particularly doleful rendition of 'Love in an Elevator' by Aerosmith.

For many years, the pharmaceutical company Xogenics Limited sold ether impregnated with Giant Panda song. This substance was marketed as an aphrodisiac, but in 2003 it was suggested that unscrupulous foot fetishists were using the substance to subdue their victims, before sucking their ankles and stealing their shoes. Several hundred victims came forward and Xogenics were forced to discontinue the product. The Giant Panda responsible for the song used by the company was so embarrassed by the débâcle, that she had extensive re constructive surgery and is now living in Surrey and working as a Gillian McKeith impersonator.

The Giant Panda is the only known mammal that reproduces by mitosis. When a Giant Panda is ready to reproduce, it burrows down into the earth, making a small chamber for itself about twenty metres underground. It then sheds its fur, revealing two smaller Giant Pandas. These two off-spring are genetically identical, although one of the pair is always pathologically evil. Sometimes the evil off-spring will grow a small, pointed goatee in order to distinguish himself from his twin. It is thought that all instances of deja vu are a result of Giant Panda mitosis occurring beneath the earth. Panda reproduction has also been blamed for the disappearances in the Bermuda Triangle, the haunting at hill house and the world shortage of toblerone. Scientists who study Giant Pandas (Pandologists) are still not sure why this would be, but many believe that its just one of those things.

In popular culture, the Giant Panda is often referred to as the bringer of head lice, and many believe that if you invite a Giant Panda into your home, a case of nits is sure to follow. This is unsubstantiated, however, and it is more likely that you will receive a nasty smack in the mouth, as Giant Pandas are notoriously unsociable and demand Yorkshire puddings with every course of a meal. In Mexico, Giant Pandas are worshipped as Gods and in Ethiopia their skins are fashioned into carriages that the wealthy use to transport their children. In the Former Yugoslavia, the locals refer to the Giant Panda as the Sun-eater. No one knows why.

Blog Tour - a chapter from The Lost Daughter by Ella Grey

2010-11-25T14:01:00.000-08:00

The lost daughter

Chapter 2

Part 4

I stood in the corner of the field and closed my eyes. I raised one hand and took a deep breathe. How to control the elements 101. Firstly know what you’re working with. Also, knowing the runic symbols and glyphs helped to center your will and intent. I had practiced the symbols so many times that I could probably do them in my sleep. I'd placed six objects around the field and I was going to use Air to try and levitate them. It was a test to see if I could split my focus between different objects.

I took a deep breath and as I gently let it go opened my eyes, drawing the glyph in the air. It glowed blue and I reached out with my will. Searching for the alien objects, the things that shouldn’t have been there. When I thought that I'd found all six, I imagine the air around them becoming a bubble, trapping the object in the center and then them all becoming unbelievably light. Raising my hand, my eyes scanned the open field, counting each of the objects as I saw them rise up. I had managed all six. The field came into sharp focus. I knew that my eyes were now an unnatural shade of green. It happened every time I used my, for a lack of a better word powers. I heard a twig snap somewhere near the road. My focus broke, the objects fell back to earth and I ducked down behind the trees. I couldn’t afford anyone seeing me. I have to admit I looked pretty weird hanging out in deserted fields. I waited for a few minutes before I started again. I walked around the field to where I put the objects I had used in my experiment. The first one was a red sharpener and I went through the routine again. Focusing my will, imaging the bubble of air and as it rose to eye level I reached out and grabbed it. A well prepared witch is an alive witch. Well that was what Dad had said. I went through the same motions with the other objects and went back to the trees when I was finally finished. There was one more experiment. Actually it was the first experiment. When I had first started to see Dad he'd told me to bury a ring somewhere in the field. I was then told to forget about it for about a week then try and find it again. It was proving impossible. I just didn’t have any affinity for Earth. I sat down crossed legged and tried to relax, this was going to take a while.

*****

When my eyes had finally snapped open I was nowhere closer to finding the bloody ring, I was also going to miss my train back home. Scrambling back to my feet, and grabbing my bag that held my supplies before climbing over the fence and back to the main road. I wasn’t the fittest person in the world but I still ran. Okay walked, really fast. My boots sounded loud as they hit the road. This was the last train home. If I missed this? Then I would be walking home, mostly in the dark since there weren’t that many lamp-posts from Carnell to Crescendo Falls. I heard a noise which sounded like the train. I had many talents but outrunning trains wasn’t one of them. I nearly skidded as I turned the corner that lead up to the platform. It felt like my heart was about to explode but I pushed myself forward.

Like the most recent stop in the world of Alice Young? Part 5 can be found tomorrow at http://www.myspace.com/spiderfingersclay and if you missed Part 1 check it out at http://www.seanhayden.org each of them has the link to the next one.

My eshort, 'What a way to start the day' A Molly O'Brien Tale is being released on the 1^st of December. http://www.omnilit.com/product-whatawaytostarttheday-484430-139.html

Waking up to realize you may be in the family way would make anyone worry. Especially if the would-be daddy has fangs and is the hunted son of the vampire mafia.
Molly O’Brien runs the small shop ‘Forbidden Charms’ and is the witch to go to if you want something. Operating on the outskirts of a supernatural world isn't easy either, especially when trying to keep your secret from the human world. Who would have thought life could get any more complicated for the little fire witch?

Fifty word story

2010-10-17T13:41:00.001-07:00

Looking at the place where his arm had been, the general wondered if he did indeed have leprosy. Perhaps a panther had bitten off the apendage overnight? The general ordered his guards to kill every panther in the republic. It was an easy night's work - there were no panthers.

1917

2010-09-25T11:11:00.001-07:00

tell the truth
tell the lies
build the fires
fill the skies
tear down the past
rip the stitch
construct the fort
and dig the ditch
devalue the dollar
run on the pound
raze their cities
to the ground
disenfranchised
dispossessed
debts absolved
and sins confessed
impotence
of thought resolved
ignorance
the puzzle solved
storm the gates
level walls
remove blockades
heed the call
revolution
a fallen state
dissolution
a darker fate
a new regime
a new tirade
back to work
for you Comrade.

Tractor Tractor. Headlights bright

2010-08-22T08:47:00.000-07:00

Tractor Tractor. Headlights bright
On the B roads day and night;
What infernal hands or feet
Gave thee permission to roam the streets?

In what distant garage or shed
Burnt the tracks of thine tyre tread?
In the hands of which conspirator
Was thou licensed to overuse the right indicator?

And why, on such a narrow road
Must thou carry a great wide load?
And why affix cargo so it is less than secure
So those in your wake are showered with manure?

Which evil hands suffered thee to make
So slow yet so difficult to overtake?
What hellish mechanic and deadly crew
Made twelve miles per hour the fastest thou canst do?

When John Froelich set down his tools
And promptly threw out all highway rules:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamborghini make thee?

Tractor Tractor. Headlights bright
On the B roads late at night;
What infernal hands or feet
Gave thee permission to roam the streets?

Oedipus! You idiot! What have you done?

2010-08-22T06:52:00.000-07:00

Oedipus! You idiot!
What have you done?
You've killed off your father
And married your mum!

Melodrama this gruesome
Ultimately renders
The Greek tragedy
As grim as Eastenders!

The Oracle at Delphi said
If Laius and Jocasta bore a son
He'd kill off his father
And marry his mum.

So like every good parent
With the greatest composure
The King order the lad to be crippled
And left to die of exposure.

The servant took pity
On our poor protagonist
(If Laius had known about that
He would have been pissed!)

So after a good few years -
A strange chain of events -
He became the prince of Corinth
With royal adoptive parents.

The oracle from before
Gives the same prophecy
The Oedy will kill off his dad
And marry his mummy.

Oedipus, worried
Flies into exile
Away from the King and Queen of Corinth
And into the wild.

But who should he meet
But Laius, his father,
With whom he argues and kills
What a massive palaver!

For killing the Sphinx
The king's widow is proffered
And you know its quite rude
To refuse a Queen when offered!

So the oracle was right
And true the prophecy had come
Oedipus had killed his own dad
And had four kids with his mum!

When he found out the truth
Oedipus gouged out both his eyes
(Well this is Greek tragedy
So it should come as no surprise.)

If you ask me, the oracle
should've been straight from the start
She caused all the trouble
With her mysterious art.

The moral of the story,
Don't be stupid and dumb
Don't kill your dad
And don't sleep with your mum!

The Suitor

2010-08-08T13:07:00.000-07:00

The Suitor

'I think she was drunk when she met him. Of course, that's no excuse.'

'If anything, its all the more shocking!'

'Well, apparently he was very charming, despite the obvious...' She searched for an appropriate phrase, one that would leave the liberal, politically-correct image she had constructed for herself intact. '...physical abnormality.'

The three women pursed their lips and drank their tea.

'You should she the claw-marks on her back! So vulgar.'

'But really! A Bengal Tiger? Where did she meet him?'

'The theatre, so she says. He asked her to dinner, made impeccable conversation and walked her to her car. He even mauled the traffic warden who was gave her a parking ticket. He's a real gentleman.'

'He's taking her to Goa this weekend, to meet his parents.'

The three women sighed and drank their tea.

A Poem to put Right the Dreadful Injustice of Modern Literature

2010-07-03T08:28:00.000-07:00

Of all the verse about lovers and roses
I've never once heard a poem that focuses on noses
Its the lips and the eyes that steal all the glory
Where's the ravishing nose in the classical love story?
A beautiful hooter, an elegant snout
Surely a magnificent schnoz is better than a simpering pout?
Eyes may mirror the soul, or so the poet supposes
But true to love can be seen in the most charming of noses
I love the button, the roman or the nose like a sow's
You can keep your big-eyed girls (who all look like cows!)
And luscious lips? Don't make me laugh!
Get a pair near your face and you'll feel the dribbly aftermath
Give me any day a majestic muzzle
With delicate nostrils in which to nuzzle
In truth a brilliant nose outweighs a good pair of tits
A well-angled sniffer can have me in fits
But despite the deliciousness of the olfactory organ
There's almost a world-wide poetic nose ban
So please, write nose poems, I know we can better this
All this from me, a recovering nose fetishist.

I want a geek

2010-06-27T08:19:00.000-07:00

"I want a man who knows I.T.

Who can get me a refurbished hard drive for free.
A man who has two Star Trek uniforms, one red and one blue
And who measures time in terms of who is Doctor Who.
I want a geek, a first-rate nerd
A man who owns a a model of Brains from Thunderbirds.
I want a man whose not ashamed
To invite me into his World of Warcraft game.
I want a bloke who can quote Monty Python
And knows what I mean when I ask 'Picard or Riker?'
I want a man who owns five computer screens
And has Firefly on V.H.S. (whatever that means)
I want a man whose idea of fun
Doesn't involve beer, football or sun
And whose idea of sex talk is 'Set phaser to stun!'
And feels constant embarassment for Episode One."

Its a proposition that techies cannot resist
But, bad news for them, this woman doesn't exist.
That's what you get for trying to find love on the net
Wookielover99 is actually a fat man called Chet.

Two sides to every story

2010-06-24T03:58:00.000-07:00

I wrote the 'hate' poem first, so it may emerge as the better of the two. But hopefully you can see what I was trying to do. The end of each line is the same for both poems. Let me know what you think.

The Plight of the English Football Fan

A fate worse than a victim of Vlad the Impaler
Is having to listen to the droning Vuvuzelas
Its enough to make me reach for my inhaler
I'm not even asthmatic, but I feel my body getting frailer
Every time I'm subjected to those bloody Vuvuzelas!
I'm imprisoned by the noise, the World Cup's my gaoler
Every blast makes me weaker, with each drone I get paler
Am I the only one? Marooned like a sailor
Upon the sea of noise that is the Vuvuzela.
Smart-arses might say “Its pronounced Vuvuzela
And is a footballing tradition as old as Methuselah
From Namibia right down to Venezuela
Everyone loves the Vuvuzela!”
But it just makes me want to steal a loud-haler
And tell all the world how I HATE the Vuvuzela!

The Joy of the South African Football Fan

We're having more fun than Vlad the Impaler
Playing a droning note on our Vuvuzelas
Its easy to do, first you inhale a
Deep breath then blow till you feel your body getting frailer
Then you must stop or you'll faint over your Vuvuzelas!
The noise of the universe, frees all from their gaolers
It makes pies taste meatier and pale ale taste paler
Am I the only one? Free like a sailor
Navigating the sea of noise that is the Vuvuzela.
Smart-arses might say “Its pronounced Vuvuzela
And we don't care if its a tradition as old as Methuselah
From Namibia right down to Venezuela
Everyone hates the Vuvuzela!”
But it just makes me want to steal a loud-haler
And tell all the world how I LOVE the Vuvuzela!

Police Statement

2010-06-24T01:23:00.000-07:00

"A man of usual moderation
I do avoid intoxication
Quite resent that implication
A minor source of aggravation.
A man of highest toleration
I will admit to some libation
I must continue protestation
On the cause of this altercation.
Of course, we had a conversation
From which arose the complication
A thorough round of provocation
I came to weary realisation-
There outside the petrol station-
That vague attempts at pacification
Could not halt the situation.
And, as my moral obligation
(Please excuse exaggeration)
I gave the youth a demonstration
And caused his shoulder's dislocation
Without a moments hesitation.
But he started it."

Attack of the Fifty Foot Fedora

2010-06-06T05:06:00.000-07:00

When Vogue said hats were out this season
Ladies ditched their Chapeaus without rhyme or reason
The hat makers – as you'd expect – were quite cross
And hatched a plot to make up for earnings lost.
They stitched a hat fifty-foot tall (the process took hours)
And made the buttons of Uranium, to give it super powers.
Then they set it loose on down town New York
The fashion editors would pay for their idle talk!
The hat caused chaos, reducing whole blocks to rubble
The authorities knew they were in for some trouble.
With millions now dead and the streets all aflame
They realised the seriousness of the fashion game.
The police called the mayor and the mayor called the military
Who brought their tanks in to destroy the militant millinery.
Top scientists engineered shells filled with moths
Resistant to fission yet hungry for cloth.
The soldiers loaded the barrels and fired the shells
And the head-covering monster let out such a yell!
The hat was defeated and the city-folk glad
The moral? Don't mess with the hatters – they're mad!

Scarecrow

2010-05-23T12:38:00.000-07:00

The scarecrow
Watches the crops grow
With wheat as high
As an elephant's eye.
While the encircling hoards
Of seagulls soar
Over the fields of corn.
The fear on his face
As the growth gathers pace
And the struggle for power begins.
With stop-motion eyes
He watches it rise
And envelope him like the tide.
When October rolls round
And the crops all come down
With one swipe of the harvester's blade
The scarecrow stands tall
Surveyor of all
With a slightly smug look in his eye.

'Better Than' Sally

2010-05-22T14:35:00.000-07:00

'Better than' Sally has done everything
Been everywhere
She's got an opinion on every topic
A total nightmare
'Better than' Sally makes conversation
Into competition
And relaxation
Into agitation
With every blatant exaggeration
'You've been to the moon?
'Oh, I've been there twice.'
She once joined the circus, and has swallowed live mice
And in her garage she's got a doomsday device
She claims to have worked through every vice
She's smoked crack in Brixton
And dealt blackjack in Spain
She's never been through child birth
But she can understand the pain
She's a strange mix of egoism and just being vain
Introduce her to your friends, and you'll never see them again
She's allergic to equations
Once saw an alien invasion
Lost her virginity on THREE SEPARATE OCCASIONS!
'Better than' Sally has been there, done that
And even her T-shirt is better than yours.

The Redundant Tongue

2010-05-21T00:38:00.000-07:00

This world is no longer built for lickers
Now that stamps come as pre-glued stickers
And envelopes are already lined with gum
So you'll never again taste that weird taste on your tongue
Administration's not the same
Now that my mouth lies dormant and tamed
With nothing to lick, life's such a chore
Standing, jaws gaping, with a dribbling maw
Soon they'll ban ice creams, there'll be nothing to scoff
And I'll have to get kinky to get my rocks off
The way things are going, at this alarming rate
I'm sure even men will learn to self-fellate
This world is not built for the enthusiastic lickers
Now that stamps come as pre-glued stickers.

Thinking about Politics

2010-05-17T13:25:00.000-07:00

Frowning muscles, skin pulled taut
Scanning BBC News, lost deep in thought
Ruminating over issues that you've never been taught
Ask the pundits simple questions, and they'll derisively snort
Like what is a QUANGO? Have the voters been screwed?
How deep does the debt go? What's Sam Cam's favourite food?
Will there be Anti-Cameron riots? Or pro-labour mobs?
Will all civil servants lose their cushy, pointless jobs?
Are we heading for a certain creek with no paddle in sight?
Was it really worth staying up on election night?
And of all those who watched them announce the coalition
How many were waiting for some hot Lib on Con action?
(Let's face it, you can tell there's some level of attraction
It's like the political equivalent of Brokeback Mountain.)
They say Western Democracy is fair and diverse
But to be ruled by two losing parties, is kind of perverse
And if all this politics talk fails to make you swoon
Then worry yee not, Big Brother's back in June.

Short poems

2010-05-11T12:19:00.000-07:00

Cycling on a Hot Day:
Why do flies
Always fly in my eyes?
Seriously, does eye-gunk taste of jam?

Radio 4:
I listen to women swallowing swords on the radio
And, for the first time in my life,
I understand the word pointless.
And the concept of irony.

Writer's block

2010-05-09T06:29:00.000-07:00

Every writer seems to have a poem about writer's block in their arsenal, and this is my effort.

The insecurity of the chronically untalented:

I speak in convoluted metaphors
Write my rhymes in semaphore
A inconsistent yawning pause
Impregnated with creative spores.
My words - still grounded - long to soar
But I am naught but a Muse's whore
Writing just to settle scores
Hyperbole my only claws
But simile won't help my cause
And help me win such lonely wars.
My heart, inside, shows such remorse
Meagre talent ran it's course
And left me beached on barren shores
When once poems dripped from every pore
Now the words no longer soar
And I will be a poet no more.

Dogs Die in Hot Cars

2010-04-18T09:22:00.000-07:00

Dogs die in hot cars
Or so the saying goes
And growing up in a shit small town
Was not the life I chose

I wanted the glamour of paris
I wanted the edge of New York
I'd settle for London, despite all the smog
Anywhere but here, I thought

Here were there's no inspiration
And I feel like a rat in a cage
And all of the kids are on welfare
While parents scrape minumum wage

Here where the crime rates are soaring
And there's nothing to do except drink
Where you have to play dumb just to fit in
And never let on what you think

The men in the pubs blame the council
For allowing the discord to grow
There's a festering mess, where this town used to be
And dogs die trapped in hot cars you know.

'The lack of community's frightening'
People moan, and then in the same breath
Complain 'bout the blacks, jews and muslims
And kick immigrant workers to death

And its alright for you in your cities
With the escapism of places to go
Spending all of the money you've made off your stocks
But dogs die in hot cars - don't you know?

A town full of people, all talk and no take
Resigned to their lot in the world
But I can't sit back in this back-water place
My flag of ambition unfurled

I just need to get out of this dead-town
Because I feel like a rat in a cage
And if its true that dogs die inside hot cars
Then this puppy's got major road rage!

Smoking

2010-04-10T10:36:00.000-07:00

Smoking Break:
“The reason dinosaurs are extinct,”
She says, twirling a cigarette
Through fingers of manicured glass,
“Is because they were stupid.”
“No,”
I counter
Blowing smoking rings towards the ceiling.
“Dinosaurs were the victims of circumstance.
They did their best to react
Given all the available indicators.
They tried their hardest,
To outrun prevailing preconditions
But global factors beyond their control
Coupled with geothermal anomalies
And unforeseen difficulties
At both an economic and cultural level
Along with an inadequate system of checks and balances
Inevitably led to their collective demise.”
“Oh,” She said.
Stupid Dinosaurs.

The Cat

2010-04-03T02:49:00.000-07:00

The Cat has a purr like a scooter-motor and a meow as thick and sharp as brambles.
The Cat wants what you have, right up until the moment you relinquish it
When the value of any object decreases exponentially.
The Cat will take care of any crumbs or dropped food items, and doesn't even charge for the service.
The Cat has a loving - if not entirely reciprocal relationship - with the tin-opener.
The Cat is under the impression that she is transparent, and thus is able to sit directly in your field of vision.
The Cat is an expert interior designer, with a particular specialism in 'holes and dribble' chic.
The Cat has not mastered the art of decorum when washing herself
And thinks that it's appropriate to lick her bum, then try to lick your face.
The Cat needs to be shown how to work the cat flap EVERY SINGLE TIME.
The Cat does not appreciate being forced in to any items of clothing
Or having banana labels stuck to her nose.
The Cat does not care for telephone conversations which exclude her,
And sometimes conducts dirty protests, in order to make her feelings known.
The Cat has forgotten her real name
Instead she is Puss-Cat,Fluffy-wuffles, Chubby-Tubbington or Mrs Pussington-Smythe.
The Cat does not enjoy being shut out of rooms, and expresses her displeasure by being sick on the rug.
The Cat walks around with a smug sense of superiority
And watches in disgust as you eat cereal from a mug and watch children's cartoons
At three o'clock on a tuesday afternoon.
The Cat knows that she is not your pet, that you are her person.
The Cat is infuriating, condecending and emotionally-distant.
And as soon as she grows thumbs
You'll be the first against the wall.

The Hassle that comes when you don't do the washing-up when I ask

2010-03-20T05:32:00.000-07:00

'What would happen if I didn't do the washing up?' He asked.

She scowled into her tea cup, thinking of the mountains of plates he had offered to clean last night. The plates that still lay in drunken piles beside the sink, with crumbs and congealed gravy, limp lettuce and wrinkled potato skins. He had promised.

He asked again. 'What would happen?'

She put down the book, and raised her eyes to his.

'Well,' She said, 'Its not something you can easily predict. Every time is different.

'You probably won't notice anything at first. You'll go about your business, getting ready for the day as if there was nothing wrong. Your morning shower might be a little bit cold, and the temperature dial might become a little unpredictable - veering wildly from bracing mountain stream to molten lava and back again. But that's nothing.

'Your breakfast might be tricky, as any toast you make will burn in that deep-tissue way, so that no amount of scraping will remove the charred bits. The milk will be off and the yogurt too. There will be no bacon and the last egg will fall from the fridge as you open it, leaving a sticky mess on the toes of your socks.

'Slipping on your last clean pair of jeans, you'll notice large hole in the crotch, exposing your fetching Dennis the Menace boxer shorts. You'll search the house for a needly and thread, but both will remain elusive. Finally you will resort to the Bermuda shorts that you bought in Alicante as a bet, the ones that are bright green with cute little pictures on them of pigs mid-coitus.

Walking into town, your new trainers will be inexplicably drawn to dubiously grey puddles and piles of dog mess. A group of beautiful women will walk passed you at exactly the moment when you are scraping said dog mess from your sole with a gnarled old stick. They will laugh and you will pretend not to notice.

You will be splashed by passing cars on three separate occasions and some of the surface water will work its way into your mouth, leaving you with a strange earthy, metallic taste that will not wash away no matter how much juice you drink.

When you arrive in town all the shops will be closed due to a power-failure and you will be accosted by a woman in a red jumper who will persuade you to send £20 a week to a dog sanctuary on the Isle of Skye. (Given that you still smell faintly of dog mess the irony of this enforced charity is almost laughable.)

As you begin you walk home - empty-handed and twenty quid worse-off - the heavens open and within minutes you will be drenched.

Upon rounding the corner to your street, you will be knocked off your feet by an old man on a mobility scooter who will swear at you for being in his way in such colourful language that you won't know whether to be impressed or offended. When he begins to hit you with a walking stick you will realise that the latter is the correct response.

Once home you will find the front door ajar and seven burley men in leather motorcycle jackets in your kitchen. They will be drinking your beer and eating those olives stuffed with chilies that you are so fond of. You know, the ones that you hide in the top cupboard so no one else can have any? You will ask them to leave but they will ignore you, only consenting to go when all the alcohol has been drunk and the olives have been eaten.

They will also - through thick beards and a series of impressive belches - chastise you on your poor house-keeping skills.

Finally, exhausted and confused, you will crawl into bed, only to find that one of your house-guests had mistaken the bedroom for a bathroom. Warm and wet, you sleep fully clothed in the bath, wishing that you had done the washing up when you were asked.'

He blinked.

'I'll get the marigolds.'

Competition winner

2010-03-18T01:12:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone,

I won my first writing competition yesterday! www.reviewfuse.com is an American online writing community which lets contributors post their writing online. Other contributors are then free to offer contructive criticism to each other. It's a great idea and every month they have competitions for poetry and short stories. And I won first prize for February! I am one hundred dollars better off. Which is lovely. The poem that won is reproduced below:

The sculptor

I could never sculpt hands.
I can transfigure my chisel
Into a typewriter and speak a personal history,
Sculpt the deep rivulets of emotions
Around the eyes of dictators and devils,
Divas and demigods,
Fashioning life
From bronze and stone.
Or recreate the folds of gowns
That envelope sleeping nymphs,
While patterns, Klimt-like
Wreath the delicate tendrils of their hair.
But if I could emulate the warmth of a handshake,
The articulation of a hand raised and lowered
In debate;
Or capture the vitriol of an obscene gesture...

I cannot conceive the corrugation of weather-worn knuckles
Bleached and tanned by an unforgiving sun.
Or the elegant ebony hand
Whose pale palms serve a contrast of colour
More pleasing than any canvas.

I only wish I could sculpt hands.

TV Licence Fee

2010-02-27T07:23:00.000-08:00

'Dear Ms Sheppard. It has come to our attention that you have recently moved into the property - address listed above. Please fill in the attached television licence fee form so we can send your licence in the post.'

***

'Dear Ms Sheppard. We sincerely hope you are well and, in case you did not receive our last letter, here is a copy of the form for you to fill in. There are several easy ways to pay, by direct debit, cheque or postal order. You can even drop in to your local post office and pay by cash - the old-fashioned way! We look forward to hearing from you and wish you well in your new home.'

***

'Ms Sheppard. The first several weeks in a new home are a muddle of setting up new accounts and bills and it is said that moving home is the third most stressful thing that can happen in a person's lifetime, behind bereavement and divorce. But now is the time to obtain a TV licence for your property. Here is a copy of the form, please fill it in and return it in the free-post envelope. Nothing more will be said about your seemingly habitual lack of organisation.'

***

'Ms Sheppard. We have still yet to receive our licence fee agreement form. As it seems that you are incapable of looking after your own affairs, we have written to your old school head master to inform him of your conduct. He was very disappointed as he remembered you as an able and conscientious pupil. Unfortunately, this is not a side of yourself that you have chosen to show to us. We regret that the matter has proceeded for as long as it has and have taken the liberty of setting up an online account for you, since you are too lazy to deal with this issue yourself. Simply go to the website below and click the “pay now” button. Really, we could not make this transaction any easier. We look forward to your payment and hope to re-establish channels of correspondence soon.'

***

'Miss Sheppard. We recently send an enforcement officer to your home to ensure that you were not using our facilities without proper reparations being paid. The enforcement officer found the house seemingly full of people, with loud music blasting from an open second-storey window. However, when the officer knocked, the music was immediately switched off and the people were silenced. The officer, after making several attempts to alert the occupants to his presence, was informed - through a partially-opened letter box - that no one was in and that he should go "boil his head". Is this really the behaviour of a grown woman Miss Sheppard? Are you aware that it is an offence to refuse entry to an enforcement officer? Incidentally it is also an offence to make one cry by insisting he "sod off back to the land of the morons." You may not think it Miss Sheppard, but our officers are sensitive, compassionate beings and to have them spoken to in this manner is simply not on. A second officer has been informed and will be visiting you shortly. Failure to comply will result in very dire circumstances.'

***

'To the occupier. As our enforcement officer refuses to speak of the incident, and has since taken a leave of absence due to work-related stress, we are unable to ascertain just what you might of said to upset him so. However, as a result of your conduct we are now taking further advice. If you do not pay the balance of the debt immediately, we will make things very difficult indeed. That is not a threat Miss Sheppard, it is a promise.'

***

'To whom it my concern. We have begun seeking legal advice in connection with your blatant disregard for the law of the land. We are compelled to inform you that failure to pay the licence fee constitutes a criminal offence. A court summons will be posted to your address within the next few days. The maximum penalty in cases such as these is a fine of £1,000. We will see you in court.'

***

'Dear Miss Sheppard and family. As per the court order, please consider this written proof of our agreement. We sincerely apologise for any distress caused by our threatening and aggressive actions towards you. (Although had you made it clear from the beginning that you were a blind paraplegic then this whole messy business might have been avoided.) It was wrong of us to assume that the people in the flat above yours were related to you and your carer has fully apologised for his rude behaviour towards our staff. (Although, a man with such a sparkling array of profanity in his vocabulary hardly strikes us the right sort of person to be caring for someone in your condition.) By way of apology, please accept the enclosed voucher for a free television set. We will be sending you a licence fee form by the next post.'

Sculptor

2010-02-18T10:52:00.000-08:00

I could never sculpt hands.

I can transfigure my chisel
Into a typewriter and speak a personal history,
Sculpt the deep rivulets of emotions
Around the eyes of dictators and devils,
Divas and demigods,
Fashioning life
From bronze and stone.
Or recreate the folds of gowns
That envelope sleeping nymphs,
While patterns, Klimt-like
Wreath the delicate tendrils of their hair.
But if I could emulate the warmth of a handshake,
The articulation of a hand raised and lowered
In debate;
Or capture the vitriol of an obscene gesture...

I cannot conceive the corrugation of weather-worn knuckles
Bleached and tanned by an unforgiving sun.
Or the elegant ebony hand
Whose pale palms serve a contrast of colour
More pleasing than any canvas.

I only wish I could sculpt hands.

Valentine's Day Poem

2010-02-14T04:17:00.000-08:00

Chemical leak

The shopping centre
Is shut today.
Something malignant
In the air conditioning.
The woman
On the radio
Says scores of people
Complained of dizziness
And breathlessness.
As I switch to another station,
I wonder if
I am being poisoned
Every time you smile.

The mystery button

2010-02-13T05:14:00.000-08:00

There's a button, nestled snugly amongst the dials and levers and meters, on the dashboard. A uncontrollable control panel. And it has no label, this mystery button. All the buttons and buzzers and bells that surround it are worn smooth by the ridges of my fingerprints. Weather-beaten and care-worn. But, the mystery button remains fresh and pristine. Like a ripe kumquat. Or a new pair of shoes. I fear it. The mystery button. El boton de misterio. It's mystery is the source of it's awesome power. Perhaps I will cover it with masking tape, and mask it's wrath. And cover my temptation.

N.B. This is not a convoluted metaphor for female sexuality – there really is an unidentified button on my car's dashboard.

And it preys on my mind.

Meerkats

2010-01-07T09:55:00.000-08:00

The meerkat is a fascinating animal, elusive and misunderstood. First invented in 1962 by prize-winning physicist, Dr. Meera Katskill of Royal Tunbridge Wells, Kent. While working on a project to separate the whites from the yolks in duck eggs, she mixed a bucket of egg-whites with hydrogen sulphate. Accidentally feeding the resulting mixture to a domestic cat, the animal was transformed into 37 small furry mammals. The new species was named the Katskill Moggy in her honour, which was shortened to meerkat in 1963.

In 1974, as a result of advances in meerkat sexual practices, the meerkat population grew to untenable proportions and the government - led by known meerkat hater Harold Wilson - signed a bill to ship the entire meerkat population to Johannesburg. Luckily, meerkats enjoy life aboard ship and none died on route to their new home. Once the colony was established in Africa, the meerkat population grew year on year until they were almost a native species. The warmer climbs did wonders for the meerkat's constitution and the extra hours of sunlight allowed the animals to grow to six foot in height. To compensate for this, all wildlife documentaries featuring meerkats are now shot from very, very far away.

Meerkats have many domestic and commercial uses. For example, their fur can be polished up to form a highly reflective surface and in Botswana they are often caught and tamed for the express purpose of providing elaborate vanity mirrors for children.

Baby meerkats are known as gibbets and a group of meerkats is often referred to as a vadge. Meerkats are also famed for their ability to tap dance, although they are notoriously shy creatures and will only perform if fed vast quantities of red wine and told how marvelous they are.

The anatomy of the meerkat is particularly interesting, in that they have twelve stomachs and no livers. Instead, their fifth stomach acts as a filtering system, ensuring that they are able to digest the pennies and handkerchiefs which make up the majority of their diet. It is this unusual configuration of internal organs which renders the meerkat incredibly buoyant, and because of this, meerkats are routinely used to fill modern life-preservers. The only down-side to this is that meerkats lose all buoyancy post-mortem, and so life preservers containing the live creatures have to be fed twice a day and given a good brushing with a stiff-bristled brush once a week.

Meerkats are incredibly intelligent, and are said to be the third brightest species in the animal kingdom, behind meal-worms and chihuahuas. Meerkats are also the only animals that are fully self-aware and as such, are achingly introspective. Some have even been known to write bad poetry and wear jaunty black berets. Not unlike some pretentious bloggers I could mention.

But meerkats make very poor house pets, due to their distinct lack of anger-management skills. For a brief period during the 1990s the official Blue Peter pet was a meerkat called Encephalitis, painted black and white to look like a boarder collie. But, after John Leslie mocked the meerkat's velcro shoes, Encephalitis saw red and bit him on the left buttock. Diane Louise Jordan, a keen amateur marksman who just happened to have brought in her shotgun, gunned the animal down and John Leslie was set free from the jaws of the beast.

Despite their terrible tempers, meerkats are very polite animals, conforming to a code of manners that most would now find old-fashioned. They only speak when spoken to, and as no one has ever bothered to address them, they have never found the need to chat. Doesn't mean they can't though, they just choose not to.

The main thing to remember with meerkats is that they are more afraid of you than you are of them. So, if you meet one in a dark alley of an evening, simply tip your hat in greeting and carrying on walking. And hopefully you won't find yourself in one of his twelve stomachs.

The rabbit with the face of a man

2010-01-06T12:48:00.000-08:00

The strangest dream? I'm sitting in a beautiful garden, the kind of Edwardian English country garden that you often see on television. With climbing roses and a kitchen vegetable patch and a area of grass scattered with wild flowers and budlia bushes festooned with red admirals. And I'm wearing a starched crinoline petticoat under a bright blue dress. The stiffness of the dress makes it flare out, so that it is difficult to sit demurely on the picnic blanket, without looking like an upturned funnel filled with legs and frilly pantaloons. But somehow I manage to remain decent. Because that's what happens in dreams.

And it's incredibly quiet in the garden. Not in a eeiry way, nor in a fashion that suggest that something is about to happen. There is no anxiousness about this lack of noise. And I am not at all bothered by the lack of bird song, or the gentle buzzing of summer's insects. The calmness seems fitting here and the discomfort of my dress is but a passing thought.

But although I am sat on a picnic blanket, there is no finger-food banquet. Not even a solitary jam sponge. I feel a little bit cheated.

As I wonder which direction would most likely lead to the kitchens, a highly-couffiered magnolia bush bristles and shudders, and the silence of the garden changes timbre. Apprehensive now, I peer through the thick summer's air, fearful of what creature might greet my gaze. And a small brown rabbit appears. Only, he has the face of an old man. Wrinkled and liver-spotted and grey. As grey as if the creases of his face had been allowed to gather dust for a number of years. And these greying folds of skin merge seemlessly into the soft downy rabbit's fur of his neck. And I can't see the join. And I know that it's not just a man in a costume of fur. Because the rabbit is rabbit-sized. And the man's face atop it, is also rabbit-sized.

But the worse part is the ears. The long, twitching rabbit's ears that reach heavenwards, are mirrored by the large, flat, disk-like man's ears that also occupy his cluttered head. A head overcrowded with ears. Both sets far too big, with the lobes of his man's-ears stretching almost to the fur at his throat, as if they were melting clean off his head. And the rabbit's-ear soft and velvet-lined, like a magician's jacket, stretch and writhe and twist, searching for danger that may never come.

And I feel sick at the sight of so many ears on one head. And the proportion of man's face rabbit-sized. And fact that this most definitely is not simply a man in a costume.

Then, he cocks his head, and looks me square in the eye. And, with the voice of Bill Nighy, he splutters genially,
"Terribly sorry, I didn't know this plot was in use." And scampers back through the undergrowth.

I think I might be allergic to sleeping.

Never Trust a Womble

Nu Metal Sonnet

Coming Out

28 Sonnets Later

Writer's circle post - January

Codpiece

Twenty Pence Venus

Ambition or *Live your Dreams*

Writer's circle - December 2011

Parallel Parking

Self Service Seduction video

Rock Star

Zombie Love Song - video

A Cat in a Fez

Aliens

Christmas Cheer

Mathematician's Lament

So I Married a Bond Villain

Kinky Boots - a Lipogram

A Family of Astronauts - Lipogram

Shaving Grace

Eve - A Univocalism

Writer's Circle Post - September 2011

Uniform

Failing to be Cool

Regular Exercise

Writer's Circle post - August 2011

Song

Interview with Daedalus

Publication - Pins on The Pygmy Giant

Publication - Forward Press Poetry

Publication - Trashed Organ Magazine

Zombie Love Song

Whatever you want it to mean, Honey.

Writer's Circle post - June 2011

Displaced

Mantis

Publication - Crumpets and Tea

publication - The Pygmy Giant

Writers' circle post - The North Pier

Publications

Pins

Character-driven sketch

Ironically comparing an obese nation's obsession with food to a warped religious fevour

Writer's Circle Post - April 2011

Bag Lady

The Prophet

The Company Picnic

The problem with Ely

The Thief

Mrs Henry B. Nunn, the Taxidermist's Wife

Immodest Symphony

Writer's circle post - February 2011

The Madness of Lyssa

Child-Catcher Seeks Employment

Unrequited

A commendation

Self Service Seduction (Or being in love with the self-service checkout machine)

Writer's Circle Post - January 2011

Middle class problems

The Contents of a Tabloid Newspaper

Supermarket Shoes

Conditional (a modern love sonnet)

Last Supper or The President Eats His Peas

Wistful and Melancholy Haiku Poems

Omniphobia

Balloon Animal Ballard

An Unexpected Loss

Queen of the backhanded compliment (or New Year's Eve with Aunt Margaret)

Fairytale Psychiatrist

Frogspawn

The Giant Panda

Blog Tour - a chapter from The Lost Daughter by Ella Grey

Fifty word story

1917

Tractor Tractor. Headlights bright

Oedipus! You idiot! What have you done?

The Suitor

A Poem to put Right the Dreadful Injustice of Modern Literature

I want a geek

Ambition or Live your Dreams