Friday, 14 December 2012

An illusionary allusion

To say I was enamoured is an understatement
I was bewitched smitten besotted infatuated

head-over-heels in fact but oh the agony
the anguish the pain and brutal dismay

our love struck me as sacrosanct and sacred
maybe perhaps I was in awe of your beauty

now suckered succumbed I’m gasping with fury
I was flattered duped humped and dumped

I’m jaded faded and weary Diana
stranded outside to the left of Nirvana

…if ever there was an allusion to an illusion.

Written for Kellie Elmore's Free Write Friday, which you can see here.

Saturday, 1 December 2012

The Berrys of Winter

The Berrys of Winter were a strange family however in many ways they were decidedly average in fact husband and wife and two point four children a wee dog and a budgerigar but their strangeness always shone through for instance they were involuntarily forced into eschewing the now commonplace roentgen light for candles in the night candles they made themselves from the grease of their kills those unfortunate victims of the incessant need for subsistence but good old pigs will keep on breeding and so they had plenty of source material for their candles and of course a variety of meats from which to consider for their family eating variety is the spice in any kitchen she used to say did the mother from bacon and eggs in the morning to ham and eggs at lunchtime to gammon and chips for their tea or dinner or evening meal depending on your culture and upbringing with roast port on Sundays and on special occasions like the holidays the government insisted they celebrate even though they couldn't really take a holiday for there were always the sillygoats to milk and the chickhens to feed and the shees and cowps and of course the pigs all inherited from old Macdonald Berry the legendary progenitor of the oldest family in the little hamlet of Winter in the Federal Republic of Northern Universal Christian States where religion held sway in the last outpost of theology in the post third world war landscape of the green planet where the sad demise of the first world caused an implosion in the second tier and led to the emergence of the Little States and the sequence of battles that culminated in the so-called Christmas Truce and the dismantling of all armed forces as a last desperate means of ensuring the survival of enough humanity to retain a viable population to husband the fruits of the earth but not before the post nuclear blizzard destroyed the reindeer herds that used to roam freely over what used to be the Arctic Continent and heralded a ten-year snowstorm that to some large extent restored the whiteness that was lost when the glaciers and icebergs melted that time in eighty-three and flooded most of the northern European landscape leaving only the mock chocolate Republic of Toblerone formerly Schweizerland with its now temperate climate and frothy hot chocolate-like landlocked lake and its capital city of igloo dwellings freshly erected by hitherto unemployed out of work construction engineers with their funny looking boots and indistinctive peppermint coloured scarves and gloves with no fingers that looked like shovels their hands were so big who fed on snow flakes for breakfast and took ice crystals in their tea instead of sugar and built mock fireplaces with grandiose chimneys and marble-effect granite surrounds on which they placed their family vignettes and keepsakes in memory of times gone by when the abundance of coal or gas or electricity meant that such things were taken for granted and two point four children was a statistic and not a grotesque reality.

Have you heard about Kellie Elmore's Free Write Friday? Check it out here.

Saturday, 24 November 2012

Gratitude

I give you platitudes for the multitudes whose attitudes are such that they disdain those dudes who've never been prudes those artists and poets and makars and mummers who've never known beatitudes from priests and preachers with rectitude who spawned their broods of killers in hoods despite their sponsoring of works of art with the pulchritude of many nudes in misty early morning woods in absurdly garish posturing moods gawping and gaping like serenely vacant outer shells of inner hells where freedom to think has become an inevitable ineptitude a certitude of inexactitude a morally absurd decrepitude that's persisted for an infinitude despite the overwhelming inquietude of a minority of enlightened fools who've been granted the latitude to think outside the paradigm and foreverly strive against those who sit at altitudes so high and mighty and readily scorn in casual promptitude the multitudes who absorb with fervent aptitude all platitudes well there's gratitude for ye.

[For Kellie Elmore's Free Word Friday blog, which you can find here.]

Friday, 9 November 2012

Funny how you can live your whole life believing a lie


Who was it that said we believe what we want to believe Demosthenes I believe but I might be mistaken although I’m surely not lying because I gave a rider to the statement which isn’t what you normally get with lies which must mean there are clues to when lies are being told quite apart from the James Bondish ideas of lie detectors and such like the best lie detector I ever knew was my wife but then again I’m no great shakes at telling porkies downright fables or even white lies never have been must’ve been my Christian upbringing God will know as he’s omnipresent omnipotent ubiquitous they say so why’d I have to go to confession then Ma I asked one day now that could be a lie depending on my age at the time you know but anyhow it’s still a good question maybe it was just to satisfy the prurient curiosity of the Priest ‘cos you know what Priests are like don’t you nothing better to do than drag out all of our little secrets designed to make us feel guilty well I tell you I didn’t feel guilty at the time and nor did she and come to think of it I’m certainly not guilty now apart from being guilty of telling the odd whopper mind but just for fun a recreational activity you understand unlike the lies our politicians tell on a daily basis or is that just being economical with the truth is that a lie or the absence of a lie which must therefore be the same as the absence of truth I’d like a little more truth around here that’s for sure but then perhaps life would be too boring and writers of stories and tales and scripts and plays would soon run out of material don’t you think I’m sure you agree take your Napoleon for example he told the French they were the master race just like Hister or whatever Nostradamus called him and both lied but both gave it a go didn’t they and plenty more since and beforehand too like maybe the Trojans and the bloody Normans and maybe they were masters for a while but all things come to pass and that’s the end of that so it goes as Kurt used to say but it doesn’t go really it comes around after it goes around and there’s one lie that’s been going around for centuries based on a second coming around but I wouldn’t wait up for that if I were you there’s been plenty of false dawns on that score and a couple even this year so far and one more to come if you subscribe to that Mayan calendar bollocks so yeah it’s not even a case of believing it if I see it that’s just a figure of speech and if anyone really believes all that bullshit they deserve to become a figure of fun it’s funny how some folks can live their whole lives believing a lie but it’s only because they believe what they want to believe.

For Kellie Elmore's Free Word Friday; here's the link.

Friday, 2 November 2012

Scare me silly...

Soon soon you will be gone vanished from view it won’t take long not as long as it takes for those holly and ivy creepers to spread their ever enclosing claustrophobically embracing growth over your exterior your upright surfaces your walls and roofs your balconies and balustrades until the original you the youthful you the built in 1836 you the pillars of you are consumed in green dark and mysterious dusty and serious alive and delirious encroaching enmity for no-one bothered to halt its advance on your behalf no-one seems or seemed to care as your seams are breached and other parts reached like a rude unwelcome infringing guest who turns out to be a predatory pest and what’s the name for a rapist of dwellings anyway maybe that’s a dwellist not a duellist that’s for sure although there’s something afoot that smacks of that maybe its the spectral shroud that lurks about the feet of your whitewashed walls that in themselves look like petticoats dragged in the rain groping for a feeling a reason to be stealing in or around or away looking for a way in perhaps no doubt wailing crying dead or just dying coupled with the spirit of the trees that have joined in the plot to obscure your lot the once tall cousins of the holly and the ivy in league with your foes the thorns of the rose who’ve bent ‘cross the road to whisper and scheme conspire and connive combine and thrive at your expense but send you no bill just make their withdrawals on your account while you can’t even shout for help if you could for there’s no-one to hear there’s nobody near and it looks like Ent’s feet the roots and the weeds will wring you to death and take your last breath like the war took the fools who courted in stealth their end in the earth soon so soon…  

(For Kellie Elmore's Free Write Friday; here's the link.)

Saturday, 27 October 2012

The loafer in the sofa

Here's a poem that stemmed from a free write inspired by one of Kellie Elmore's Free Write Friday prompts. You can read the free write below the poem, and there's a link to Kellie's website below that, where appeared the image prompt - an old, abandoned sofa.

The loafer in the sofa

Does the sofa in the bar
groan inwardly at sight of he
who would park his arse and sit
on its horsehair padded seat
next its cushions and its throw?

Does it sigh, bemoan its lot
in those stretching leather tones
as the weight of Mr. Jones
is transferred from the floor,
an intrusive, heavy foe?

Would it suffer him unmoved,
outward show of restful stance,
while he fidgets as he sits,
or implement the thought,
I'll dispose of him, who'd know?

Would you say it was revenge
for the stretch marks and the scuffs
as the whole of Mr. Jones
was ingested with a burp,
leaving nothing left to show?

So there you stand or more like crouch you battered old and smelly couch that’s seen better days and nights as well aye sure there's tales that you could tell but more than that we could only surmise from a look at your damp decaying décolletée that droops and dangles over the edge of your worn cushions and your mock velvet brushed pile effect and your inlaid ebony armrests that seem to be all that's holding you together in a sad embrace as your wire springs protrude from deep within like the ribs of a spavined mare that's seen or felt more like too many spurs and on that theme your horse hair innards are seeping out and drying to dust like some sort of organic iron filings staining and discolouring that's left of your fabric with a red and brown mess half hidden under the debris of fragments of half moth eaten old newspaper sheets and paint flaked from the ceiling the ubiquitous white spots and dandruff like flakes that makes me think no way I'd ever risk sitting on an armrest let alone in your lap for somehow I think I'd feel your dampness seep up through my jeans as if I'd been sitting there drunk and fallen asleep and pissed myself and now what's this on a closer inspection your very skin appears to be alive with a myriad or so it would seem tiny creatures as they writhe and stream under the surface causing ripples and waves unseen causes until there he goes a wee brown mouse he keeks his whiskered nose above the parapet of a cushion and I realise he's made his home in your guts and he's raising a family of rodent squatters whether you like it or not and he's set to stay put for generations maybe fucking and shitting and nibbling and sniffing and birthing and weaning unless you collapse under him and disintegrate completely but there's a few years left in you yet with your velveteen sheen of grey and black stained green despite the ongoing consumption of your vitals by natural erosion not hindered at all by the hole in the ceiling that lets in the rain for it's not enough for you to have been abandoned by your master you've been forsaken by the very abode in which you live as if your home once his castle is now the place of your incarceration your desecration your desperation but hardly life expectation eh? No, not much call for that nor for anyone to risk a hand between your seat and back to find the proverbial threepenny piece or maybe a tanner for who knows what mysterious creatures lurk behind the façade of your once arse-polished exterior that incautious hand followed its likely by an arm gobbled up to the shoulder and I'd be gone, lost forever pulled within a nightmare land the worst amalgamation of Narnia and never never landing back on my feet as they struggled waving in a whirlpool of frantic exertion behind my disappearing torso as I'm lost forlorn and devoured by the menace lurking in the room that gave every appearance of being nothing but an old decaying settee but in one incarnation of reality vivid enough for me anyway was and is the preying suite of three piece environmental disasters the unholy trinity of the sofa and the seat with it's throw as a shroud and as I vanish for now all I can hear is the satisfied smack of three-seated lips.

(Written for Kellie Elmore's Free Write Friday, you can get the link for it here.)

Saturday, 17 March 2012

Give Judas his chariot

Here's a wee poem you might enjoy... but I'll probably be crucified for this...

Give Judas his chariot



Saturday, 18 February 2012

Sunday, 5 February 2012

Hauf-hangit Maggie

Here's one I made earlier... hope you like the character as he might just reappear from time to time...

Hauf-hangit Magie