the great british cheese-off
Author: jim clayton
gladys’ baby
Mum’s friend Gladys
had this
realistic model baby
she loved like crazy
pushing it everywhere in a pram
not giving a damn
what anyone else thought
when she sat on a bench with the milk she’d bought
rubbing the baby on the back to wind her
supporting her chin between thumb and finger
dandling her on arthritic knees
chatting away happily
nodding warm and motherly hellos
to the creeped-out parents and PCSOs
Gladys’ son Fred
bought her the baby she said
for one HECK of a lot of money
from an online site for prospective mummies
exactly why, she didn’t say
maybe it was easier for him that way
easier than being the baby that grew up
into the usual, realistic, adult-sized screw up
status update XXVIII
I’m Wilsaaaaaahn out in the wild sea drifting / slowly turning, rolling, lifting / smeary smile & bloody shanks / finally away from beardy Hanks / just me, the sky & the sea birds, thanks
And that’s me, scrawling in the sand with a stick / bawling when the sea creeps over it / wiping it slick / but at least the whole thing’s over quick / because time and tide wait for no one / from Donald J Trump to Frosty the Snowman / when it’s gone, it’s gone / there’s nothing to be done / the earth still rolling round the sun / Mars – corner pocket – in off the red / let’s put this cosmic dance to bed / this paper chain of teeth n’bones / remote controls & mobile phones / tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow / providence in the fall of a sparrow / Shakespeare had the whole thing sussed / basically life’s a busted flush / in fire we trust / I’ll dance on the beach, you pray if you must
the build up
Oh what is that awful, mournful wailing
super-sorrowfully assailing
my trembling ears while I sit here waiting?
THE WARNINGS OF A TERRIBLE BANSHEE?
No – just our Stanley
Please ignore him
If you feed him early you’ll just reward him
For the love of God what’s that lamentation?
That woeful whimper-and-whine combination
disturbing my telephone conversation?
SOME TORTURED SUBTERRANEAN MONSTER?
No – just our lurcher
Don’t make eye contact
If he sees you looking he’ll think you’ve cracked
Holy Mary Mother of Jesus!
What is that keening so thin and grievous?
Merciful heaven won’t someone relieve us?
THE TEARS OF AN ARISTOCRAT OFF IN A TUMBRIL?
No – just our mongrel
It couldn’t be grimmer
There’s still at least an hour before dinner
strange pedigree
a lurcher
is the result of a merger
between a greyhound
and whatever else happens to be around
with Stanley
I guess something from the family
of cuckoo clocks
because punctually at dinnertime out he pops
trussonomics
there were five in the bed
and the banker said
roll over! roll over!
so they all rolled over
and the sick fell out
there were four in the bed
and the banker said
roll over! roll over!
so they all rolled over
and the jobless fell out
there were three in the bed
and the banker said
roll over! roll over!
so they all rolled over
and the struggling fell out
there were two in the bed
and the banker said
roll over! roll over!
so they all rolled over
and the JAMs fell out
there was one in the bed
and the banker said
Goodnight! Sleep Tight!
Hope the landlords don’t bite!
Oh what a lucky lot we are
to have our own bed and a fat cigar
then yawned and deliciously wriggled his feet
ignoring the shouting down in the street
Spider!
there was a spider in the sink
when I went to wash my plate
like a stationary punter in a rink
who never learned to skate
I’m not a fan of spiders
espcially the wild n’hairy outsiders
abdomens active as hadron colliders
four pairs of furry culottes and spats
fanny packs & black slouch hats
more swagger
than jagger
if jagger had eight legs
not two
and fronted not The Stones but The Who
maybe
like I say I’m not crazy
about those creatures
whose rough n’ready features
are enough to give me seizures
and inspire unorthodox procedures
so I used the corner
of a scrubber
(sure – I’ve had practice)
scooped him with a shudder
shook him onto a cactus
I looked as he stared at me up from the pot
did he thank me for my trouble? no, he did not
to be fair, though
flying through the air so
unexpectedly
would theoretically
be enough to make anyone feel traumatised
and it’d take you a while to get properly organised
if I’d been wandering round stainless steel flats
behind me a plughole, above me, taps
I might be more than a little uneasy
swept up by a squeegie
rudely removed
from THE WORLD OF SMOOTH
to be cast in THE LAND OF SPIKES
I mean YIKES
I’d be desperate
close to collapse
a spike in the spinneret
and one in the paps
but this spider’s a survivor
we’ll learn to coexist
him as hairy fly provider
me as home economist
status update XXVII
I’m a five star general in a two star diner / a glutton unbuttoned on a grimy recliner / listening to advisors / advise about the sizes / of the sundry survivors / the medal wearing hardons in the hadron collider / while you listen and glisten / with sweat from the neck because heck you’re out of condition / positioning yourself in line with the bucks / the right wing press and the army trucks / the gourmet butchers in paper tux / the sweet dollar flux / of a life lived in luck / luxury lines at discount rates / but wait / your words flail me / roll me over and assail me / and the best I can manage / is a little brave smile and collateral damage / so what am I missing / I went for a smoke in the intermission / the rowdy crowd wowed into submission / by the sick and sudden collapse / of the erstwhile clown and king of the rats / who dreamed of robots queuing in line / programmed to wait for better times / system code like nursery rhymes / hey diddle diddle / the whole thing’s a fiddle / the cow blew up like a balloon / the little dog unpleasant / on antidepressants / and the dish ran away with the spoon / too soon? / and excuse me for asking but where was the moon / in this dumb ass tune? / wasn’t that supposed to be part of the business? / what IS this? / I want explanations / not twitter evasions / they don’t fitcha / so go shake’ your shit like a polaroid picture / keep things snappy till we come to evict you
let me out here – I think this is my full stop .
The Magic Albion Tree by Enid Britain
Do you want to see
The Magic Albion Tree
in the dark, enchanted wood?
But first we’ll have tea
of bread and honey
as all good children should
It’s the tallest thing
with leaves that sing
a trunk that grows without measure
There’s a doorbell to ring
to let you in
and a staircase that goes on forever
There’s a slippery-slide
that runs down inside
from the top of the tree to the bottom
but if you haven’t applied
for permission to ride
I’m afraid you’ll be largely forgotten
The people there
are magically fair
You’ll laugh at their curious antics!
But please don’t despair
at the state of repair
that’s really just silly semantics
Meet Monarchy Man
wearing pots and pans
he stole from the goblin kitchen
There’s Socialist Stan
and his pixie clan
endlessly bickerin’ and bitchin’
There’s Old Mister What
whose name I forgot
He stumbles around in the roots
There’s Copper A Lot
who lost the plot
and stomps around in his boots
There’s a bunch of sprites
who keep out of sight
syphoning off all the profits
Though folk unite
to make it right
Copper A Lot’s there to stop it
At the treetop it’s strange
how the clouds rearrange
into lands you could scarcely imagine!
But the queues never change
at the passport exchange
because travel they hate with a passion
So Tom, Rick and Sally-Ann!
Come with me to Albion!
Let’s live in that faraway tree!
The life there is champion
deluded and halcyon
A magical trip – you’ll see!
jim clayton 