Author: jim clayton

grandpa rapper

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I’m a grandpa rapper / a crap rapscallion / safety cap and medic alert medallion / when sorrows come, they come not in single rhymes, but battalions / digging so deep I beat the Grand Canyon

I’m a secondhand man, a used methuselah / trying not to lose what time’s busy bruising / pleasantly confused but somehow cruising / altitudes of attitude in between snoozing

I’m a hand model for cannulas / decades older than Dracula / rhyming my time in dodgy vernacular / less Cardi B more cardiovascular / a tottering, tea-time travelling ambassador / for the dusty but lusty, rap-battling amateur / bending his endings in dodgy parameters

I’m old father rhyme / emptying the floor in four-four time / ready to go when he’s only just arrived / boney n’broken / outspoken in a cloak / a try-hard, blowhard, droney old bloke / specialising in hip hop embarrassment / rhymes so bad it’s tantamount to harassment / ancient and arrogant / blatant, irrelevant / an exiled, senile, X Files experiment

I’m a slow-crime, lunch time, delusional dreamer / drivin’ my four wheeled walker like a beemer / lithe as a lemur with a fractured neck of femur

I’m a one-time rhymer whose tunes aren’t wack / braces not belts cos my pants are slack / tenacity I lack / not hitting the clubs, hitting the sack / snacks my crack / fifteen Murder She Wrotes back to back

I’ve got bandanas on the shopping list / vitamin pills, Bloods n’Crips / zimmer frames my game and sticks ma’ whips / easy-on gats with velcro grips / my rhymes don’t shine but they sure don’t slip / when I bust a move I bust a hip

sonnet 18 (ish)

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Shall I compare thee to a blustery walk?
Thou art more bedraggl’d and more desperate:
Rough shakes do make your owner squawk,
And wonder who the hell hath suggested it;
Sometime too full the clouds of heaven burst,
And oft is thy cold complexion mean;
And every drop from heaven somewhat curs’d,
By forecast or by weather app unseen;
But thy eternal damp fur shall not lieth,
Nor lose possession of that rug thou fowl’st;
Nor shall warmth brag thou art finally drieth,
When from time to time thou quietly growl’st:
So long as dogs take walks inclemently
So long do I, and then give towel to thee

the manager

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I thought of him as The Manager
I’d have asked his name if I could
but he marched with a head-down manner
whenever we passed in the woods

he was sleeping rough it was clear
his jacket and trousers reeked
his tash was as trim as a brigadier’s
so maybe he shaved in the creeks

he hugged a briefcase in front of him – so
like a panicking city gent
and I said hello as I saw him go
but that’s as far as it went

he slept in a broken down stable
like Jesus fifty years on
a bale of old hay for a table
and all the wise men gone

another walker told me the rest
he was found a while since he died
a walker exploring the forest
stopping and peering inside

‘well it won’t be an open coffin’
said Bill, enjoying the shocks
‘ten weeks dead and quite rotten
half eaten by badger and fox’

but maybe the forest claimed him
finally setting him free
The Manager with no one to name him
flying amongst the trees

it’s all just [insert words here]

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

billionaires basking in gated squares / feeding fortunes, shuffling shares / phoning lawyers, tending heirs / tipping off Tories at Sunday prayers / kicking their servants down the stairs

taking cake with marie antoinette / who laughs and says she often forgets / exactly who’s who in the oubliettes

Captain James T. Musk saying wassup / boldly going and pricing it up / Doctor Zuckerberg’s sorry to interrupt / but the environmentalists are screaming earth destruct / do we blast their asses or beam them up

a deal, a drag, a tag, a tussle / off to the gym for a flex of muscle / iso drinks and the kiss of a knuckle / snap of a towel and a cheery-ass chuckle / feeling okay but your legs start to buckle

dogs of the world, unite / you’ve nothing to lose but your collars, alright? / or have you forgotten how to bite

the screams of the audience, the roar of the clown / that memorable night the top burned down

travelling, unravelling / grovelling, gravelling / border guards frowns and judges’ gavelling

deficit, surplus, transfer payments / dog eat dog and other defrayments

a jellyfish queuing at the city aquarium / likes the displays cos they often vary ‘em

CAPITALISM’S BAD FOR YOU? THAT’S what your message is? / There needs no ghost, come from the grave, To tell me this.

happy christmas, grandma

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Every Christmas
I used to give Grandma
one of three things:
Oil of Ulay;
Cuticura talcum powder,
or tights (20 to 30 denier)

Oil of Ulay
was an anti-ageing face cream;
Cuticura talcum powder
soothed irritated skin
and sopped up moisture,
and tights (20 to 30 denier)
were warm and supportive

And scientists are in no doubt
THAT’S why
Grandma is still
pulling crackers
at 140

what really happened that night

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Sooo…

…I’m abducted by aliens / on the lookout for average-sized homo sapiens / they’re a cross between badgers and episcopalians / with cute lil’ paws and over-sized craniums / and their craft is saucer-shaped, of course / and it hoovers me up like a Dyson of sorts / with an attractively shimmering, tractor-beam force / that also appears to shuck off my shorts / so my quivering arse is already out / when I sprawl on the floor and flail about / on the transporter deck / where the aliens excitedly gather to check / whether I’m really worthy or not / to be put on the spot / and probed for whatever intel I’ve got / and of course I object / as they pull my t-shirt over my head / and lower me onto a titanium bed / slimed and ready / for their space tech-heavy / investigation / and I shout with indignation / There’s no justification / for this wholly unwarranted examination / but they go ahead n’ probe / and the house lights strobe / then after a while they hand me a robe / and I sit in recovery watching a globe / showing dreadful 70s sci-fi schtick / where the smiles are thin and the hair is slick / and the cardboard doors swoosh and stick / and the science guy’s cold and the captain’s a dick / and my head grows heavy and oddly thick / and the next thing I know / I’m back here groaning in the undergrowth / and that’s where the search party finally found me / and I’m free to speak to the reporters around me / and I’ve written a book on the whole damned business / and I’m happy to say it’s out this Christmas

sunday bonfires

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I opened my eyes
and to my surprise
there stood Dad
nodding and smiling in that way he had
plus a few added extra spectral moans
cos he was twenty years dead and mostly bones

‘Ere we are again! he said. Happy days!
scratching his pate with a coupla phalanges
How are you doin’ Jim? Tell me – how’s tricks?
Anything a stiff like me can fix?

I sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes
‘Well – Dad – I said – what a lovely surprise
but I’d be lying
if I said your visit wasn’t trying
I mean it’s hard with you flying
around the place
it hardly makes
for a restful scenario
but that being said – how the hell are you?

I’ve been worse
dying’s the curse
of the living classes
lately I’d be hard put to tell you where my arse is
added to which I’ve lost my glasses
but even if I found ‘em
I haven’t got ears to hook the frames round ‘em
[but then he turned sharply;
looked at me darkly]
Mark me!
Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing
To what I shall unfold…

whoa! just a goddamn minute I said
quickly sitting up in bed
Why the dramatic shift in gear?
Why’ve you suddenly gone all Shakespeare?
You’ve got to wonder how it looks
You only ever read gardening books

Mark me!
My hour is almost come,
When I to sulph’rous and tormenting flames
Must render up myself
and you know that’s bad for my mental health

Dad – I hate to say this
but you know I’m an atheist?
which is awks
all this talk
of purgatory and damnation
well – it’s an interesting situation
and not that I’m calling you a liar
but …c’mon… really? … HELLFIRE?
What did YOU do that was so terrible?
your only crime was overcooking vegetables

You’re right, Jim!
This is way too grim
I’ve been hoodwinked! Hypnotised! Taken in!
This is what happens
when you die and time slackens
and you’re prey to religion and gothic fashions
Just imagine!
Surrounded forever by ghouls and ghosts
with apocalyptic monotheistic guff to promote

So – what’s it REALLY like then, I said
Tell me what it’s like being dead.

Well, Jim – d’you remember as a toddler, kneeling
quietly by the window on a Sunday evening
as I worked in the garden, shadows deepening
threads of smoke through the darkness weaving
invoking a sharp and poignant feeling?
well THAT’S what it’s like, but 24/7
and whether that’s hell or whether that’s heaven
is a completely different kinda question

And with that he vanished in a cackle of smoke
And I fell back asleep and when I awoke
completely forgot the words he spoke
(mental note: keep a pad by the bed
or shit like this goes out of your head)

the legend of king midas

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Once there was a king called Midas
a notorious tight ass
who loved gold more than anything
ending up spending
his whole life inspecting
all the krugerrands he was collecting
counting them in giant hoppers
stacking them in iron coffers

then Dionysus
sayeth unto Midas
mate – you’ll give yourself dermatitis
find yourself a healthier hobby
this gold love’s giving you a flabby body
no said Midas
I’m sorry but I don’t need you to guide us
it’s only gold these days excites us

so Dionysus
spaketh with his advysus
and offereth Midas
one big wish
to teach him the evils of being rich
and Midas said he wanted everything he touched
to turn to gold, thanks very much

and lo!
(an old Greek way of saying so)
Dionysus gave the godly nod to go
and whaddya know
everything suddenly went 24 carat
from his wife and daughter to a pomegranate
Midas couldn’t believe his luck
I mean – sure, he can’t eat – but what the actual?

prologue to The Book of You’re Lucky to Have a Job

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment
  1. In the land of UK lived a man who was lucky to have a job. His name was Bob. He was a salt-of-the-earth, straight-up, say-it-how-it-is kinda geezer. Feared The Lord Tory and avoided Socialism in all its demonic forms. Supported West Ham, for his sins.
  2. Bob had a big family. Not Catholic, just careless.
  3. He was a butcher. Owned a nice house. Was doing alright, as it goes.
  4. His kids had all left home, but they lived local and still came round for a Sunday roast and what have you. Which was nice.
  5. One day, some City Angels and a dodgy geezer called Stan came before The Lord Tory. And The Lord Tory said Alright? And Stan and the angels said Not bad, as it goes. You? And The Lord Tory said ‘Can’t complain. And if I did, who’d listen? And Stan said Tell me about it, mate. And The Lord Tory said See that guy down there? That’s Bob. He’s well solid, Bob is. Puts in the hours, no matter what. You won’t find a worker like him.
  6. I bet you anything you like we can turn his sorry ass around, said Stan. You’re on! said The Lord Tory. Your loss, my friend. You can do whatever you like short of Covid.
  7. So Stan crashed the markets. Made energy so expensive Bob’s kids all froze. Bankrupted Bob’s business. Cut his benefits. Increased the cost of living so he couldn’t eat properly. Undermined the Health Service so Bob had to wait hours for an ambulance when he was having a stress-related heart attack. Sold off anything that wasn’t nailed down. Turned the public purse into a cashpoint for foreign interests. Corrupted the government. Passed repressive legislation to keep it that way. Supported brutal regimes internationally, then bragged about being world leaders in everything with absolutely nothing to back it up, to the extent that the country Bob loved became an international laughing stock, or an illustration of what not to do. Drove Bob insane reading about it all on social media.
  8. Till Bob sank to his knees in the street as the bailiffs repossessed his house, wailing and crying, tearing at his beard and his clothes, saying: ‘The Lord Tory gave, and The Lord Tory has taken away! May the name of The Lord Tory be praised!’
  9. At which point The Lord Tory smacked his hands together and sayeth: See what I mean, boys? Lovely jubbly! C’mon you horny red devils – cough up…