Author: jim clayton

status update XXV

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I’m a punk, cosplay rule Britannia / sugar water hair and saltwater manner / rusty penny farthing with a broken wicker pannier / waving a dustbin lid and spanner / exhausted from fronting / all the laws the government’s corrupting / till I’m dragged from the saddle and tied up with bunting / to a stake at the heart of the midsummer fete / by mad morris dancers who just can’t wait / raging and chanting and dancing round the square / shaking their bells and bladders in the air / as the faggots snap and the straw bales flare / and I wave to the public up in the stands / shouting Come on in, the bonfire’s grand!

A tisket, a Tasket / question? don’t ask it / it puts the lotion in the basket / while we sit with our popcorn and gobble up the shocks / Brad’s gun shaking saying what’s in the box / Gwyneth and her Goopy locks / who kissed a frog and got monkeypox / a bunch of daffs and a box of chocs / this stuff rocks / so just breathe and allow it / maybe like me you can’t live without it / and if not – shrug – it’s finished, over / no credits, refunds, definitely no closure / guilty of underperforming and overexposure / good – that’ll show him / that’s what you get for writing a poem

But hey! Donald J Trump is back on the scene! / introducing a beauty queen / with a message of peace and an AR15 / but he goes off cue / straightens his wig and speaks directly to you / what the fuck does he want us to do? / go home, we love you, you’re very special / but first take your clothes off, I wanna see ya wrestle / shrug – it’s just another monster we made / from recycled films and gatorade / we’re a sucker for stunts and a big parade / it’s a simple question of economics / a firm handshake and flag semiotics / media optics / liberal neurotics / shut up and finish the antibiotics

Relax! / I saw on Twitter Jesus is back / delayed off the plane by an attack of the snacks / picking up socks and a script for Xanax / but once he’s got his sandals straight / and finally made it through the gate / he’ll jump in a taxi and I can’t wait / to see him give his sermon on the mount / on TikTok or wherever the fuck this shit comes out / ‘cos the cattle are lowing, the baby awakes / and they’re about to storm the stable with whatever it takes

I’m buffering on the edge of disaster / a glass of warm water and a sticking plaster / fearing the end but wanting it faster / while Dorothy smiles and sings Somewhere Over the Rainbow / which is sweet and all but I just don’t know / as fantasy destinations go / there aren’t many deals out of Gatwick or Heathrow / meanwhile / I’m slumped in the chair a prisoner of freestyle / spiritually flat, poetically senile / pen as in penile / drooling while the mice are playing / and whilst I love the optimism they’re displaying / all I’m saying / is just supposing / the exits aren’t opening but slowly closing / and the cat’s not sleeping but only dozing

Stanley! The Musical

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Stanley! The Musical
mostly acoustical
upbeat, therapeutical
sponsored by a pet pharmaceutical

I wasn’t sure about the exclamation mark
I actually wanted a bark
something to grab your attention
and give you the impression
you were in for a treat
all from a dot and a line, which is neat

But I hesitated
it felt premeditated
the title jarred
I think I’m guilty of trying too hard

it’s like when someone says ‘aww – isn’t my dog the CUTEST?’
and you can’t help instinctively disputing this
because it’s a bold assertion
and you hate coercion
no iffs, no butts
especially when it comes to mutts

no dogs

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

if you must know
mum & dad weren’t exactly sympatico
and as relationships go
their’s went
sixty years a slow descent
into compromise and argument

take dogs, for example
mum liked them on the bed to cuddle
which was trouble
Dad was adamant
a recipe for accident
basically bad dog management

then he died
and mum was suddenly free to lie
with as many dogs on the bed as she liked
(but to be honest
it wasn’t quite the love-in promised;
mum was serially dog monogomous)

then SHE died
after a few more dogs had gone by
their ashes in boxes waiting on the side
which was a predicament
because mum’s preferment
was to take them with her in the interment

I wasn’t around
when four little boxes went into the ground
in the cemetery plot where dad’s to be found
but I have it as fact
thunder cracked
and three of the boxes came flying back

barkin’ jack

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Sometimes Stanley’s Barkin’ Jack
famous bushranger from the Australian outback
transported to New South Wales in 1846
for unlawfully pawing six tripe sticks
escapes to the bush, leads a pack
of feral lurchers and mutts like that
steals from the rich, harries the traps
gets into legendary scrapes and scraps
till the final, furious, canine shootout
his water low, his last chew chewed out
barks through the window of the settler’s cottage
reckoning five traps to the best of his knowledge
(there’s actually fifty, so Barkin’ blunders;
he was never particularly good with numbers)
he rummages inside the recycling bins
fashions some armour from baked bean tins
bounds outside, pistols flaming
as the bullets from the traps come raining
the rest I’m afraid is ancient history
– but why he’s haunting Stanley’s a bit of a mystery

grasshopper shocker

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heartstopper!
last night an actual grasshopper
slowly crawled
halfway up the bedroom wall
then stopped
then hopped
down on to the bedside table
just missing the water which woulda been fatal

I mean – what did it WANT?
preening itself on a book looking confident
like this was something it’d planned all week
and was getting good money for making us shriek

Kath took a cup
slowly and slyly got up
found a utility bill
to utilise her special skill
which is capturing spiders and sundry bugs
and tossing them outside into the shrubs
grasshoppers definitely the worst of these creatures
being such prodigious leapers

I wished her luck
…. as she STRUCK!
I heard a whump
as it jumped
and the top of the cup furiously bumped
with its alien headgear
as Kath said wait here
took it over to the open window
slid out the letter and let it go

did it land safely?
I’m sorry – I don’t know
(but I sincerely hope so)

business proposition

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make & sell such a lot of stuff
that the planet hasn’t nearly enough
space to process all the packaging
or make good all the ravaging
global disasters averaging
populations fighting & scavenging
then you spill out all the gold in your pockets
build a fleet of boujee rockets
leave before the earth blows up
sleep in pods till a planet shows up
land, tentatively open the hatch
and do the same again from scratch

what’s in a name

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a dull-witted farmer
upset his daughter
by telling the King
she could weave straw into bling

which he found interesting

SO interesting, in fact
the king had her snatched
and thrown in a cellar
and being a simple, psychopathic fella
ordered her to spin
or he’d chop off her head and that kinda thing

nice

she sat on the stool
spinning wheels often have as a rule
feeling desperately blue
but the next thing she knew
a crazy little imp blew
into the straw-filled spinning room
(an imp being a hideous sprite
not the kinda thing you like to see at night)

but the imp was handy though
spun his impy way through
all the straw piled up in the cellar
so she gave him her rings and said thankyou fella

the king was pleased
gold up to his knees
so as a token of his appreciation
locked her back up for more wealth creation

that night the imp danced back across the floor
(how he got in I’m not too sure)
‘I’ll sort you out with more wheaty gold
but only if you give me your first born to hold
and cherish, and keep
which as deals go was creepy and steep
but the girl said fine and lay down to sleep
and when she woke up
the imp firmly spoke up
said don’t forget your solemn promise
tapped his prominent proboscis
cackled & vanished
as in came the fascist
who was so pleased to see such easy riches
he straightway made the poor girl his missus
(which is a horrible thing to have to say
but I didn’t write this fairy tale, okay?)

years passed
the king and queen had a baby at last
which is when
the imp came back again

as he rubbed his hands and advanced
the poor queen begged him for a second chance
the imp relented
(in many ways he represented
the fairer side of fairy tale fiends
and a whole lot nicer than kings & queens)

‘I’ll give you three days to guess my name
and if you fail I’ll make my claim’

(I know – the challenge doesn’t sound all that brutal
but the story was written a few years before Google)

the queen
tried everything
but nothing
seemed to work
despite a list from the registry clerk

until day three
when the queen accidentally
came across his cottage
and without the imp’s knowledge
watched as he skipped
around a barbecue on bricks
and prematurely rejoiced
in a skimpy, impy voice:

Tonight tonight, my plans I make, tomorrow tomorrow, the baby I take.
The queen will never win the game, for Rumpelstiltskin is my name

the queen took a notepad from her gown
wrote it down
slowly
phonetically
because Rumpelstiltskin was tricky unfortunately

when the imp appeared at court
the queen drew the whole thing out for sport
Freddie? Bilbo? Emmanuel? Dave?
the imp rubbed his hands, said ‘behave!
one last go, no ifs, buts or maybe
I’m only here to collect the baby’

‘Rumpelstiltskin!’ cried the Queen
standing, pointing straight at him
the imp looked livid
went flaccid – then rigid
stamped his curly impy pumps
knocking big expensive lumps
out of the palace parquet flooring
screaming & cursing & roaring
but c’mon! I think you’d be pissed too
all that spinning and the adoption falls through

status update XXIV

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My heart is heavy and my head is busting / watching these Tories out on the husting / banging on about faith & trusting / all the lies they’re busily thrusting / down the nation’s gagging throat / in a beauty pageant to win the vote / of 200,000 true blue members / especially those that still remember / with a dreamy kinda rinsed blue rapture / the sacred figure of Margaret Thatcher / patron saint of benefit snatchers / who rode a cock horse to Banbury Cross / and slayed the dragon of the union boss / and was never a lady much for turning / not even when the cities were burning / but sank a goodly number of ships / and used her handbag hard on the whips / and where there was discord, brought forth harmony / and where there was Irish, brought forth army / and where there was discord, brought a little hope / especially if it came with a rope / a trident missile and a periscope / a riot shield and a baton charge / oh tell me where thou resteth, Marge? / for verily we need thee back in charge / your blood may have been bitter as the xenomorph from Alien / your hairdo hard, your compassion subterranean / but at least there was a certain rusty heft / to the way you set about gutting the left / and though my loathing transcended this earth / you make this current bunch look like the smurfs