Author: jim clayton

The 2022 Lurcholympics

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And it’s a very warm welcome to the 2022 Lurcholympics
Let me walk you through a few characteristics:
We’ve got 100, 200 and 1500 minute Snoozing
The Squeakathon with Annoying Toy of their choosing
We’ve got Questionable Slumping
Table Thumping
Head Bumping
Lead Grumping
We’ve got Chewdo
Tail-kwondo
Rope Wrestling
We’ve got Shallow Water Paddling
Snack Haggling
Artistic Scrabbling
Freestyle Limping
We’ve got Find Ball, Treat Lifting, Basketpaw
We’ve got Sprint Door
And the latest competition draw:
The What The Hell’s She Barking For
We’ve got Synchronised Sniffing
Athletic Rug Writhing
Moaning & Mithering
Sofa Sliding
And of course, the five events of the modern Petathlon:
The Sixty Metre Horribles
The Sly Jump, Try Jump, Why Jump
The Treat Put and the Eight Hungry Minutes
And new this year to test your pet’s limits?
Barktastic Gymnastics!
I do hope you enjoy our extensive programme
Ready for the day’s events? Hell – I know I am!

a short waltz on a beach at the end of the world

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wade naked in the water
lay dreaming by the lake
angels will blow the way to go
devils only know about snakes
so when the sun comes rolling in
and shadows steal the land

well c’mon take my hand
out on the sand
and we’ll dance our death away

I swear I’m never gonna run again
I swear I’m never gonna quit
life’s a big peach just outta reach
when you think of it
but if you say we’ll win someday
I’ll do my best, goddamn

so c’mon take my hand
out on the sand
and we’ll dance our death away

flying

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

The celebrant asked for anecdotes
family memories to put in her notes
for the eulogy
But honestly?
it’s hard
like sorting through fading photographs

But I vividly remember when I was six
sitting on the black metal child’s seat, fixed
to the back of her bike
holding a plastic plane that I liked
off to one side as we flew
like the plane was airborne and me & mum, too
but I dropped it
so mum hauled on the bike’s brakes and stopped it
slowly wheeled the bike back to get it
a silly thing, maybe, but I won’t forget it

I suppose some things are for keeping, some for showing;
I end up sending the celebrant the following:

My mate Gordon is the first of my crowd
to get a motorbike so he brings it round
Mum comes out, asked him how it works
Gordon swinging his helmet smirks
‘Jump on Mrs Clayton – if you’ve got the bottle!’
She drops the clutch, wraps the throttle,
Pops a wheelie and before he knows it
Flies head first into a bed of roses

dog heaven

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So… mum dies and goes to dog heaven
gets met at the gates by a St Bernard called Kevin
who takes her coat, asks how she is
(grimaces… says AWKS!…apologises)
then with a strum of his bone-shaped harp
the safety gates tremble and part
Kevin slips a harness on Mum
and leads her into the Canine Kingdom

and all the clouds are fluffy white baskets
and all the water bowls silver caskets
and all the waiters Bichon Frise pups
and the maitre D’s a Dobermann in a tux
and the angels are Pointers, Lurchers and Spaniels
with clip-on wings and golden sandals
and Paul O’Grady says hi how are ya
surrounded by crowds of adoring chihuahuas

‘This way,’ says Kevin, ‘No tour’s complete
without you getting a chance to meet
the owner of this awesome squad…’
and he leads her into the sight of DOG

significant others

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Not everyone can meet the funeral director
just my sisters
and an older brother
‘obviously you can’t all sit together’
she says, ‘so you need to decide, if you can,
some kind of meaningful seating plan’

There follows a rather snippy discussion
about who does or doesn’t
warrant a place on the front row
because as these things go
proximity to the coffin
is the funereal MacGuffin

There are so many of us it’s sticky
and a seating plan proves tricky
‘I could put a couple more chairs out – that’s fine
but there are just too many of you for one long line
especially when you consider significant others’
my older brother shudders
(always reliably fractious)
says his significant other’s a cactus

stanley or ralph

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Stanley has such a vocal range
you’d think it strange
a dog with no formal training
can find such sounds without straining
an appalling range of oral gimmicks
he conjures through his larynx
then stops and stares and blinks
inscrutable as the sphinx
and your heart sinks
as you struggle to think
what the SHIT can be happening
it’s mournful and maddening
in equal measure
the polar opposite of pleasure
like a tuxedoed lurcher
disguised as a tenor
loped onstage at the MET
to deliver their worst performance yet
and the crowd sit silently stunned
because they’ve just seen the depths of performance plumbed
and programmes are rudely and rapidly thumbed
and a queue backs-up in the foyer for a refund

all I mean to say
is that Stanley often likes to display
in a most emphatic & idiosyncratic way
whether or not he’s okay
and it’s truly a thing to behold
so wild, yet so controlled
like a wolf enrolled
in primal scream therapy
momentarily
forgetting it was a wolf
thinking instead it was a middle-aged guy called Ralph
suffering a crisis of mental health
and the group says Ralph – man – just let it out
till he stands, takes a breath, and opens his mouth

it certainly does

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Mum’s choice for music
as the curtains close round her coffin?
‘You’ll never go to heaven’
by It Bites

It’s Shite
more like
some prog rawk group from the 1880s
muzak for the Tesco club crowd in Hades
scratchier and catchier than scabies
I mean – please
it’s about a million and eight minutes long
by the time it’s finished we’ll ALL have moved on

maybe I should call the celebrant and persuade her
to keep one hand handy on the PA fader
especially if she’s minded to swerve
the terrible guitar solos that occur
without number
three quarters of the way in
by which point you won’t be the only one praying
for an end to the torment and escape to heaven – just saying

but it’s her decision
and if that’s the soundtrack she wants for her transition
fair enough
we’ll be busy dealing with bigger stuff
like what happens to the family or whatever
now there aren’t any parents to hold us together

novels & potato chips

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If you park the car
near a newly-made crater
that a meteor
made on the common,
and the crowds start coming
in great number to see
who on earth the visitor could be
and the army set up a perimeter
and you see a shiny cylinder
unscrewing slow and sinister
– well, then, it absolutely has to be SALT & VINEGAR

If you set sail
on a mission to find the whale
that took the captain’s leg
so he has to wear something else instead
a whale’s jawbone, which is niche
but Queequeg says say nothing capiche
so you just write your journal
about how the voyage is educational but infernal
and you have to wear all your thermals
and the captain’s paranoid and paranormal
and finds the whale
but the whale prevails
and the captain kicks the proverbial pail
and you’re the only survivor of the whole whale detail
and you cling to a coffin and drift off course
– it’s either CHEESE & ONION or WORCESTERSHIRE SAUCE

if you’re orphaned by typhus
and your aunt doesn’t like us
and sends you to Lowood
which is basically no good
and you meet Helen Burns
who has a few philosophical turns
and then dies
and time slowly flies
and you go round to call
for a teaching job at Thornfield Hall
where Mr Rochester sits
rude but fit
moody as shit
because his wife lives in the attic
and the restrictions are patchy
and the wife pretty scratchy
ghostly and matchy
and the place goes up in flames
and blind Mr Rochester says ‘Jane’
in your dreams
because he needs you back it seems
his marriage to the unfortunate Jamaican
annulled by death if you’re not mistaken
– and the chip for this shall be BBQ BACON