Author: jim clayton

urinals are forever

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

James Bond in a care home / catheter emptied, hair combed / ready to roll but the mission’s postponed / indefinitely / hello there Jimmy! / how d’ya like your tea, my lovely? / no – don’t tell me / shaken not stirred, sweetie / what d’ya mean, too milky? / oh please! / someone’s a double O tease / c’mon and gimme ol’ Moneypenny a squeeze

Stares at the film but the theme song’s wrong / volcano blown and Blofeld gone / white cat flat, monocle bent / cold grey lava clogging the vent / and poor old Goldfinger / fortune gone, health through the wringer / hauled out of bed in a blingy slinger / pistol mimes with his index finger

heard about Le Chiffre? / threw in his hand and lost his teefre / gives the carers no end of grieffre

and Scaramanga / disinhibited, problems with anger / crashes his smoking Bentley banger / into an oak tree back of the manor / three times a tit / the doctors can’t seem to do anything about it

Raoul Silva / sits all day watching Bob the Builder / slyly smiles when the postman delivers / waves through the window but inwardly shivers

Hugo Drax / shovelling benzos, confusing his facts / absolutely cannot relax / till he’s sorted the planet and his income tax

Oddjob sobs / can’t work the knobs / on remote controls or kitchen hobs / sits all day on the rocker and bobs / his bowler hat throbs / till he swallows some caps and the trembling stops

Rosa Klebb / trips on a step / now she’s held a captive in bed / her feet in casts and a bandage on her head

Max Zorin / keeps on fallin / pushing his emergency button and callin / his family all in / can’t put any more support in

Jaws yawns / stares out emptily across the lawns

Welcome to Dementia, Mr Bond
I like it already

8 great beard styles for bald men

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

The Colonel
Bags of snap
wear with a cap
makes you want to march about
definitely a beard you can do without

The Shovel
Sharp, flat, not much trouble
starch it for clearing snow and rubble

The Nonsense
Half stubble, half chaff
Some love it, most laugh
strictly for those
with expensive clothes

The Octopus
Tentacles flying left and right
a sucker lover’s deep delight
unless you’re able to constantly wet it
forget it

The Glitch
The kind of beard a bot would knit
from cable ties or some such shit

The Hadron Kaleidoscope
Weirdly hyperactive
unnaturally attractive
sprouts in one particular spot
then moves around an awful lot

The Brexit
British Empire reminiscent
looks like hair but sadly isn’t

The Pocket Politician
Long, luxurious hirsute monster
maintain it with a generous sponsor

Stanlenstein!

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

My terrifying experiment’s almost complete!
(Igor’s ignoring it but I think it’s neat)
I’ll fetch it out for you – Please – Take a seat…

The head I commissioned from a taxidermist
rather unorthodox, terribly earnest
basically a cow skull totally refurbished

The body I fashioned from a furry settee
one part yak, two parts yeti
the penis I wove from wholewheat spaghetti

The legs are basically kitchen mops
hinged at the knees with Grolsch bottle tops
goes along nicely but struggles when he stops

You may find the next bit scrotum tightening
as I activate the monster with a bolt of lightning
(not strictly necessary but I think it’s exciting)

Behold! I call him Stanlenstein!
My creature of infernal design!
No photos please, the copyright’s MINE…!

[I left the Doctor to caper in his cape
Stanlenstein smiling with a gawpous gape
as I hurried outside for a calming vape

I heard he entered the beast in Crufts
The Horrors Group or some such stuff
I could say more but that’s enough]

Happy Halloween 2022!

status update XXXII

~ jim clayton ~ 6 Comments

It’s the Season of Sorry, the Year of The Splat / the country in chains, the Cat in the Hat / dreaming of heating & stuff like that / while traders call waiters with finger snaps / for fat cigars and a round of schnapps / chin chin old boy for the cool collapse / stuffing their pockets with Scooby snacks / while politicians lube-up, ready to practise / on the people least able to bear the taxes / okay, relax – this won’t hurt / we’ll go nice n’slow as we lovingly convert / public services to public desert / and we do so thank you for your effort / yeah? been there, done that, got the t-shirt

I’m a pay rise in amber, a fossilised note / I’m a stand-in Lansbury on Murder She Wrote / the iceberg lettuce that sank the boat / eeny, meeny, minority vote / lock the gates and fill the moat / pack off your children somewhere remote / in God we trust but the rest we yoke / and greed thereto I plight thee my troth / fetch more butter ‘cos I think we’re toast

thought police don’t stop for lunch / a ham baton and a chocolate crunch / too busy being the worst of the bunch / ceaselessly waging their war on woke / cos truth’s in dispute and history’s broke / and not for the likes of you ordinary folk / certain words’ll make you choke / so stick to McFacts and Diet Coke / and try to sound a little more stoked / and whatever you do, don’t provoke us / hold that shit and stay focused / think of the positives / we’ll take care of where the profit is / (offshore accounts and safe depositories)

I’m a sarky old soak, a sneaky insider / a hot ghost laughing in the hadron collider / cackling we’re fifteen seconds from disaster / technicians sneering & saying who asked her

I’m too bright to look at, too rich to tax / handshakes, signatures, sealing wax / a corporate snort in a kevlar tux / putting on lippy on the lip of the vortex / but don’t freak out, don’t stress your cortex / take to the floor and I’ll show you some more steps / you can zumba with zombies, waltz with the dead / cha cha with changes and ballet with bread / we sympathise with how you’re feeling / now leave us alone for some insider dealing

I’m Wile E. Coyote running off the canyon / flapping his arms looking straight to camera

mars trip checklist

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

a big box of tree seedlings
notepads and pens for daily meetings
some delicious chewy things
like licorice and wine gums
five guns
okay maybe just one gun
okay then no guns
a bunch of badges with hilarious slogans
like Mars or Bust
Terraformers are Us
or maybe God’s Okay but in Hydrothermal Power Generation We Trust
a chess set
a Sopranos box set
some hazelnut noisette
a toothbrush, pick and floss set
something else important here I forget
a dog and cat
in pet-friendly hazmat
a Welcome to Mars doormat
a floppy, anti cosmic and ionising radiation sun hat
a book on how to build your own waterless laundromat
a book on what people really mean when they say they just want a chat
an exercise bike
t-shirts to hang on an exercise bike
a rubbish chute to dispose of an exercise bike
a resourceful and impossibly cute robot called Mike
who has backpacks and jet sleds to go on a hike
whose enthusiasm levels can sometimes spike
so he’s got a big mute switch you can throw if you like
a ukulele
a book of ukulele chords to practice daily
a rubbish chute to dispose of a smashed ukulele
a safe room for people to think about why certain things trigger them disproportionately
and to understand there’s no transport back to earth for at least five more years unfortunately
some cute flags for waving
some baby cream for chafing
66,770 gallons of liquid hydrogen
a bumper pack of vitamins
some LSD and Ketamine
MDMA and Amphetamines
Hey? What do you mean?
Of course I’m clean!
I’m joshin’ with ya Geraldine
but yes – okay – a drug testing machine
some potatoes
some shelters good for dust tornadoes
some postcards from Barbados
to stick up on the windows
with blurry family photos
and those trips you made with your bros
look at those beautiful, crazy ass mo-fos
back down on Earth doing amazing things I suppose
who knows
yo
Mars was here and someone had to go
Did anyone else volunteer? No
so
Who do we send? Jim
J.I.M
Just Jim
Jim and the Uke Duke, Tiny Tim
and his sister, General Geraldine
who send me instructions from behind a screen
but I know what they’re REALLY up to
which is why I’m playing a little game I like to call Oxygen Interrupto…

[…this is where the transmission stops;
we’ll tell you more when the rescue ship docks]

the wonderful world of nature

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I read a remarkable
migration article
about the Arctic Tern
which, as far as birds are concerned,
travels the most
not just coast to coast
but pole to pole
an aerial stroll
that runs the gamut
of every known weather system on the planet
and just to be clear
not just once but twice a year
22,000 miles or so
Why do they do it? Just bored, I suppose

Stanley
on the other handley
is an inveterate loafer
barely migrating from the sitting room sofa
twice a day, north to south
to hoover biscuits into his mouth

stanlet, Act III, Scene I

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

To pee, or not to pee, that is the question:
Whether it is nobler in the hound to suffer
The tugs and drags of outraged humans,
Or to lift a leg against a range of objects
And by sprinkling, wet them. To pee – to wee,
And more; and by a wee to say we end
The bladder ache and thousand natural spots
That dogs are heir to: ‘tis a micturition
Devoutly to be wished. To pee, to wazz;
To seep, perchance to stream – ay, there’s the job:
For in that leak of length what hounds may come
When we have shuffled along this mortal trail,
Must stay our paws – there’s the respect
That marks the territory of so long a walk.
For who would bear the cats and squirrels of time,
The weather’s wrong, the delivery man’s contumely,
The pangs of owner’s love, the snack’s delay,
The absence of sofas, and the spurns
That patient moan of the late walk takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare foreskin? Who would gardens bear,
To run and fetch with frisbee light,
But that the dread of something after supper,
The bare blanket’d basket from whose bourn
No hound returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear the owners we have
Than fly to owners that we know not of?
Thus rambles doth make bladders of us all,
And thus the straw coloured hue of micturition
Is trickled o’er the cast iron lampost,
And enterprises of great piss and moment
In this regard their currents go a’spray
And wet the name of action – Woof you now!
The fair Brodie! Nymph, in thy haunches
Be all my sins remember’d.