Author: jim clayton

La Lista Cabinista

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Pasta boris putinesca:
corrupted with unsavoury sauce
served supine with
bunga bunga rolls & hand-pressed oligarchs

Cannelloni rishi sunacci
half baked in a mega rich ragu
served sincerely with
a faux, instaready salad

Gnocchi di mogg
deathly dumplings in a cruel victorian gravy
served drab in
a grudge of brexity grits

Ravioli di raab
pillows of pointlessness
served blank in
a thick, regretful roux

Rigatoni con la patel
cold tubes of bureaucracy
served harsh with
a terrine of lifejackets & channel water

Fettuccine dorries
wretched strands of confusion
served wild in
a stagger of embarrassing relish

Lasagna alla truss
layers of contact sheets marinaded in self-regard
served pert
with a selection of hats

Spaghetti alla shapps
a tangle of bland
served P&O
on a plate

the lord’s prayer [with footnotes]

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Our Father

[ definitely NOT Mother
or any other
hippy moniker
this is a strictly Christian melodrama
with a god who looks like a grouchy farmer ]

Who art in Heaven

[ somewhere north of Carlisle
on the A7 ]

Hallowed be thy name

[ ‘hallowed’ : a portmanteau word
meaning you’re allowed
to say hello
but personal appearances are pretty much a no-go ]

Thy kingdom come

[ a difficult one:
technically the kingdom had ALREADY come;
all HE had to do was put the lights on ]

Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven

[ a LOT of theological ground to cover
when you consider
that another
person with will
is the devil
BUT GOD MADE THE DEVIL TOO
so … erm… okaaaay… over to you… ]

Give us this day our daily bread

[ for those of you in the congregation
worried about transubstantiation
and pray for
a gluten free wafer
because you’re celiac
I’m sorry but there’s no way back
the books say Jesus was ten percent wheat
so that’s what the Vatican says you’re to eat ]

And forgive us our trespasses,
as we forgive those who trespass against us

[ ‘trespass’ doesn’t mean the kind of sign
you see on security gates all the time
‘Trespassers will be prosecuted’
‘Fences Are Electrocuted’
‘Armed Response’
NOT the welcome anyone wants
when you’re going from door to door
collecting alms (not arms) for the poor;
so for ‘trespass’
read ‘press pass’
as in ‘access all areas’
a bit more relaxed and a lot less nefarious ]

And lead us not into temptation

[ if He’s supposed to lead us into GOOD
why build such a tempting neighbourhood? ]

but deliver us from evil

[ ‘evil’ not in the sense
of Milla Jovovich in Residents
one through five
where CGI creatures from the Umbrella Hive
use zombifying rain to drive
a plot progressively shakier
than the box office takings
NO – I mean evil
as in The DEVIL
who
as a little clue
has Evil
RIGHT THERE, in his name
and the D stands for Duncan, or maybe Duane ]

For thine is the kingdom

[ a clubby, bougie-beardy kinda place
where saints drift around with weary faces
in a heavenly kind of homeostasis
emphasis
on homie
and if they see the devil they’re like blow me ]

the power and the glory

[ same ol’ story ]

for ever and ever

[ which as these things go is somewhat better
than simply forever
but it’s subject to metaphysical pressure
and there’s no such thing as never ever ever ]

Amen

[ originally ‘All the Men’
then ‘A Man’
VERY briefly Ian
but eventually settling on ‘Amen’
and zero prospect of changing back again ]

rue britannia

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Liz? Rishi?
time for a quickie?
it’s your pay-per-view paparazzi
danke schon and mille grazie
try to look busy
we’ll be done in a jiffy
– LOVE what you’ve done to your cave in the city

meanwhile

corporate lawyers in power showers / soap themselves in the early hours / practising smiles and Bonnie Tyler ballads / dreaming of oligarchs and caesar salads

quick! johnson’s smiling so make your obeisance
he thanks you most affably for your patience
the money transferred without complications
so he’ll expedite your applications
actore non probante reus absolvitur
now DO fuck off and DON’T slam the door

holy shit n’guacamole!
where’s my cake so I can have it and eat it slowly?
in the favourite T I’ve had from new
the meek shall inherit the earth / if that’s alright with the rest of you

sorry
sorry
I’m new here
I just wanted to pass through here
I didn’t know you were supposed to queue here
isn’t this Dover?
the place where all the boats cross over?

whaddya mean, failure to launch?
more like a failure to lunch
sit the fuck down and blow the conch

But wait – here comes… MOGG
he’s written a frightfully elegant blog
the trick behind assets, bricks and mortar
is holding the stick and throwing the dog in the water

All rise:

Rue Britannia! Britannia rues the waves / Old Money never, never, never shall acknowledge the vast sums that were made from slavery / Hmm / almost there / the rhythm’s off but the meaning’s there / maybe the whole thing needs rewriting / it’s too downbeat, unexciting / we need something happy with a snappy refrain / we can sing together as we circle the drain

the octopus affair

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we’d only had it about a week
I’d bought it on a whim
those googly eyes! that crazy squeak!
Stanley fell in love with him

they’d lie for hours on the sofa
in a great big gangly knot
a four legged casanova
an eight legged cephalopod

sometimes he’d wear it like purple hair
the legs hanging down like curls
sometimes he’d toss it high in the air
like a cheerleader doing twirls

the day the octopus went missing
Stanley was deeply depressed
his cruel existence consisting
of endless octopuslessness

the search was long and tiring
the toy had done its best
but eventually I found it hiding
under a wooden chest

so now they’re reunited
the affair is wilder than ever
Stanley overexcited
the octopus squeaking in terror

pareidolia

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a man’s face appears
on the raw boards
of the bedroom floor
in the place
where my bare feet
lift the paint

(the floor may be boho and quaint
but hard wearing it aint)

his goatee beard
is neatly squared
at the tip
and on his lips
a fulsome tash
kippered in the smoke from his calabash

an academic, I’d guess
a hip professor
in a handknit, roll neck sweater
because his chambers
are old and poorly heated
and the damp’s rampant and untreated
and he’s gaunt as a goose
and his corduroy pants are loose
and he spends his stipend
on books and pens
and lives on the granola his students send
the sweetly scratchy gravel
he distractedly shovels
with the Miffy spoon
he found, back of the drawer
left by the post grads who lived there before

and he dreams of Sicily
and yearns for adventure
and the outside possibility
they’ll grant him tenure

don’t bank on it, honey
academia’s crap
and anyway
as soon as we’ve got the money
the carpet’s going back

stanley style

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I’m sorry to say
Stanley is not soignee
simply put
he is NOT NEAT
from his raggy old nose
to his shaggy old feet
his scragginess complete
his pedigree
higgledy piggledy
fishy as kedgeree
to say he was spiffy
is iffy
his fur a total bust
not at all lustrous
a little disastrous
dainty he ‘aint
breath to make you faint
the yeti end of hirsute
the cussed end of cute
a bark that makes you turn and take another route
speaking man-to-man
he’s hairier than an orangutan
not so much sartorial
as arboreal
is that pictorial
enough?
I’m trying my best
to describe his mess
but it’s tough
courage mon brave
le chien n’est pas suave
news just in
the dog is crustier
than a rubbish bin
so in that sense
there’s an argument
to say he is well turned-out
it’s a flagrant
but not particularly fragrant fact
that if you were his stylist you’d be sacked
and if you said he was gorgeous
the lie would be enormous
and legally you’d have to retract
if you said he was spruce
that would be a significant misuse
of the adjective
his anti-natty narrative
scoring nine on the Scruffs Scale of Comparative
(which I can tell you now
if you like
goes from oh my god wow
to oh dear god yikes)
he’s the opposite of opulent
a minging monument
to dirty dogs everywhere
an antihero of personal care
with antigravity hair
in fact it’s insane
how rough he remains
he could run through a black hole and come out the same
a totally scruffy scrapper
saluting the flag at the crapper end of dapper
a freestyling frank zappa
phi beta krappa

but none of this matters

why?

because love means
never having to say you’re sorry
and never having to worry
about how you look
(and as far as THAT goes
he wrote the book)

miner crime

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the sofa
was woeful
fit for disposal
but my proposal
was to put a cover on it
and see if that helped a bit

the problem was Stanley
excavating constantly
(why, I’ve no idea
I’m not sure even he was clear)
and a monstrous hole was growing
and the stuffing was showing
and though there was no going
and throwing
good money after bad
especially after the bills we’d had
still we wanted to prolong
the life of a couch we hadn’t had long

so

we got this heavy cover
from somewhere or other
machine washable
as tough as possible
whose pattern wasn’t horrible
and all in all it was great
except – wait
what’s that sound?
like a giant mole shovelling underground
or a demonic miner pushing coal around
regular, rhythmic
cataclysmic
like some hectic neolithic
busy downstairs
using flint to prepare
a hairy carcase

well – d’you really have to ask us?

ghost dad’s good advice

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so there I was
relaxing in my crocs
wondering if there were biscuits in the box
when someone knocks

I thought it was Amazon
but when I opened the door
who d’ya think I saw
come to visit me once more

that’s right – GHOST DAD!
he said: how’s it going Jim
as I stood aside to let him in
accompanied by demonic violins

he said: sorry about that
I can’t do nothin’ about the music
it gets me right in the whatsit pubic
and to think they think it’s therapeutic

I have to say he looked the same
which given he’s been dead a while
is a triumph of spirit over style
but he was nothing if not versatile

he hovered in the kitchen
and said – how are tricks
his smile the fragile side of fixed
you’d expect from essentially a pile of sticks

not bad – thanks for asking
I said as he drifted
and every jar and box lid lifted
and all the contents critically snifted

and once again
I thought as I watched
our relationship had gone up quite a notch
ever since his operation was botched

so – Dad – is this a social?
an other-worldly good morning?
or are you performing
some vibey, beyond-the-grave kinda warning?

always with the drama!
he said – then suddenly twirled
screaming like a demon from the underworld
his cloak embarrassingly unfurled

impressive I said
as he slowed and stopped
and his lower jaw dropped
and I had to bend down to pick it up

I helped him slot it back
he said I’ve been working on some killer moves
but I still haven’t really found my groove
I s’pose I’ve got eternity to improve

I said no no I thought it was great
really dynamic, quite impressive
surprisingly expressive
the screaming maybe a touch excessive

thanks he said that means a lot
I remember you used to study drama
rolling around in fancy pyjamas
off yer nuts on marijuana

guilty I said that was totally me
but it’s been a few years
I never managed an acting career
it’s an awful lot harder than it first appears

he said everyone’s got regrets
(lidless wink, lipless smirk)
particularly when it comes to work
I mean – look at me – office clerk

I shoulda really been a builder
that would’ve definitely suited me better
righting ladders not writing letters
but often life brings other pressures

you’re not wrong I said
well, he said, that leads me neatly
to the message I’m to give you discreetly
which is LEARN TO TRUST YOUR HEART COMPLETELY

nice I said that’s really sweet
(to be honest, this was all a surprise
previously the closest we’d gotten as guys
was crying with laughter at Morecambe & Wise)

now he said my time is up
he held out a hand for me to take
and even though it was a gentle shake
the arm came off with a dusty break

don’t sweat it he said
using the arm to point at the ceiling
no hard feelings
these phantom limbs are all self-healing

and with that he was gone
in a cloud of fog and screech of strings
and though the visit was interesting
it didn’t help with anything