Author: jim clayton

let’s just lose the late

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I’m not a late starter / just a starter / who finally got brave and learned to work smarter / harder / reject the accepted timelines, the flat pack charters / the recipes for therapies, accessories, mandated memories / I mean – really – what are these? / please / the choice to lose yourself by degrees

Not a late starter / not some confused, used-up, stagey ol’ martyr / no – just someone whose eyes grew shiny and sharper / wider / who saw his story like a rank outsider / suddenly beside himself / jumping down, ready to burn the shelf

Not a late starter / no / that’s not how it goes / it’s a question of spirit not simply rows / in an Excel sheet / that shows the numbers you managed to complete / that’s not success / if I manage to say one true thing – that’s a yes

Please, then – no more late starters / I close with a quote from Jean-Paul Sartre:

He is always becoming,
and if it were not for the contingency of death,
he would never end

luv poem

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

you’re my Gucci flare
my hard swipe right
my premier
my bougie bite

you’re my gangnam jacket
my fabulous crunk
my raucous racket
my after thunk

you’re my viral clip
my real time bro
my orange lip
my CEO

you’re my diva ballerina
my longest toke
my love subpoena
my diet coke

you’re my anti-cringe
my love heart hex
my hope syringe
my insta flex

you’re my FAQs
my supersuit
my give us a clue
my parachute

you’re my tempest tag
my disco queen
my extra swag
my chilli bean

you’re my daily dose
my watch n’learn
my cheese on toast
my afterburn

you’re my make it right
my easy scope
my moonlit night
my lycanthrope

you’re my treasure map
my rockin’ hop
my gangsta rap
my dot dot dot

you’re my cheugy check
my BAE
my rizz direct
(so what about me)

on stanton moor

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

we follow the trackway
across the moor
to the stone circle

it’s hat hot
stands of foxgloves
wild pink, high
against the rocks

this way, I think

nearer, a drone
strims the air
then – tents in a clearing
a pyramid of trash
two guys in dreads
one on a phone
happy solstice says the other

two elderly guys in round ranger hats
trekking poles planted
a woman cross-legged weaving bracelets
the power of circles
is this why we come?
drawn to see
to eat, and drink
while the nine stones
keep their counsel
deep set, slow,
further than the stars
me of no more
matter than
this apple core

not now satan

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

the Prince of Darkness
has a GSOH regardless
you can be darned sure
a welcome mat inside the door
Abandon Hope and Shoes
His Infernal Rack of Toasting Forks
with cute little stickers
What’s your Point?
and
My Prickles Tickle
Verily hath He
splashed out fiendishly
on Amazon and Etsy
for comedy hangings
to go with all the skeletons;
in the Room of Eternal Rending
hoary slogans neverending
like this wildly grinning pelican
Is It True Can it Really Be Lunch Again?
while in the Flensing Room
carved bone homeware
absolutely everywhere:
Scare Today Gone Tomorrow
Life Is Short – Smile While You Still Have Teeth
Please Don’t Scare Me I Poop Easily
while over in the Pit of Despair
He chooses the worst to furnish it there
a great, flaming decal to greet each new admission:
Relax
We’re All Crazy
It’s Not a Competition

death of a naturalist

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

saw a heron
with depression
stood there not moving
brooding
didn’t have a clue what it was supposed to be doing
‘if we’re lucky we might see a kingfisher!
it’s absolutely perfect here by the river!’
surprise surprise we didn’t
the river was 100% kingfisher deficient
saw a duck instead
most of its head
stuffed in its wing
and if I was a duck I’d be doing the same thing
saw a cow
wow
staring across a wall
I said hello; it said nothing at all
if I had to be brutally honest
this wasn’t the natural world I was promised
saw a fish called a trout
you’ll say humpback whale no doubt

had a diet coke with ice
that was nice

kintsugi

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

twenty years ago or more
Phil lived over the road
I’d see him smoking by his door
and I’d stop to say hello

he’d had a difficult marriage
did something in mechanics
he’d built a kiln in his garage
taught himself ceramics

I bought a saki cup he’d thrown
glazed in white and purple
the image of two fishbones
swimming in a circle

eventually we moved away
I lost all touch with him
till I saw him out in the street one day
and I called out: Phil! It’s Jim!

he said It’s nice to see you friend
and – sorry if it seems bizarre
but I drank such an awful lot back then
I’ve no clue who you are

eventually I read by his face
he couldn’t stay much longer
I felt like a sad, insistent wraith
he hadn’t the strength to conquer

                     * * *

a few months later, tidying up
thinking ten things or more
I accidentally dropped Phil’s saki cup
and it shattered on the floor

I thought I could glue it together
so I collected every trace
and noticed for the first time ever
the letter P on the base

grazers

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

this is a poem about an elephant
a bit on the thin side but still in development
written on a chromebook
a bougie kinda notebook
(my old one was shit;
you could barely manage a
dumb haiku on it)
the desk is made of walnut
all but
firewood
any buyer would
say no to an appraisal
but at least it’s stable
with a bit more character than an Ikea table
(I bought it on eBay
paid him via Paypal
I said can you drop it round
he said yeah okay pal)
it looks pig ugly but it’s sturdy enough
with a coupla drawers to store my stuff

so then
this elephant
which stands looking at me
suspiciously
but seriously
what do you expect
my writing to reflect
the truth about elephants in a scrappy bit of text
I don’t know
leave me alone
I can write what I want
in arial font
idly grazing on random grammar
just like you on the goddam savannah
but with grass not words
and me on my own
not in herds

homo commuteris

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

across the road in scavenged boots and hat
past slanting signs, rusting cars and that
to a grounded train in an overgrown station
a mouldy notice with old information
if you see something that doesn’t look right
which you do when you light your fire each night
to toast your toes and roast your rat
and fight to keep yourself intact
while nature yawns and slowly rises
tired of the lies and compromises
finally ready to close the doors
and commute you like the dinosaurs