Author: jim clayton

an old rebellion folk song

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

sing a-hey ho the wind and the rain
the tories are history and spring comes again
we’ll win back our freedom, we’ll take back control
just call the election, let’s go to the polls

the country was ruined, the country was wracked
our rivers polluted, our railways off track
our schools and our hospitals riven with strife
britannia sold cheaply and put to the knife
your monument in granite
was profits not planet
the narrowest of self-serving worlds you inhabit
where there was discord
you brought alarm
the knacker’s van parked up on ol’ maggie’s farm
the daily mail bleating
the telegraph tweeting
the backroom oligarchs meeting n’greeting
but despite all the slogans
the deals and the bungs
you still couldn’t stop the change that would come

sing a-hey ho the wind and the rain
the tories are history and spring comes again
we’ll win back our freedom, we’ll take back control
just call the election, let’s go to the polls …

(exit, jangling bells, clacking staves, spinning round in circles &c…)

bless the bed

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suddenly – a violent storm
lightning, squally rain
here I am, snug and warm
up late with a book again

propped up on pillows
buried in a duvet
lost in the temples
of Göbekli Tepe

foxes, snakes, vultures, wolves
on jointed megaliths
patiently carved with primitive tools
for ritual emphasis

here I lie, the light still on
the new year just ahead
worried about what’s yet to come
while ancient beasts play round my bed

fifty years ago this breakfast

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the most expensive present
I ever got as a kid
was a bike
I know – right?
I had no idea that night
what was waiting for me
when I woke up super early
tore through my presents
with a growing sense
something was missing
I mean the stuff
my brothers and sisters gave me
was okay
in a pocket money, birthday-right-after-Christmas, this’ll-have-to-do kinda way
but how many times can you say
wow … thanks… GREAT!
till the fake excitement starts to grate
I felt pretty bad
I couldn’t find a present from mum & dad

down at breakfast
mum was straight faced
said it’s time you fed the neighbour’s cat
and though honestly I was getting round to that
I thought it was a LITTLE bit tough
what with it being MY BIRTHDAY AND STUFF
but I said okay yep sure
snatched the key from its hook on the board
threw on a jacket, scarf and hat
trudged next door to feed the damned cat

and – yikes!
there in the kitchen was a brand new bike!
a label
on the handle
saying Happy Birthday Jim!
(the cat going mad so of course I fed him)

now – here’s the thing

my first response was screaming delight
I mean – c’mon, people – a bike!
but at the risk of sounding a bit obnoxious
I suddenly felt incredibly self-conscious

it was the set up
the way they dreamt up
the whole plan
mum? dad?
neither had
ever gone in for playful devices
the emotional messiness a surprise comprises
which is why this
knocked me sideways
these were untried ways
we were a big family raised
like a sensible flock
whose common stock
was cool detachment
orbiting each other like particle fragments
following the coded family ways
appropriate actions, the right things to say
and THAT’S why I suddenly felt self-conscious
and THAT’S why going home made me anxious

but of course I had to!
I couldn’t just step out on my birthday to feed the neighbour’s cat
and the next thing they’re telling detectives the colour of my hat

so eventually I walked back over to the house
made my entrance with embarrassing shouts
You rotten lot! but it sounded fake
my smile the smile a clown would make
gurning, pratfalling in for the sake
of a quietly breakfasting family circus
awkward as a bike on a kitchen surface

anyway – the whole damned enterprise was totally doomed, toast
two weeks later I rode straight into a lamppost

FC makes the drops

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I hear fadda christmas
is gettin’ down to business
with some fancy leg work
and a distribution network
the family can only dream of
leaning on the cream of
elf productivity
and the magical ability
to be nowhere and everywhere all at once
multiple drops on multiple fronts
and even though he’s far from skinny
reliably making it down the chimney
so anyways – santa, my friend – here’s to ya
and if you make it back alive – happy noo ya

le Cabaret du Néant

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I fully meant to write a poem
about the horrible direction the world was going
and honestly people I did my best
but ended up reading about the Cabaret of Nothingness
a niche little venue in old Montmartre
for jaded Parisians with a taste for the macabre
(just next door to the Cabaret of the Sky
with the Cabaret of the Inferno pretty close by)
the maitre D spoke in sombre tones
under chandeliers fashioned from human bones,
a skeleton sat in the corner with a pipe
while monks drifted round asking what you’d like
cocktails and juices, freshly squeezed
everything named after a poison or disease
and I looked at the photo from 1920
at the bowler-hatted and pearl-roped gentry
sitting quite grimly and wondering why
they didn’t buy tickets for the Cabaret of the Sky
and it suddenly struck me everyone in that pic
would all be dead now and it gave me the ick
like – one minute you’re cool but the next thing you know
you’re a fading image in a pepper ghost show
and the moral, please? I hear you ask
if death’s on the billboard – just walk past

interview with a billionaire

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my very first billion I’ll never forget
flying home in my private jet
staring down at the country below
thinking about the poor, you know
how I’d buy them up in a finger snap
and wipe them off the face of the map
saving just a thousand vassals
to cook and clean in my country castles
I’m planning a great big statue to me
hands on hips, looking out to sea
all in gold, rubies for eyes
a crown of quite prodigious size
everything in the best armour clad
with room on the head for a landing pad
a comical feature to make it complete
squashed underneath my gigantic feet
a million bodies cast in bronze
to illustrate where my profits are from
sigh
the only thing about all this money
it just makes everything else look crummy
now – take my picture and get the hell out
you’ll be wanting wads of cash no doubt
but if I find it’s a nasty piece
expect a visit from my private police

curse of the red shirt

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I wanted to be Frodo
I showed them my walk
they said good god oh no
and made me an orc

I wanted to be Luke
my sword work was super
but my smile made them puke
so they made me a trooper

I wanted to be Jones
I said I was smart – see?
when I answered the phone
I’d been cast as a nazi

I wanted to be Jack
gave the reading plenty
when they called me back
I was pirate #20

ikeavengers assemble

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Sliderman
does whatever a sliderman can
while still wearing socks
but moved on from crocs
bought them off Etsy
seriously expects he
looks hygge and sexy
squeaking off to answer the door
lime green rubber on laminate floor

Supermarketman
pushes a trolley and parks it man
antisocially across the row
so HE can easily shop n’go
while other shoppers mutter n’curse
and wave their fists and go in reverse
struggling to get to the chiller desserts
thinking they might
just toss the tosser some kryptonite

Thaw
wrenches open the freezer door
flails about in a furious manner
bashes away with a big claw hammer
clunking out hunks
of ice in chunks
pies n’burgers expired a month
soaked to his crocs
roaring it’s worse than Ragnarok