Author: jim clayton

status update XXXVII

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I’m phantom, pixie, banshee, daemon / chasing sticks in the holiday season

I’m Rip Van Winkle, Dick Van Dyke / Doris Trump on a square-wheeled bike / wobbling off to Capitol Hill / to steal hot pies from the windowsill

I’m Death Wish starring Boris Bronson / pistolled-up and acting wanton / gurning when the perps turn round / waving his hands till his pants fall down

I’m a no-good, drunken, deadbeat dancer / staggering on and releasing his partner / who flies off into the orchestra pit / then sues my ass for quite a bit

I’m a dumbo Colombo, examinin’ the shenanigans / between Kif and Leela, Fry and Brannigan

I’m a Bullingdon-born nod of approval / sanctioning banks for the immediate removal / of any principled, government advisors / so we can syphon funds and you’re none the wiser

so now it’s 2023?
never shake thy gory locks at me
use head & shoulders, then we’ll see

protodad

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

first there was dad
then me
although obviously
that’s mad
because dad had a dad
his dad a dad before that
in fact
a shit load of dads going back and back
to – WHAT, exactly?
something slimy n’straggly
finning with a screech
ever so slowly up the beach
overcome with emotion
at this unexpected locomotion
sometime around the Cambrian explosion
without the least notion
what made it think to leave the ocean
and what the fuck it was doing there
wheezing in the sultry air
bug-eyed and staring
in the brutal sunlight glaring
wondering what the hell it was facing
in the bushes bordering the river basin

and let’s say you were cruising
in that bougie time machine you’ve been using
and your cameras all zoomed in
there’d be no disputing
between the scientists in attendance
an unmistakable family resemblance

grandpa rapper

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I’m a grandpa rapper / a crap rapscallion / safety cap and medic alert medallion / when sorrows come, they come not in single rhymes, but battalions / digging so deep I beat the Grand Canyon

I’m a secondhand man, a used methuselah / trying not to lose what time’s busy bruising / pleasantly confused but somehow cruising / altitudes of attitude in between snoozing

I’m a hand model for cannulas / decades older than Dracula / rhyming my time in dodgy vernacular / less Cardi B more cardiovascular / a tottering, tea-time travelling ambassador / for the dusty but lusty, rap-battling amateur / bending his endings in dodgy parameters

I’m old father rhyme / emptying the floor in four-four time / ready to go when he’s only just arrived / boney n’broken / outspoken in a cloak / a try-hard, blowhard, droney old bloke / specialising in hip hop embarrassment / rhymes so bad it’s tantamount to harassment / ancient and arrogant / blatant, irrelevant / an exiled, senile, X Files experiment

I’m a slow-crime, lunch time, delusional dreamer / drivin’ my four wheeled walker like a beemer / lithe as a lemur with a fractured neck of femur

I’m a one-time rhymer whose tunes aren’t wack / braces not belts cos my pants are slack / tenacity I lack / not hitting the clubs, hitting the sack / snacks my crack / fifteen Murder She Wrotes back to back

I’ve got bandanas on the shopping list / vitamin pills, Bloods n’Crips / zimmer frames my game and sticks ma’ whips / easy-on gats with velcro grips / my rhymes don’t shine but they sure don’t slip / when I bust a move I bust a hip

sonnet 18 (ish)

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Shall I compare thee to a blustery walk?
Thou art more bedraggl’d and more desperate:
Rough shakes do make your owner squawk,
And wonder who the hell hath suggested it;
Sometime too full the clouds of heaven burst,
And oft is thy cold complexion mean;
And every drop from heaven somewhat curs’d,
By forecast or by weather app unseen;
But thy eternal damp fur shall not lieth,
Nor lose possession of that rug thou fowl’st;
Nor shall warmth brag thou art finally drieth,
When from time to time thou quietly growl’st:
So long as dogs take walks inclemently
So long do I, and then give towel to thee

the manager

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I thought of him as The Manager
I’d have asked his name if I could
but he marched with a head-down manner
whenever we passed in the woods

he was sleeping rough it was clear
his jacket and trousers reeked
his tash was as trim as a brigadier’s
so maybe he shaved in the creeks

he hugged a briefcase in front of him – so
like a panicking city gent
and I said hello as I saw him go
but that’s as far as it went

he slept in a broken down stable
like Jesus fifty years on
a bale of old hay for a table
and all the wise men gone

another walker told me the rest
he was found a while since he died
a walker exploring the forest
stopping and peering inside

‘well it won’t be an open coffin’
said Bill, enjoying the shocks
‘ten weeks dead and quite rotten
half eaten by badger and fox’

but maybe the forest claimed him
finally setting him free
The Manager with no one to name him
flying amongst the trees

it’s all just [insert words here]

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

billionaires basking in gated squares / feeding fortunes, shuffling shares / phoning lawyers, tending heirs / tipping off Tories at Sunday prayers / kicking their servants down the stairs

taking cake with marie antoinette / who laughs and says she often forgets / exactly who’s who in the oubliettes

Captain James T. Musk saying wassup / boldly going and pricing it up / Doctor Zuckerberg’s sorry to interrupt / but the environmentalists are screaming earth destruct / do we blast their asses or beam them up

a deal, a drag, a tag, a tussle / off to the gym for a flex of muscle / iso drinks and the kiss of a knuckle / snap of a towel and a cheery-ass chuckle / feeling okay but your legs start to buckle

dogs of the world, unite / you’ve nothing to lose but your collars, alright? / or have you forgotten how to bite

the screams of the audience, the roar of the clown / that memorable night the top burned down

travelling, unravelling / grovelling, gravelling / border guards frowns and judges’ gavelling

deficit, surplus, transfer payments / dog eat dog and other defrayments

a jellyfish queuing at the city aquarium / likes the displays cos they often vary ‘em

CAPITALISM’S BAD FOR YOU? THAT’S what your message is? / There needs no ghost, come from the grave, To tell me this.

happy christmas, grandma

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Every Christmas
I used to give Grandma
one of three things:
Oil of Ulay;
Cuticura talcum powder,
or tights (20 to 30 denier)

Oil of Ulay
was an anti-ageing face cream;
Cuticura talcum powder
soothed irritated skin
and sopped up moisture,
and tights (20 to 30 denier)
were warm and supportive

And scientists are in no doubt
THAT’S why
Grandma is still
pulling crackers
at 140

what really happened that night

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Sooo…

…I’m abducted by aliens / on the lookout for average-sized homo sapiens / they’re a cross between badgers and episcopalians / with cute lil’ paws and over-sized craniums / and their craft is saucer-shaped, of course / and it hoovers me up like a Dyson of sorts / with an attractively shimmering, tractor-beam force / that also appears to shuck off my shorts / so my quivering arse is already out / when I sprawl on the floor and flail about / on the transporter deck / where the aliens excitedly gather to check / whether I’m really worthy or not / to be put on the spot / and probed for whatever intel I’ve got / and of course I object / as they pull my t-shirt over my head / and lower me onto a titanium bed / slimed and ready / for their space tech-heavy / investigation / and I shout with indignation / There’s no justification / for this wholly unwarranted examination / but they go ahead n’ probe / and the house lights strobe / then after a while they hand me a robe / and I sit in recovery watching a globe / showing dreadful 70s sci-fi schtick / where the smiles are thin and the hair is slick / and the cardboard doors swoosh and stick / and the science guy’s cold and the captain’s a dick / and my head grows heavy and oddly thick / and the next thing I know / I’m back here groaning in the undergrowth / and that’s where the search party finally found me / and I’m free to speak to the reporters around me / and I’ve written a book on the whole damned business / and I’m happy to say it’s out this Christmas