poems

scooby don’t

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

It’s fifty years since Daphne snapped
finally unwrapped
the scarf from her head
kicked Shaggy in the nuts and strangled Fred
hotwired the mystery machine
with a bent bobby pin
and disappeared in a cloud of smoke
East as far as Roanoke

Velma
finally caught up with her
in nineteen ninety four
surprised her on the floor
of a haunted old department store
and after the initial shock
they took a walk round the block
went for a coffee
to see
how things stood
and all in all it was surprisingly good
without the cartoon dog, the stoner
the preppy boner
Daphne said she’d phone her
and a coupla days later – she did!
and now they live together completely off grid
in a pension in Chinchón, south of Madrid

wakey wakey

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I normally wake before the phone beeps
but this morning I was still deeply asleep
dreaming about cats with big paws and bad teeth
an old cheetah, a stupefied lion
staring at me through the tatty old blinds
of the kitchen door, chewing sticks
as their ropey tails flick
and they smile and say ‘yes YES’
like they need to express
just how much they’re enjoying the wood
and would eat a lot more of it if they could

quite what it meant I couldn’t decide
although I remember someone once described
how the key to unlocking dreams is to recognise
you are everything
the cats, the sticks, the eating
So – did the cheetah mean I was cheating?
Did the lion mean I was lying?
And the sticks? Was I stuck in something?
Or maybe it was simpler than that.
Maybe I’m a mangy old cat
doomed to stand at the back door of life
pretending I’m okay but always outside

whatever

I groaned
snoozed the phone
Who cares about the dream, the symbols in it?
What I really need is ten more minutes.

I’m sure I’d have the same reaction
come the resurrection
phone trumpets blaring
everyone yawning and swearing
in the municipal cemetery
standing blearily
up through the pendant grasses
smacking the dirt from their bony arses
smiling, ironically saluting
in the general direction of the ethereal tooting

all except me
obviously
I’ll be rolling over grumpily
Who cares about the Messiah over there?
What I really need is a thousand more years.

so many dinosaurs to choose from

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Stanley’s favourite dinosaur is Parasaurolophus
but there’s no way we’re letting THAT up on the sofas
I looked ‘em up – they’re 16 feet tall
we’d struggle to get it in through the hall
I think he should look at the Microraptor
it’s easier to keep by quite a factor
the size of a bird, its food bill’s a snap
and it can come and go through the kitchen cat flap

vive Stanley

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Stanley has always been there
somewhere
right through history
but it’s not a mystery
you see he’s got
this time machine he uses a lot
(and that’s why his paws are smoking hot)

for example

that’s him
howling with the crowd as the gates go in
at the fall of La Bastille
further research will reveal
a lurcher suspiciously like Stanley
behaving particularly badly
four years on
sans-culottes in La Place de la Révolution
adding his bark to the bloody confusion
as they lead out a trembling Louis Seize
to suffer the verdict of la population Francaise

aftershow

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

The travelling circus is leaving town
a circle of yellow grass flattened down
no flips and tricks
but slow litter picks
and a clap of pigeons where the high wire ran

Its giant tent is loaded and gone
a blurry sun where the spotlight shone
no flying and tumbling
but a squirrel jumping
from tree to bench and back again

The flags and banners are folded and packed
the trailers hitched, the bleachers stacked
no knockabout clowns
but a dog chasing round
the reversing lights of a council van

dog tempest

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

Be not afeard; the lurcher is full of noises,
a hundred twangling voices
that sound as if they should mean something
but do not
or if they did the dog hath long forgot
as he wakes with a sneeze and a start
and a mournful howl that would break’st thy heart
and rolls about the rug a lot
and his floppy ears begin to swot
with shaggy, importunate paws
and oft time roars
when those grievous and galumphing claws
wrought more damage than he witteth
whereupon he forthwith doth quitteth
to lie in attitudes of bleak despair
in a forlorn heap at the top of the stairs
and moans, and sighs
and everyone’s patience tries
and makes them curse that moment when
they adopted a lurcher from the rescue pen
as he dreams o’ the walk he had last weekend
and wakes, and cries to dream again

my guardian angel

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

my guardian angel
is late descending
boujee, buff and condescending
ball breaking, mind bending
threatening unfriending
an apocalyptic ending
website down, patent pending

my guardian angel
does abstract flapping
claws down her drawers feather fapping
spiritually geocaching
party crashing
me at the window teeth gnashing
speed scrolling, hashtag angelsacking

my guardian angel
is a fluttery klutz
allergic to liturgy, clergy and nuts
preens and struts
hair out in tufts
continually interrupts
with glossy brochures of the life deluxe

my guardian angel
is a no-good gander
half soul poultry half panhandler
and I just can’t handle her
sorry but NO’s my final answer
so bye bye my feathery chancer
I’ll find some other spiritual advancer

dear future

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

when I was nine or ten
I buried an old birds custard tin
with a collection of interesting items in

two fifty pence pieces
a couple of sweets
a letter both sides of two sheets

I talked about the things I liked
the places I went to on my bike
what I watched on telly at night

addressed to future persons unknown
I buried it under a garden stone
could hardly bear to leave it alone

I imagined an electric, silver foil future
scientists on hover scooters
scanning the tin with big computers

what an incredibly generous gesture
by this mysterious ancestor
bequeathing us his worldly treasure

a few days later I dug up the stash
kept the coins, tossed the rest in the trash
fuck the future I needed the cash

standing in the loops

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Dad had a terrible lawn mower
that screeched & rumbled & roared
it had two enormous steel rollers
and blades that dragged it forward

it had a long black cable like a tail
that played out across the grass
and I used to see how long I dared stay
in its loops as the monster went past

who knows where that old mower is now
Dad these many years dead
while I stand in the loops as it thunders down
and the swifts scream high overhead