poems

yours forever

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

please, I beg you, remake me in plastic
it’d be fantastic
I could ride the ocean wide
and collide
gently
with the beautiful flotsam and whatever else some
other plastic people like me
felt happy to dump in the sea

please, I wanna go through the process
it’s a simple request
so I can witness the end of this dirty business
and grimace
innocently
in a non-degradable parade
of polymerised citizens
who’ll live on in instagram and virtual vitamins

rebirth me as a child of the polymer tree
that’s the fit for me
so I could be there at the final flare
and stare
vacantly
as the earth dies cheaply like a burger with fries
and I’m the happy meal toy
that gets tossed in the void

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writer’s block

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I cannot get started
my mojo isn’t just low you know it’s totally up and departed
I’m the arrow you let go and watch disappear way off target
it’s like Margate, end of season
unfeasibly cold
where you go for a paddle with your trousers rolled
and curse the luck that led you there sevenfold

I cannot get started
the mean bean dealer I meet on the way to market
swaps my cow for a grow-your-own magic beanstalk kit
bullshit! the beans are duds!
the whole beanstalk thing’s completely fake
not only is there no land with lots of golden crap for me to take
but I’m down a cow and the best part of my lunch break

I cannot get started
my ship’s adrift off lands so lost they’re uncharted
I’m bent, spent, bad tempered & broken-hearted
cathartic, you’d think
till you see what’s up ahead of you waving from the pass
a giant so buffed and bronzed when he slaps his arse
a fart of mythical proportions rips your ship apart

I cannot get started
I’m finally and fatally outsmarted
I’m vague as a plague victim unconsciously carted
morbid, I know, but there you go
a journey of a thousand miles begins with one step
which is great advice, Laozi, undoubtedly, yep
but from here it still looks like one hell of a schlep

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punk dog

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I’m sorry, STORM, but the name doesn’t suit’cha
it doesn’t seem right for a scruffy lurcher
I mean – if there’d been bigger dogs in the pound
like a Munsterlander or a Newfoundland
a Pyrenean sheepdog or an Aghan hound
well – maybe
the name would fit the breed
and STORM would do you very well indeed
but a lurcher? who, for all his graces,
just has one of those mad faces
crazy wise and clever
more wild blue day and less bad weather
but anyway
what I meant to say
who you really remind me of today
– Johnny Rotten circa 1978
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st patrick

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I met this woman
a wiccan witch
she saw a beautiful angel
standing behind me
stretching his wings

It’s true
I’m telling you

The witch had a stone
heavy and black
she gave it to me
to soak up my negativity
I carried it around all day
but it got too hot in my pocket
and I had to get rid of it
what could I do?
I mean fuck it
I couldn’t just chuck it
I chose my moment
buried it under a tree
on the edge of a cemetery
it felt right to me
putting it in the ground
to cleanse it
I’ll never forget it

These are the end times
the bad, sad times
I mean – read the signs
it’s all been foretold
the war between young and old
good and evil
Saint Michael the Archangel
The Seventh Trumpet
The False Prophet
The Red Dragon
The Whore of Babylon
I could go on

Satan’s to blame
everything was good
with God
till Satan
grew sick of waiting
said he would not bow
could not
not anyhow
but that’s just pride I guess
what’s a few angels more or less
God cast them out into the wilderness

There’s so much in this world we don’t understand
I mean, why d’you think there are no snakes in Ireland?

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the IFS FFS

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

There’s a funky little place I know / where all the thrusting economists go / to dine like fine dinosaurs / on the Wall Street whys & wheretofores / simplifying the industrial complexes / the Wall Street Journals and Han Seng indexes / the open and shuts / the quantitative easings & budgetary cuts / the investment wrecks & spending checks / dealing with more zeros than all the heroes at the cineplex / speaking truth to power / for a coupla hundred dollars an hour

where?

the institute for fiscal studies
where forecasts blow and dollar streams muddy
and thinkers range
theoretically strange
scattering opinion like so much change

it’s a who-knows-what-the-hell-it’s-for / top drawer / less is definitely more / happening kind of club / a cross between a wishing well and a magic money shrub / a dreamy Disney depot / where punchy academics can go / to work their monetary mojo / it’s a dealer’s dream, a holy preserve / it’s a lot more fun than the Federal Reserve / it’s a safe deposit space / where no idea is too unclear or goes to waste / where even the receptionist / is a theoretical economist / waving you gently through the mist / and the canteen / is expensively inviting / and the meet & greet / is The Old Lady of Threadneedle Street / bending over to touch her feet / athletically / smiling coquettishly / pointing to her arse / because she’s very well oiled & her assets are vast

welcome

to the institute for fiscal studies
where CEOs & hedge fund buddies
can sit to lunch
on credit crunch
and watch Midas give a TedX on his golden touch

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like a stake through the heart

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

My dearest Dracula,

I admit – for a while it was quite spectacular
but did you REALLY have to go sneaking around like that
flipping through the window like a brilliantined bat
howling like a wolf
on the roof
or a dog
in the fog
and – the real bust –
elemental dust
ELEMENTAL DUST!
I’m completely nonplussed!
So yes – okay – you’re a transmutational sensation
and yes – yawn – you’re a master of protean creation
a victory of hope over cremation
but – my honest opinion?
save the capey capers for your bloodless minions
THEY might be impressed with all that flapping about
ME? I’ve fallen out of love with your pointy pout
I want a
monster
with a little more bite
not some creep who keeps out of the light
and only come out of his coffin at night
sure – you’re handsome and muscular
but just a tiny bit dead and way too crepuscular

hope you’re well

yours in Christ

Jonathan

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birthday poem

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

mum went into labour
on the 28th december
dad’s birthday
but I wasn’t born until
three minutes past midnight
on the 29th

he wanted the day to himself
the midwife said

three minutes past midnight?
that’s suspiciously precise

what? was the midwife
cheering on the crowning head
from the side of the bed?

and what counts as born?
when you back-heel
the mothership?
when the cord
gets snipped?

whatever

fact is
the certificate says
the 29th
not the 28th

and anyway

what’s a few hours
in this great daisy chain
of life on earth?
dad was begat
then beget
some things you hold on to
some you forget

and now dad’s dead
head or feet first
into the abyss
I must confess
I’m not entirely sure
all that is clear
is that I’m still here
looking around
wondering where the rhyme is
checking what the time is

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the low to no pressure blues

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

we’ve been jawing & toying
but there’s no more avoiding
these low to no pressure blues
the roses – who sent ‘um?
they’re devoid of momentum
their colours look sad in this outer space spectrum
the low to no pressure blues

Einstein was right
about doughnuts and light
and the low to no pressure blues
his virtual particles
are the genuine article
they phase in and out with trajectories farcical
in the low to no pressure blues

your stars were too hot
and they imploded a lot
with the low to no pressure blues
there’s no more surprisin’
your event horizons
their appetite for light was quite mesmerisin’
in these no to low pressure blues

but I’m done with the weather
out here in your aether
the low to no pressure blues
you needed your space
and I’m so out of place
the tears have been boiling clean off my face
in these low to no pressure blues

I’m through with the suction
molecular reduction
these low to no pressure blues
I’m losing my spark
in your virtual heart
and I’m worried we’re rushing things out in the dark
and the low to no pressure blues

so let’s stay as friends
with our love through a lens
and the low to no pressure blues
it’s not you it’s me
I need air to breathe
and I’m panicked with the mechanics of entropy
in these low to no pressure blues

I’m sorry but it’s true
what else can I do?
with the low to no pressure blues
yeah?
the low to no pressure blues

(…. fade out according to the rules of General Relativity….)
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bad king wenceslas

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

Bad King Wenceslas looked out
on the scene of sirens
blue lights flashing round about
the neighbourhood environs

Fiercely shone the chopper lights
bullhorn shouts were cruel
negotiator came in sight
struggling to stay cool

Hither page and stand by me
if thou know it telling
yonder agent who is he?
where and what his dwelling?

Sire he lives a good league hence
underneath a mountain
works for government defence
narco crime accountin’

Bring my vest and bring my piece
bring my bullets hither
thou and I will this guy grease
send his brothers hither

Page and monarch forth they went
forth they went together
till their weapons all were spent
and down they went together

Sire the night is darker now
and the wind blows stronger
fails my heart I know not how
I can go no longer

Hark my footsteps my good page
tread thou in them boldly
thou must find the righteous rage
to freeze thy blood less coldly

In his master’s steps he trod
past the cars so dented
the heat was in the very sod
and Wenceslas demented

Thus shall gangsta men be stopped
wealth or junk possessing
ye who now do waste the cops
shall all soon be resting

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the shard

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I found the fragment
of an old plate
a shard of blue and white
washed out by the rain

I thought about
the meals it represented
a clicking of cutlery
like the ticking of a clock

now it lies like a mosaic clue
a spray of blue leaves
a pair of boots
a swollen river

we are made of elements
random accumulations
that form and break
according to the weather

we pattern out our time
it rains, or it doesn’t
someone carries a plate
nothing lasts forever

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