poems

seed potatoes

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

Dad came to me again last night
drifting through the door
without touching the floor
to hover at the foot of the bed
‘Alright, Jimmy boy?’ he said
I said ‘Yeah, Dad. Yeah. Alright?’

I sat up and rubbed my eyes
he was hovering there in his old string vest
and his big baggy trousers were a big muddy mess
like he’d just come in from hoeing the rows
to lay in trays of seed potatoes
his yearly gardening exercise

he rootled in his pockets
fetched out a tube of wine gums
asked me if I wanted one
tossed me a couple but soon discovered
they vanished when they were halfway over
– his wormy eyes rolled in their sockets

HE could chew, though
which he did, noiselessly
‘So…. got any questions for me?’
he said, sighing, looking round the room
‘Only be quick, ‘cos the cock crows soon
and that’s my signal I really gotta go’

the odd thing is I’d been thinking about that
how if my Dad was still alive
would I really be brave
and ask him about when he was a kid
the kinds of things he and HIS dad did
or how it all started in the Pimlico flat

or why they had such an enormous family
when they were essentially broke
whether he was a faithful bloke
or whether he really did have a fling
with that woman from work, and that kinda thing
but I just kept quiet, unfortunately

I wanted to ask what happened to him
why he got so stuck, why things went bad
considering the breaks he’d had
why in the end he couldn’t be free
and carried on living so painfully
having more kids, calling them Jim

but I couldn’t; this wasn’t the time
ghost or otherwise it was none of my business
other than to bear some kinda witness
to a careworn father who inspired his son
to lay down yet another ghostly poem
words like potatoes, sprouting in a line

Welcome to the gravel pit

~ jim clayton ~ 1 Comment

I spoke to my brother on the phone for a bit
he’d just been down the gravel pit
to check out some fancy diving apparatus
its general operational status
and whether the neck was watertight
(thankfully that turned out alright)
he said four hundred feet down on the gravel bed
they’d sunk various things to keep you interested
like an old, redundant airforce jet
with a crayfish pilot waving from the cockpit

he asked me how the writing was going
and whether there was any money in poems
and why don’t I write about dogs instead
with an influencer’s blog on the internet
and how many books in total I’ve sold
and suddenly I felt as pressured and cold
as if it was me down there on the gravel bed
with bubbles & fish swirling round my head
and emerging through the gritty gloom
a sunken, redundant writer’s room
with a lamp, a chromebook, a desk with a drawer,
a crayfish writer with a pen in its claw

B road movie

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it’s early morning
and I’m driving to work
north along the A272
if you must know
following an old van
with a laughing monkey decal on its back

I think about it for a while
at least until we get to the roundabout

how maybe this van appears now and again
driving around with a monkey on its back
and if you fall in behind it
you crash
and the last thing you see
through the flames
is the laughing monkey

the police inspect the road
apply the local highway code
look at the brakes
think about possible driving mistakes
take witness statements
call in expert traffic agents

in short
they scratch their heads and stamp the report
DRIVER ERROR
unaware of the truly terrifying terror
of the old van haunting B roads forever
with a monkey sticking its tongue out in a mirror
where YOU’RE the mirror
and you scream and shiver
and haul on the wheel
and the tyres squeal
and you end up fatally ploughed in a field
with your head cracked open and your brains running out
for the raucous crows all flapping about

just an idea
sorry – I have to turn off here

the many faces of stanley

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

Stanley suffers from reincarnation
I don’t mean he used to be a chihuahua or dalmatian
or an alsatian
or a mongrel of questionable determination

it’s just – he’s got this range of faces
he uses at all times and places
the scientific basis
for one of the world’s most famous cases

his smiles are holier than Joan of Arc’s
he’s quicker with a lick than Groucho Marx
and his barks
are as sharp as Robert Shaw’s in that film about sharks

he’ll sashay as flashy as Ru Paul
howl like Callas at Carnegie Hall
and then sprawl
hairier and feistier than Asterix the Gaul

his grumbles are grumpier than Immanuel Kant’s
he’ll put the fear on you with a De Niro glance
then he pants
stares as wistfully out the window as Bruno Gantz

but most of the time he’s just Emily Dickinson
an airy, fairly inscrutable kinda citizen
but anyway, listen
we’re learning to cope with his condition

ricky in space

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me and Ricky stepped out for a smoke
it was well misty, with a lot of spooky frog-croak
then suddenly the frogs stopped
and the fags from our fingers dropped
as a spaceship descended
and all the trash cans upended

an alien slithered out
looking like a cross between a trout
and an octopus
it was quite a shock to us

‘which one of you shithead’s Ricky?’
it spluttered, its icky mouthparts sticky
I gave it a tissue
‘thanks’ it said ‘an allergy issue’

I pointed to Ricky
who was looking a bit panicky
‘come on then’ it said, ‘I’m way behind schedule’
rolling its eye and waving a tentacle

so I said goodbye to Ricky
which was morally quite tricky
but if an alien asks for your friend by name
you can’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same

they were gone as quickly as turning off a torch
and I was left smoking alone on the porch

anyway

I got a text from Ricky yesterday
from somewhere in the region of Alpha Centauri
‘having a great time seeing the sights
I was angry at first but it turned out alright
we’re heading back now and I’ll tell you plenty
I won’t have aged but you’ll be a hundred and twenty’

stanley learns a trick

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I’ve been trying to teach Stanley to give paw
why? I’m not too sure
I suppose in the dog world you can say you’ve arrived
if your dog can stop and give a high five
(although obviously not to each other
if I saw that I’d never recover
next thing you know they’d be riding bikes
reading the paper, smoking pipes
sending emails, voting in May
so – pretty much like Planet of the Apes
except the Apes are Dogs and the people are sick
they ever started teaching them fancy tricks)

who knows
anyway – this is the way the training goes:

I rattle the treat box, take up my position
Stanley ambles into the kitchen
stands there staring at me super warily
as I take out a treat very carefully
hide it in my hand
hold it out and give the command
PAW!
he stares at me exactly the same as before
PAW!
he’s no idea what I’m doing this for
PAW!
no – still not sure
PAW!
staring at me like that fibreglass dog outside the pet store
PAW!
but this time I tap him on the front leg
he lifts his back one instead
I say THANK YOU! and give him the treat

which – yes – I know – is the wrong thing to reinforce
with the inevitable outcome now of course
that I’m training Stanley to be more perverse
so when I say PAW he goes into REVERSE

stanley vs. the horses

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it’s undeniable
Stanley isn’t reliable
when you let him off the lead
it’s pretty much guaranteed
he’ll run away at speed
and be reluctant to come back
even though you holler and hold out snacks
I’m sorry it’s just a fact

mostly it’s okay
there’s a field we go to each day
with plenty of hedges
around the edges
so you can let him off for stretches
and be reasonably confident
when he dashes off on a rabbit hunt
he won’t end up on another continent

he’s well behaved on the lead, though
nose as high as a dog at a dog show
so everyone gets the message
this hound is as clever & impressage
as a horse doing dressage
(ironically enough his nemesis is horses
if we see one we always cut our losses
and calculate some other courses)

Stanley & Lenny

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yes that’s right another goddamn dog poem
howlellujah, sings Leonard Cohen
watching with sad, sad eyes as Stanley licks his scrotum
not Lenny’s – I mean his
what kind of a poem do you think this is?

what I’m trying to say is
another day is
just beginning
and I’m struggling
to think of something
that rhymes with beginning
sinning?
forgiving?
anything?

but all I’ve got
is a dog with a name that’s not
all that easy to lever
into a poem that hauntingly hangs together
and seems to be talking about something other
than a scruffy dog on a sunny sofa

well – sofa so good
I’d write something better if I could
I wish Lenny were here with his Spanish guitar
to drop Stanley in a stanza about the way things really are
but unfortunately he’s not
so we’ll have to make do with whatever we’ve got
which is Stanley, obscenely snuffling a lot
and some pissant poet losing the plot

status update VII

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I’m a mint-in-the-box failure / a rusty chain choking a derailleur / a futures trader with no future / a surgeon with no suture / a hacker with no computer / a soup maker who totally forgot why they came in the kitchen / I’m the claims department of Braggin & Bitchin / a rabbit side-eyeing a magician / a well with a sign that says strictly no wishin’ / I’m a city-sized monster / giving the army the middle finger / even though I’ve only got flippers / I’m smoke with no kippers / a crab with no nippers / a dad with no slippers / tweezers with no splinters / a sprinter who ambled / Sleeping Beauty comprehensively brambled / a gambler who gambled / and lost / and tossed / his cards / and got thrown in the yard / by a sensitive but serious-minded security guard / who long ago learned a stern disregard / for any bullshit badinage

I’m fine / no really

I’m a corporate come and go man / a yo bro whaddya know man / I’m the snowman / slowly disappearing on a witness protection programme / for busting Santa’s slush fund in Greenland / I’m a fisherman in a phishing scam / a sorry my dear I don’t give a damn / a sad Uncle Sam / pouting & posing on the cam / with a nuclear pacifier and a pram / star-spangled sandals / entangled / in blankets, bitcoins, bald-headed eagle themed bangles / everything shot at provocative angles / while Biden smiles and rocks the handles

I’m the latest and greatest of a long line of lemons / a loving look from Jesse Plemons / I’m salmon sans croute / mammon sans loot / Maytals sans Toots / I’m all like go bid the soldiers shoot / I want your crown, your kingdom and your boots / whose idea was it to see this play anyway? / it lasts about ALL DAY / Shakespeare was some windy ass psycho / about a million characters come and go / say a lot but I don’t know / some hippy chick chucks herself in the river / a guy wants revenge but can’t deliver / it’s not exactly Taken, is it? / and don’t get me started on the price of a ticket