life’s like a high dive from a board
the crowd applauds
you do two pikes and a half tuck
hit the water slick as a duck
the judges deliberate
you score an eight
(all done scientifically:
aggregate score over degree of difficulty)
poems
troll for pm
‘Who’s that trip-trip-trapping over my bridge?’
snarls a troll
with a twitch
and a shout
leaping up and out
onto the decking
fully expecting
to be collecting
his toll
‘It is I, PR Goat Gruff’
says a goat, looking glam
in the medallion of a ram
an astrakhan coat
and other things of equal note
his hooves covered in glittery tat
his horns pushed up through his bowler hat
‘I’ll gobble you up!’ snarls the troll
suddenly not looking certain at all
scratching his head, his arse,
‘I’m not supposed to let anyone past!’
‘Love it! Adorable!’ says PR goat.
‘You totally get my vote.
You’ve got a job and you do it.’
The troll shrugs
gives his wig a tug
‘I get through it
Some days better than others.
But I’ve got this fetish about udders.’
‘Let’s stroll’
says the goat
leading the troll
over the moat
to the other side
where the goat confides
about politics & exit polls
banknotes & boltholes
security files & payrolls
loopholes, media controls
and the dead sea scrolls
‘where my Ts and Cs are writ!’
laughs the goat, quite a bit
‘What?’ says the troll, not getting it
Fast forward three goat years
The troll appears
in parliament
leader of the government
‘Friends! Goats! Countrymen!’ he roars
as troll police lock all the doors
and he grabs the parliamentary mace
swinging it about the place
‘Whoever crosses me gets THIS in the face!’
‘That’s my troll!’ smiles PR goat
then exits down the Thames in a boat
please don’t feed the troll
I’m a troll / fol-de-rol
I’ll swallow you & your followers whole / I’ll feast on your tweets / your cosy cliques / your clicks / your likes / your go-pros on your mountain bikes / you crossed the bridge for the last time, mate / I’m the faceless demon waitin’ at the gate / the curious shadow on the camera plate / the psychopath on the cycle path / livin’ it large with the crazy laugh / hiding in the tall grass / on the dark side of the pass / yaaaasssss / I’m the creature beyond all knowing / feeding on the instagoats coming and going
I’m a troll / fol-de-rol
sipping warm milk from a bird-shaped bowl / that I hold / cold and anonymous / in poisonous claws / behind locked doors / busily working away at the keys / scrolling & scrawling obscenities / with inappropriate emojis / all over your stories / your tragedies / your memories / forget it! / don’t you get it? / I was born with a snout / for sniffing you out / I know the perfect combination of verbal abomination that’ll make you shout / it’s like a pig with truffles / I’ve got an instinct for anti-social scuffles / the irony is I’m highly empathetic / I just choose not to act on it / you know – you millennials make me laugh / you had no idea at the start / all the jeers & sneers you’d be hosting / when you published your site and started posting
I’m a troll / fol-de-rol
quietly playing my role / taking my toll / pushing your buttons with my buttons / just your average kind of sadist, really / your Nigel, Norman or Mavis Dearly / typing away with tea and scones / humming along to Norah Jones / my only, lonely aim in life / to seize the moment & twist the knife / as far below the line as I can reach / and then screech / and clap / and happily sit back / with a thumping heart / to wait for the weeping & wailing to start / and then / when it’s reached its peak / I’ll slowly extend a sneaky beak / and neatly / and very discreetly / drink deeply / from where the tears flow thickest & most sweetly
I’m a troll / fol-de-rol
LOL
basically superman
I’m Batter Man / my pancakes are dark and brutally, butterly fantancakes
I’m Ironing Man / lethal with a Tefal
I’m SpiderMan / I pick them up with my goddamn HANDS…
I’m Captain America / I really like America / I mean / just ‘cos Trump’s the de facto queen / and he’s always on Twitter venting his spleen / and his administration’s a malign machine / for monetising the American dream / and the Statue of Liberty’s on Sertraline / and the Bill of Rights / set alight / and tossed in a ravine / still, I love their films, books, paintings and music / so these days I’m feeling a little confusic
I’m Doctor String / because string’s an incredibly useful thing / you can tie up the roses / or really anything / that keeps swinging / open instead of closing / for parcels and packets / and a hundred other postal rackets
I’m the Incredible Bulk / not as slim of late / carrying a little holiday weight
I’m Woolverine / I prefer wool because it feels nice against my skin
I’m Pant Man / I iron my PANTS (see Ironing Man)
I’m basically Superman
IT bytes
:::::: If your computer’s on a download go-slow / the best way to improve its general work flow / is to make the small but positive point / that actually you’re in charge of the joint / by backgrounding a photo of the exact same machine / showering sparks with an axe through its screen
:::::: If your laptop starts losing data / shoving pdfs through a graphical grater / swallowing megabytes like an alligator / simply upload a clip of a Dell / hanging from a tree branch by the power cable / sparks jumping from its intel oblongata / as screaming children whack it like a pinata
::::: If your computer continually freezes / does whatever the hell it pleases / crashes more often than a clown on the flying trapezes / quickly bring it to its mother-boarding senses / by showing it clips of the HAL 9000 and Genisys / freeze-frame the fireball and nuclear flash / then open your wallet to show you’ve the cash / to buy another when this one’s ash
:::::: If your laptop gives you blue screen / flips you the single digit screen / the ‘oh no you don’t’ screen / the ‘thought you would but you won’t’ screen / the ‘I will burn your dreams’ screen / the ‘in cyberspace everyone can hear you scream’ screen / the ‘bucket of blue blood on the head of the prom queen’ screen / the ‘robert de niro hard restart with a pencil through the heart’ screen / the ‘go back to crayon & paper you big blue baby’ screen / the world-wide, file fried, access denied’ screen / the ‘end of the road, system code, sucker-mode’ screen / well then / my advice in that situation / is to rise serenely from your station / and slickly / and quickly / and very directly / without hesitation / rain violent destruction / upon that technological abomination / with a sentimental, surprisingly hefty present / a simple, glass blown, paperweight elephant
and when you’re through / and you’ve done all the damage you can do / and the hardware’s charred ware / and the software’s nowhere / and the laptop’s a flat-top / and the key’s are in pieces all over the floor
just breathe
and leave
and quietly close the door
on a jacobean tomb
the tomb was meant to look like a bed / four posters either end and a pillow for his head / the courtier – (let’s call him that / I didn’t have time to read the plaque) / was lying on his side and not on his back / as you might have expected / from the way these things are usually erected / no – this one was on his side / propped on one arm, his eyes open wide / gazing out at us straight / like we disturbed him from his slumbers coming in late / and he’s just gonna stare at us / and glare at us / and wait / and wait / till finally we break / get the message and quit / and head for the exit / then he’ll frown / lie back down / rub his noble, stony cranium / and grab another half millennium
I don’t know – maybe the masons were making the case / the courtier was more than just doublets and lace / he wasn’t standoffish and dour / he was totally relaxed about wealth and power / easy in his position / looking on death as a tedious imposition / (but not so relaxed he’s carved in the nude / he needs you to know he’s a wealthy dude)
But honestly? / to me? / THAT does NOT look a comfortable lie-in / (even with my untrained, un-Jacobean eye in) / I mean – that ruff around his neck / would hurt like heck / his doublet looks like it was fitted with rivets / and his pantaloon’s as soft as a skirt made of skillets / so wide at the hip he’d be dislocated / every time he relocated
but then – that’s the trouble with meaningful poses / they never last as long as the sitter supposes / and what passes for status in 1604 / looks like a cosplayer resting on the floor / of the main hall at the MCM ExCeL / because his sandals hurt like hell / and he’s trying to muster the energy / to queue endlessly / just to get a signed photo / from fucking Lou Ferrigno
the lime green poo bag at the end of the world
There was a poo bag by the side of the woodland path / lime green / easily seen / you couldn’t miss it / maybe they intended to pick it up on the return visit / but then, no / the way these things usually go / I don’t think so / I think they were hoping someone else would deal with it, y’know? / their precious dog’s effluvio / passively aggressively making the point / they’d like more poo bins around the joint / like a poo theme park / more bin less bark / maybe the odd tree here and there / to make it nice & sweeten the air
so here was my dilemma / do I leave it in the hope they come back later? / or do I carry it myself to the bins in the rec? / what the heck / although, I have to say / it is actually quite a way / to sashay / with a lime green handbag of poo / swinging nonchalantly by the side of you
so I’m ashamed to say / my squeamishness got the better of me today / I left it in situ / and submit to / your judgement / and my lack of environmental de-fudgement
But does it really matter what I do or say / if I carry the poo now or leave it for another day? / it’s not going to stop the rainforests burning / the drill bits turning / the microplastics churning / in the gizzards and the guts / of the leatherback turtles and the guillemots / the droughts, the floods / the cataracts of mud / the superbugs / fat bergs / skinny icebergs / rampaging cyborgs / carrying out their military instructions / for the surgical reductions / of human populations / and a hundred other dystopic situations /
I mean / according to Queen / in Bohemian Rhapsody / existentially / Nothing Really Matters / because at the end of time when everything scatters / and we’re caught changing seats like a trillion Mad Hatters / at the Tea Party / at the End of the World / everything will get scooped and tagged / in one gigantic / galactic / sanitary / interplanetary / super-pooper bag / and tossed with everything we thought we’d lost and won / into the indifferent heart of an imploding sun
I mean – one poo bag’s not going to swing it / is it? / it’s just a little bit of shit / in a shady glade / in a shiny green poo bag that will never degrade /
(why the hell they didn’t just flick / the shit / with a stick / into the undergrowth / I don’t know)
memo from nemo
From out of the surf the Nautilus beaches
scattering bathers with screams and screeches
alarmed by its cannons and other features
boiling sea foam seething from its vents
as it plows nose-first through the parasols & tents
a cautious crowd converges
overcoming their natural urges
drawn to see what emerges
holding up smartphones on sticks
jostling for selfie pics
the rusting periscope is snagged with bags
the portholes encrusted with condoms and pads
the propeller comprehensively snagged
the whole thing lying like a rotten fish
a bad chef served as a stinking dish
the children gasp and hug their mothers
as the submarine convulsively flaps its rudders
the crapped-up top hatch shudders
then rises up with a noxious sigh
rasps on its hinges and clatters aside
After a minute the captain climbs out
flinty blue eyes, whiskery snout
stands, glances fiercely about
then flings his cap with a violent motion
shouts ‘Who the hell’s been polluting my ocean?
‘Twenty thousand leagues have I travelled
warships sunk and giant squid battled
just to see the system unravelled
with cotton buds and wrappers and bottles
and a million happy meal Ronald fucking Mcdonalds
‘My beloved Atlantis! Completely ruined!
You have no idea what this shit’s doing
clingfilm, parcel tape, wrappers & bags
styrofoam cups and the filters from fags
spoons and stirrers and coffee utensils
felt tip pens, colouring pencils
fishing nets, yogurt pots
toothbrush holders, dental floss
and then – at the risk of sounding sarcastic
– the biggest risk of all, MICROPLASTIC!
With that he flushes and glares at the crowd
who listen to his speech with their heads unbowed
smiling and waving and calling out loud
‘Ah what’s the use! he says. ‘It’s pointless shoutin’ at yah
Someone fetch me David Attenborough’
how to choreograph a riot
- Dominate the attack arena with your macarena
- If the cops use dum-dums hit back with can-cans
- Tango when they tangle; mambo when they mangle
- Put over who’s boss with a bossa nova
- Foxtrot through the hotspots
- And if that doesn’t work, twerk
- Then fandango home
- Rest, and the following day
- Ballet to the ballot box, arabesque, make your X (en pointe), and jete clean away my beautiful stranger…. jete clean away
Welcome to Hemlock Hall
I.
For centuries our college has prospered
and countless practitioners fostered
their footsteps all boom
through the cloisters & rooms
and they sleep underground in the orchard
II.
Our head is known in academia
for his teeth and pernicious anemia
he looks in his cape
like a bat at a wake
and his smile is a warm crematoria
III.
Flying is the root of all alchemy
defying the rules of anatomy
so at lauds and at vespers
in wailings & whispers
we flap from the floor to the balcony
IV.
Our staff are all fully immersed
in the arts of the damned & the cursed
our head of year eight
was burned at the stake
in the reign of Elizabeth the First
V.
The school is endorsed by a party
of nuns & illuminati
our crest is a crow
with its eyes aglow
and our motto is puer damnati
VI.
Ofsted condemns our achievements
in grudges and dark disagreements
but we’re top of the league
in moral fatigue
and score GOOD for our work in bereavement
VII.
Our charter is written on vellum
in imp’s blood diluted with venom
our porter’s a wolf
who lives on the roof
but he only comes down when I tell’um
VIII.
I’m always here to explain
any questions you might entertain
our fees are most reasonable
& the term times quite seasonable
Imbolg, Lammas, Samhain
jim clayton 