poems

letterboxes and the fine art of surviving

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

It was just after nine / I’d come to see Maureen, a patient of mine / suffering self-neglect & cognitive decline / her niece / Denise / met me outside the flat / we buzzed and rang but had no luck with that / we shouted through the letterbox / the hallway resounding with our pounding and our knocks / but the flat was quiet & the door stayed locked / Denise / had no keys / because her aunt wouldn’t give her a set / even though she was prone to forget / whether to eat or not / and left things on the stove when it was hot / and needed reminding to take her medication a lot / but – you know – this whole thing was a long time in the making / (Denise was pleased for the trouble everyone was taking) /

we stood there in the hall / wondering what to do, who to call / Denise was realistic / she said this behaviour was characteristic / Maureen was definitely home / but just wanted to be left alone / the risk was low she was on the floor / so we probably didn’t need to kick down the door / it would’ve been too destructive / counter-productive / so instead / I said / I’d talk to the GP / quite urgently / actually / because we needed to see / that Maureen had capacity / to say the hell with the world and other curses / and no to a visit from the district nurses

I shook Denise’s hand, said goodbye / picked up my bags, walked outside

back in the car / eating an energy bar / planning my visits / I listened to a professor of theoretical physics / it was compelling / there was still no way of telling / he said / the essential difference between alive and dead / no experiment yet devised / that could have the matter verified / it was somewhere in the realm of chemical & electrical causation / in DNA packed full of coded information / software / versus hardware / somewhere deep in there / and if that wasn’t enough / he went on to talk about all this other stuff / how space & time came into existence / how early bacteria showed a strange resilience / there, at the beginning of multicellularity / moving and evolving with marked singularity / tackling insults to their integrity

I thought about Maureen, locked in her flat / and what I was going to do about that / and I heard our efforts echoing down the hall / all the way back to the start of it all / to the shore at the dawn of Time’s Big Bang / the very moment when it all began / that drenching, wrenching, cataclysmic spasm / that flash of heat in the heart of the chasm / that revolutionary, evolutionary phantasm / of subatomic ticks and tocks / to Denise and me, shouting through a letterbox

well honestly sometimes i feel like

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

:::::: well honestly sometimes i feel like the dumbo stamped red rubber band stretched round the trembling right hand of Ernest Hemingway
:::::: or the butterfly engraved beard trimmers catastrophically used to lever open a rusty can of paint thinners by Claude Monet
:::::: other times, i feel like the bent EPNS gecko wedged in the neck of a bottle of prosecco in the second-best fridge of Reggie & Ronnie
:::::: or the poisonous snake receipt shredded in the chaotic christmas present deceit in the glitzy LA retreat of Jay Z & Beyonce
:::::: mostly i’m just the duck handled shoe horn overlooked in the elephant foot umbrella stand of Hubert de Givenchy
:::::: or the half-eaten wild turkey canape at the adoption ceremony welcoming Johnny Depp into the worldwide tribe of the Comanche

:::::: and there aint nothing i can do about it

growing pains

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

I wanted to grow a beard / something distinctive but not too weird / stylish / not outlandish / man-about-townish / clipped, pristine / easy to clean / nothing droopy / something that wouldn’t get too soupy

I spent a lot of time / online / swiping through the chins on show / so what should I grow? / a balbo? / terminal? / chic imperial? / woodsman? / trendy urban? / but then – on a scary hairy forum / I saw something awesome / a beard called the ouija / an oddly unsettling procedure / full of twists and curls / elegant strands that delicately unfurled / like antic letters from another world

I made a resolution to do it /
took me six months, but I grew it

I had no idea / when the beard / finally appeared / it would look so sinisterly sheared / honestly – it was horrible / diabolical / twitching and witchy / scratchy / unbearably itchy / but with one particular feature I hesitate to mention / a superfast, facial connection / straight through to another dimension

because / there I was / twiddling my curls / thinking of anything but parallel worlds / when suddenly I had a spasm / my lips flecked with ectoplasm / a terrifying feeling of reeling and falling / then: ‘oh my goodness – is that Jimmy calling?’

Grandma? I said / but I thought you were dead / as her words tumbled round and round in my head / like scrabble tiles jangling in a bottomless green bag / scented by an eternity of peter stuyvesant fags / spectral clouds of talcum powder / top notes of incontinent chihuahua /

it was just so completely shocking / my teeth were clacking, my knees were knocking / I mean – I was totally unprepared / it was only grandma, but damn was I scared

I tried to be brave and lighten the scene / Hi there, grandma! I said – how’ve you been?
what d’you mean? / how’ve I been? she said / I’ve been DEAD! / believe me there are plenty of things I’d rather be doing instead
oh, I said / slapping my head / but …. no ….really….how’s it all going?
well – to be honest with you, Jim – it’s an awful lot of toing and froing / depending on which way the psychic wind’s blowing

now – you probably think this was a great opportunity / to engage with the ex-life, ex-pat community / and ask all the questions you’re dying to know / like how’s it all organised and where do you go? / is it harps and clouds? / are pets allowed? / do you flap around singing all day? / or is that just so much angelic cosplay? / you’d want to know if there’s a god or not / and whether hell is actually hot / and how many chances has the average spirit got / to turn things around and improve its lot / and whether the heavenly congregation / increases exponentially with the earthly population / so, if heaven was emptier round the time of moses / are they now suffering spatial anxiety neuroses / and if so, what are the solutions god proposes?

but actually? – I totally lost my nerve

I think I left something on the stove / I mumbled / stumbling / backwards into the kitchen / scrabbling & stretching / over to the sink / praying grandma wouldn’t think / to hover over and check / why I was so hurriedly lathering my neck / but she seemed happy just to glow their innocently / up by the pelmet incandescently / and in a few bloody strokes the beard was gone / I dabbed at my face and slowly turned around

grandma had vanished, just an echo on the air / and a scattering of crumbs on the rocking chair

a couple of months later I grew a goatee / easy to clean & guaranteed ghost free

beards

3 from Nostradamus’ Little Book of Prophecy

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I.

And on the first afternoon / a smiling man shall walk out upon the craterous face of the moon / but the atmosphere generators will have been damaged by a spoon / and consequently he will lift the visor of his helmet too soon / and lo, his head shall increaseth in size like a party balloon / and shall pop / and he shall drop / and The Big Kahuna Lunar mini-break suddenly stop / and all manner of things shall be confus-ed / and all further space vacations review-ed

and great shall be the lamentation thereof

II.

And on the afternoon of the second day (according to my organiser) / a monstrously ravenous hybrid hydra / shall crawl from the sump of the hadron collider / casting instruments and scientists aside / and flinging the heavy security doors wide / shall flex its terrible claws and stride / way out across the glittering Swiss countryside / until a bunch of generals on satellite phones / launch Operation Pile o’Bones / with a flock of fearsome UN drones / to corral the hydra in a free-fire zone / smoke it’s ass and send it home

and great shall be the lamentation thereof

III.

And on the third evening during a calm atlantic crossing / a captain will stroll from the bridge for a little light dental flossing / when he shall see a sailor down on the for’ard deck, dossing / with a crossbow on his lap for some albatrossing / and tho’ the captain will clap his hands and shout / none of his warnings will reach the limey layabout / who will suddenly shoot his bolt into the snout / of the first albatross he sees flying about / and lo, shall the Captain wail / and the luxury cruise shall fail / and the first lieutenant bail / and the second mate be swallowed by a whale / and the waiters & entertainers turn tail / and passenger complaints go off the scale / and then day after day, day after day / they shall be stuck with nor breath nor motion / as idle as a painted ship – well, you get the picture

and great shall be the lamentations thereof  IMG_0441

hansel & gretel : mob kids

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

hanselGretelhansel & gretel / young, mean & successful / bent as a coupla sesame pretzels / I heard they smoked some pedo wizard down on popocatepetl / anyways / theys / scratchin’ around for the next shekel / & they find a job downtown / taking out a renowned / cake & candy gang / whose number one meringue / AKA The Witch / they tease & tumble / til’ she totally apple crumbles / spills the crack-flavoured jelly beans / and a hundred other hard-boiled / shop soiled / confectionary schemes / until the grim final scene / when they push her hat first into a rock-pulling machine / and stand there licking custard creams / as the wicked Witch gets wiped / coming out all long & thin & peppermint striped / I seen the report the coroner typed: / (in big, bold letters to avoid confusion) / DEATH BY MEANS OF EXTREME MECHANICAL EXTRUSION

my own conclusion?

stay well clear my friend, if y’know what I mean / these punks are high on tartrazine

upset nav

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

drive to: wrong aroma / ricky roma / mesothelioma
drive to: empire state / rail freight / heaven’s gate
drive to: dramaturge / gettysburg / zuckerberg
drive to: the far side / the dark side / the park & ride
drive to: look at me / like me / vote me
drive to: pantene pro V
drive to: space invasion / face conflation /  winslett in Contagion
drive to: explanation
drive to: aristotle / axolotl / tartan covered hot water bottle
drive to: the Korean peninsula / nurse ursula / eleganza extravaganza
drive to: a good first rehearsula
drive to: the snowman / the golem / the greatest showman
drive to: hurry up and go man
drive to: Kirk, Spock and The Doomsday Clock
drive to: plunging markets, falling stock
drive to: hans gruber smiling in an uber
drive to: havana, cuba
drive anywhere.
I don’t care.
Just drive.
DRIVE!

::::::::::: you have arrived at your destination :::::::::::::

IMG_0397 (1)

my dad, younger than me

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

IMG_0319my niece / posted me a nice / picture of dad / an old black and white one mum had / she nabbed when she was down that way / the other day / and I have to say / he did look amazing / staring through the creases and chemical crazing / half the age I am now / young, proud / & so thin / his trousers hardly seemed to touch him / hair slicked back magnificently / hands in pockets insouciantly / framed in the doorway of a ruined church / a presentiment of their forthcoming marriage perhaps / and the look he gives the camera / come try me he seems to say / standing on the threshold of something substantial that day / which I’m sure he would have found a surprise / was fifty years of morecambe & wise / self-sacrifice & compromise / and a slow bright necklace of Sunday afternoon bonfires

 

flinders keepers

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

on a piece of land near euston station
for project crossrail excavations
they found the grave of Matthew Flinders
an eighteenth century navigator
who sailed the continent of Australia
similarly the coast of Tasmania
but heading home stopped in at MauritiusIMG_0332
where they threw him in gaol for looking suspicious
it was there he lost poor faithful Trim
the cat who’d sailed the world with him
‘eaten by a catophage’ his journal read
(because there was nothing else to eat instead)

learning about life

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

‘…the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel, that used to come once a week: he taught us Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting in Coils.’
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland / Lewis Carroll

 

Okay! Thank you! Settle down please
And a warm welcome to the Life Skills Academy

Spring term will be devoted almost exclusively
to compromise & expediency, disappointment & reality
those of you who cover the ground satisfactorily
will take extra units in prevarication & complicity

Summer – and I’m sorry, but most of the term
is given over to the basic skills you need to learn
making it, mistaking it, faking & forgetting it
upsetting, downsetting, elementary regretting
blood-letting, anonymous internetting

Autumn is focused on more advanced techniques
– one for all you lifestyle geeks
alt-tabbing, monosyllabing, monetizing mechanics
uber hiring, rumour denying, late-night dramatics,
drive-by, dry cry, bulk buy specifics,
right clicks, news tricks, glue sticks & netflix

And then at last we come to our Winter Warmer
with something at the end for the star performer
choose from module A: advanced entitlement with plausible frustration of enablement
module B: accelerated learning in accountability & squirming
module C: a diploma in substantiated financial insalubrity & sarcoma
or module D: certified obfuscation, inebriation and offshore tax identifications

any questions?

Good! You see how much there is to be done?
So please open your books at chapter one

fenlantis

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

hi / I’m from Wisbech / (that’s whizz as in speed / & beach not in sand / but in how the fuck can this be seventeen miles inland?)

Welcome to Wisbech, then! / Capital of the Fens / *er-hem* / I know, I know – it sounds so grand / civically solid & well planned / but no, I’m afraid it’s really not / it’s more like the land that time forgot / or as Dorothy says in The Wizard of Oz / because because because / because of the socio-economic situation and stuff / so it’s pumpkins not munchkins / and ‘follow the A1101’ / not that other, brighter, more Technicolour construction / and suddenly you’re there / lying in the Five Bells with straw in your hair / flying monkeys everywhere

so – erm – yeah – Wisbech – Capital of the Fens / (so ludicrous it’s worth saying again) / like they held a ceremony of considerable pomp / for the inauguration of the king of the swamp / still, I suppose everyone needs a catchy title / like maniac needs homicidal / to fully unravel / the horror of your spiritual travel

Welcome to Wisbech – Capital of the Fens / that’s capital as in punishment / for all the souls in featureless torment / on floodplains of abandonment / with a flatline skyline / of turbines & pylons / sirens, violence, two-for-one nylons / broken bridges / midges / fly-tipped fridges / seriously – the attractions are prodigious

Welcome to Wisbech – Capital of the Fens / dragging down the high street in a cloak of farmyard odds & ends / a diadem / cut from an apple box / a couple of raspberry punnets for crocs / and an orb of sprouts stuffed in a football sock

Wisbech, Oh Wisbech! – Capital of the Fens! / gangmaster of piggeries & factory hens / council cuts & overspends / swingers, wringers & brexit bringers / of slow, silty rivers / malarial sweats & shivers / golden eyes & cirrhotic livers / broken vows in broken mirrors / where everyone dreams but only Tesco delivers

Wisbech – My Wisbech – Capital till the End / when climate change will make amends / and orchids & field scabious will bloom / and bitterns boom / and dragonflies hover & zoom / stem to stem / in the deepening, darkening fen / and all will be well in Wisbech again / and me? I’ll be a model of longevity / staggering around at a hundred and seventy / kept alive by medical complexity / just well enough for one last dive / tumbling backwards off the side / as we glide / to a stop / when the instruments detect some sunken shops / way down below us in the black water slops / & I’ll fin my way down with a torch on my head / to illuminate the sports shop owned by Fred / where mum worked cash in hand / half buried now in the silt and the sand / and I’ll part the weeds and I’ll stare through the glass / at the transformation that has come to pass / eel not Fila / minnow not Umbro / pike not Nike / and I’ll smile enigmatically behind my mask / because nature has claimed what was hers at last / and Wisbech is finally cool & romantic / like Doggerland, lost to the Atlantic

(and then no doubt I’ll probably drown / and – by the way? sending an elderly diver down? / in conditions of such poor visibility? / I think you’ll find that’s culpability)