I hear her
long before I see her
striding along the woodland path
blowing her whistle
over and over
like a furious referee
Have you seen him?
she says, breathlessly.
Wheaton terrier?
Toffee-coloured?
So high?
No, I say, but there’s
a golden retriever
over by the badgers
Badgers? she said.
What badgers? Where?
I turn to point
just as a toffee-coloured dog
comes trotting towards us
Isn’t it? I say
I’m not an expert
Golden retriever? she says
I’m not wearing my glasses, I say.
No? she says. Well. Never mind.
Meanwhile, the wheaton retriever
or whatever the hell it is
cuts straight past us
moving like some wanton wheaton machine
in the direction of a nearby stream
Oh for goodness sake! she says
hurrying after it
blowing her whistle
I half expect to see her
pull out a red card
and wave it in the air, too
and who knows? maybe she does
I couldn’t really say, because, well –
I’m not wearing my glasses
poems
the residents of EMI6
Bond frowns as the safety gate
snicks into place like a Beretta 418
‘Wakey, wakey! Medication time!’
says the nurse, karate chopping the blinds
then carefully opening a colouring book
lays it in his lap and says ‘There now! Look!’
Bond recognises the Orient Express
‘A steam train!’ says the nurse. ‘Yes?’
He frowns and points to that bit of the track
where he leapt from his Aston Martin and back
But the nurse is busy checking her batch,
she produces a needle and smiles: ‘Sharp scratch!’
Q irritably clicks his pen
as the carer passes with the trolley again
‘Alright Queuey? Wha’ d’ya want?
Custard cream or raspberry fondant?’
Q gives the Parker one last stab
wonders what else he’s got in the lab
‘Tea or cocoa? Banana drink?
Hot or cold, love? Wha’d’ya think?’
Q tugs his bowtie, waits for the explosion
…. and waits and waits in utter confusion
‘Oh dear me, love! It’s not a grenade!’
Pulling the tab on a lemonade.
Moneypenny screams, tears off her shawl
throws it at the poodle looking in from the hall
(the poodle reminds her of someone – a spy?
the lascivious tongue, the damp brown eye)
‘No!’ says the manager, cuddling the dog
‘Yet another entry for the incident log!
You really must control your temper.
We all have to share the space, remember?
Just try harder, please, Mrs M. Promise?’
then turns and leads the dog back to the office.
Moneypenny curses – emphatically
Then watches Dr No on her little TV
what day was I born on?
You were born on a Saturday
Your star sign is Capricorn
Your birthstone is Blue Topaz
Your birth flower is Narcissus
The season was Winter
Your mother put 4 drops of her old, red blood into a copper pot, and danced around it with a bladed weapon
The time of day was midnight
Your guardian angel is Steve (Bella at the weekend & public holidays)
You like pistachios
You don’t like the idea of Baba Yaga’s cottage standing on – what would appear to be from the rough drawings you’ve seen, at any rate – nothing more substantial than chicken legs
*Print a free gift certificate of these results*
charlie
I’ve never been one for eating
Charlie was though
he had big appetites
we went out for the day
Charlie had a disgusting hunk of huss
I had fish cake
couldn’t finish it
Charlie cleaned up
as per usual
I lost an earring
eighteen carat, beautiful
nobody seen it
not what they said anyways
went to the jewellers
I didn’t like it
I could see guns
Charlie said it was okay
treat myself to some danglies
a hundred and twenty pound the pair
and that was then
we’ll claim the tax back at the border
Charlie said
we never did
don’t know why
ants in my head
Frankly? I was distracted
looking up Them!
a 1950s sci-fi film about gigantic irradiated ants
One thing that bugged me
the exclamation mark doesn’t appear on the poster
WHY?!
Imdb’s pretty quiet about that
although it has plenty of other stuff,
Plot Holes for example:
If food is scarce in the desert, then why did an ant merely kill Gramps Johnson and leave his body in the store, instead of taking it back to the colony to be eaten as had been the other three killed up to that point?
or:
During the first ant encounter, Dr Harold Medford tells the policemen to aim for its antennae, saying, “He’s helpless without them!” Later, he (correctly) explains that most ants are female, the rare males dying shortly after fertilizing the queen when a new nest is established.
so
anyway
I went from that to googling
some amazing facts about ants
here are 10 of the headlines:
- ANTS – An Underground Movement originating from Ibiza
- Ants: Fun Facts about Ants
- OMG! My Fire Ants Are Planning an Escape
- 10 Interesting Facts About Ants You Need To Know
- 10 cool facts about ants!
- Amazing Ant Facts for kids and adults to learn about ants
- 25 Awesome Facts About Ants You Probably Didn’t Know
- Really Gripping Facts about Ants
- Top Interesting And Exceptional Facts About Ants
- How to get rid of ants
Now
Where was I?
(with thanks to IMDb!)
dumpster
what am I doing
scrabbling around the old bottle dump?
why is it so compelling
to spike at the ashen ground with a rusted bolt
disinterring face cream pots
brandy bottles, pan yan pickle jars
a proprietary mix for the bloody lung
half a china cat; a valve
and how am I to stop
now the ash blood is up
there’s a cemetery nearby
will I drag my bolt over there
start tearing at the ground
tossing out femurs, metatarsals, elder roots
what’s this? and this?
Hmm?
who were they?
who the hell were they?
making contact
I wheeled grandma out onto the patio
so she could smoke a cigarette
(Peter Stuyvesant,
palm-up, Countess-style)
we sat together, side by side
staring at the blue hydrangeas
like solemn judges at a retro
swimming hat competition
‘And have you left the navy, Alfred?’ she said
even though my name’s Jim
and I’ve only ever been on the ferry
‘Good lad,’ she said, and took another puff
releasing the smoke so slowly
it drifted up around her face
it reminded me
of some old photographs
I saw in a book once –
mediums in trances, ectoplasm
streaming from their mouths
even though you could tell
it was just cheesecloth
it was properly spooky
elegy to a cemetery crow
walking with Lola out to the woods
we cut through the cemetery straight
find a plastic rose from one of the graves
blown over by the churchyard gate
I guess they used a plastic bloom
so they didn’t have to come so often
even though they look quite cheap round a tomb
and tacky as hell on a coffin
but these are the dodges you use around death
to keep the whole thing more tractable
it makes the dead seem closer to home
and not quite so non-contactable
oh – what would they say if these bones could talk?
would they tell of their loves and caprices?
would they fling back the stones and struggle to walk
or immediately fall into pieces?
No. They are dead. The End is the End.
(I’m sorry to burst your bubble
but better you hear it now, from a friend,
and save yourself decades of trouble)
because death is neither a sleep nor a bourn
– the euphemisms I could mention –
and this plastic flower you brought to mourn
marks a truly natural dimension
It’s a part of life, I’m happy to say
as real as that cemetery crow
everyone has to go through it some day
– so that’s reassuring to know
ohio jack
let me tell you a thing or two about ohio jack
jack was a guy who knew the way to market and back
and if it were true he couldn’t tell ya exactly what a cow’s worth
he knew full well what a bean could do if you stamped it in the earth
so when his ma finally lost it & tossed it in the garden
Jack didn’t waste time with a sorry ma’am, beggin yer parden
he jes’ lay a’bed all day, tuggin’ on a bottle o’bourbon
making spooky goosey shapes with his hands upon the curtain
and when the moon had finally risen, nice n’ full n’ round
he staggered out onto the porch n’seen a beanstalk in the ground
about where them ol’ beans’d got chucked, so high there weren’t no end to it
straight n’wide as a turnpike ride, without a single bend to it
so he took a sack, a coil a’rope, n’ wha’ d’he say? A axe?
put the rope in the sack, the axe in his belt, and slung the sack on his back
& he started there a’climbin’ – and he climbed & climbed all night
a thousand feet or more, till he climbed clean outta sight
up into this fairyland, with a cloudy kinda spring to it
an a castle with a goose, an a harp that plucked itself when he sing’d to it
well – Jack bein’ Jack, a man o’renown, he didn’t need no second telling
he stuffed the goose n’ the harp in his sack, the harp a’bitchin’ and a’yellin’
enough to wake the giant buckeye what owned that piece o’real estate
and he chased young Jack with the bulging sack clean out the castle gate
an’ they ran like that, Jack swearin’ and a sweatin’, the giant mean as a hawk
till Jack saw a leaf poking up thru’ the cloud and he knew he’d reached the stalk
Jack hurried down, hand over boots, the giant close behind
with nothing but a fire of hate to his face and a twist of revenge to his mind
but Jack landed first, he turned with his axe
and he cut through that plant in a coupla whacks
and the giant crashed down in one trailin’, pitchin’ ladder of plant
and lay there dead as anything, deader than Ulysses S. Grant
turned out the goose Jack took was worth considerable more than a parrot
lay medium sized eggs of pretty fine gold, if not twenty-four carat
so Jack and his mum were fixed for life, of that there weren’t no question
and the giant was left to rot where he fell, quite the tourist attraction
so let this be a lesson to ya – quite what, I ain’t too sure
even yer’ cloud-based buckeye needs a decent lock for the door
fake poem
i’m a work in progress, i’m under construction
i’m a graduate of ‘98, class of alien abduction
i’m a slicker in silks, i’m rapturously frugal
i’m a sucker fish clamped to the tailpipe of google
i’m dermabrasion, mastopexy, augmentation, tuck
i’m the last of the great white rhinos run out of luck
i’m simon stylites raving on his pillar
i’m a discount david cast in polyfilla
i’m a bargain bucket of WTF, i’m trader joe’s, i’m walmart
i’m garfield the cat played by humphrey bogart
i’m a marshall for the boot parade, i’m gates & jobs, i’m sony
i’m optimus prime versus my little pony
i’m jack of all trades, master of nantucket
i’m the clack-handed crabs at the bottom of your bucket
i’m CIA and SIS, i’m wiretap and bug
i’m mr t gone to seed, i’m POTUS sans rug
i’m the con in confusion, i’m the platinum G in twenty
i’m the marionette on the barbecue who says he owes you plenty
anyways
who knows what the truth is
and who on earth’s to blame
just give me a shot of whatever you’ve got
and hell – i’ll do the same
