poems

(three) incidents at the archaeological museum

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I’m walking into the neolithic room
(the exhibits are neolithic; the room is not
the room’s just the place for all the stuff they’ve got:
arrowheads, axes, bones etc
map projectors
that kinda thing)
sandals squeaking
everyone speaking
in respectful tones
shuffling through millennia
with an app on their phones
suddenly
a guard comes up to me
points to the floor
at the painted arrows for
showing
which way you should be going
which is embarrassing
and my face turns hot
but she’s smiling
so I’m guessing
it happens a lot

later

I’m in the museum cafe
cooling off with a frappe
looking for a bin
to chuck my paper napkin in
when the ancient man
at the table next to me
smiles sympathetically
points with his stick
to the square
where
they’ve lined up all their
spare
headless statues
so I bow and say thank you

just
as a big bug
drops from a tree
right in the middle of a table of three
women
who jump up screaming
something so coincident with my leaving
I’m reluctant to go through with it
or it might look like I had something to do with it

status update XLVIII

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

A figure of fun whenever I flex / a wayward witch with a dodgy hex / sex on legs but the legs are wonky / hairy as a goddamn donkey / shabby n’shonky / itchy n’glitchy / singing a song but sounding pitchy / flapping like a flunky / back on Monday / diary to shit and the chocolate chunky / bagga nerves, sick of it / next in line and fine with it

But what’s that clunk? / a fault you thunk? / the hatch just cracked and the submarine sunk / you’re flat on your bunk / in a flop sweat funk / your eyes pop out and you lose your junk / how cheerfully you seem to grin / and welcome little fishes in

Macbeth’s back on the ChatGPT / about Act 5 apparently / Lear on the street / rats on his feet / says they’re his slippers and ain’t that sweet / Prospero and Caliban / camping in a caravan / going to Comic Con, both as Batman / Ariel swoops in late as Robin / does some magically tragic hobnobbing / but not as bad as pixie Puck / who doesn’t give a flying you-hoo

I’m a country boy who knows his onions / restraining orders, court injunctions / veterinary tests, farmyard functions / following all the text instructions / causing ructions / Spiderman without the suction / whacked not woke / sparingly spoke / asks for a rise, they think it’s a joke

Give us this day our daily litre / lines for Paul and shots for Peter / demon cops with tape and tarps / to shut down heaven and haul off harps

Woke up early, unexpectedly me / thought I was human but found I’m a tree / tried to walk and shake the dream / but my boots were roots so I stood and screamed

Pinocchio farts and jumps the table / Gepetto starts and chokes on his bagel / it’s almost fatal / but the fairy knows Heimlich and for that we’re grateful / puppets can be a nice surprise / but it’s good to know your limits, guys

motivational posters, reduced to clear

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

your only limit
is your mind
or 500 dollars,
whichever comes first

*

the
saddest
thing in life
is wasted talent
but
the best thing in life
is
whatever

*

stay hungry
stay foolish
stay the hell off my porch

*

in the midst of winter
I found
within me
an invincible summer
and the rage
to storm
the energy companies

*

don’t let
FEAR
kill your dreams
(that’s the government’s job)

*

if your ship
doesn’t come in
swim out to meet it
and if they don’t lower a rope
there’s not much you can do
already exhausted
by such a long swim
& all the jellyfish stings
etc
so
basically
boats, am I right?

a guided tour of Holdersland

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Welcome to our version of Heaven
This is Gloria, my name’s Kevin
Please take your seat on the monorail
We’ll whizz you along our guided trail

You’ll notice everything’s up on legs
a thousand feet above the heads
of all the dreadful hoi polloi
the toxic waste and alkaloids
but flying guards with zapping clubs
efficiently stop them climbing up

Each cluster of our living units
is serviced by gondolas of startling newness
rowed by robots with programmed voices
to sync with your particular choices

Your food is grown in satellite sects
in shimmering domes of silvered perspex
to provide your body with all it needs
to keep your earnings up to speed

Every month The Holders meet
in a gilded dome on Krugerrand Street
where the founding plutocrats briefly appear
beneath a crystal chandelier
to answer any points or gripes
and keep your earnings in their sights

But as in life there’s always a catch
each of our houses come with a hatch
we open remotely at any time
to punish you for a range of crimes
the worst of which being Failure to Fund
which renders your tenancy moribund
The board convenes, the lever’s thrown
and off you go to the great unknown!

So – Lovely to see you! Now – what’s next?
Please hand in your passports for credit checks

a glitch in the machine

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Stanley’s sick
glitchy, arthritic
his howls quite loud and apocalyptic
scuffling his paws
on the floor
as he wildly gnaws
at a phantom pain he can’t ignore
burying his face
in the exact same place
he’s gnawed before
(the top of his left thigh)
Why Stanley? WHY?
we leap off the sofa
and hurry straight over
like physios from the dugout
to massage his muscle and straighten the rug out
it seems to work
we ease the jerks
and even though the procedure’s hazardous
he rises again like a shaggy Lazarus
and, glad it’s all over,
has a quick shake and leaps on the sofa

we sent the vet a video clip;
we’ve yet to hear what she thinks of it

a reading

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

whilst you can be the life and soul
kick off your shoes and dance
sometimes you have to retreat to your hole
and heal yourself in a trance

you have big doubts you took the right path
and you’re not fully using your talents
sometime you cry, sometimes you laugh
it’s hard to find the right balance

one day you’re up, the next you’re down
but generally speaking you cope
gritting your teeth on the merry-go-round
you’ve tied yourself to with a rope

I’m getting that somebody recently died?
your grandmother?! Well – she’s HERE!
she’s waving to you from the other side
she says smile and persevere

Oh! That’s cute! There’s a little dog, too!
A name beginning with S?
She hated dogs? Hmm. I wonder who…
A ghostly stray I guess

I’m afraid that’s where I must call it a day
(ghosts can make you queasy)
I hope I’ve been able to help in some way
(debit or BACS – I’m easy)

Hammer Horror

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

prop
strop

Peter Cushing
keeps pushing

for a reshoot
says his suit

feels out of character
yes – he’s an actor

but everyone has their limit
and HE’S reached HIS, goddammit

the director shouts take ten people
puts his fingers in a steeple

Pete he says we’ve talked about this
we really can’t afford another wardrobe crisis

talk to Chris – he’s a cheery sorta bloke
he seems to be coping despite the cloak

take it as a challenge; van Helsing of Mayfair!
oxford brogues, sharp threads, pince-nez and long grey hair!

Pete says I accept the prof in a stovepipe hat
but I draw the line at a fucking silk cravat

and the golden paw goes to…

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Stanley’s claws need clipping
‘cos his paws keep slipping
on the laminate floor
unfortunately
because although it scores
pleasingly for ease of cleaning
for long-legged dogs it’s less appealing
and sometimes Stan spins around on his snoot
like Bambi on ice but not so cute

Stan HATES the groomer;
he’d really rather sooner
offer his paws
to the slavering jaws
of a grizzly bear
than have them scissored by the assistant there

(it’s bad enough
when you give him a brush;
his acting would make even Jim Carrey blush)

so – the vet’s it is
and it’s a pretty sticky business
the vet cries what in God’s name IS this?
Can I get a hand in here, Jenny?
I think this lurcher’s up for an Emmy

a conspiracy theorist goes shopping

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

…and another thing / the moon landing / US BS governmental grandstanding / don’t tell me you’ve actually gone n’bought / all that shit ‘bout an astronaut / one small step for man? I don’t think so / unless it was on wires in a Hollywood studio / the picture they took of that flag is pure crap / there ‘ain’t no wind to make it flap / there’s a lot of stuff out there, my friend / how d’ya think JFK met his end? / it was the CIA what shot him through / Abraham Lincoln and Princess Di too / nine eleven was an inside job / Kermit the Frog and Sideshow Bob / Democrats are lizards from another galaxy / the Earth isn’t round that’s a communist fallacy / aliens hold dances for nurses and nuns / in a great big hangar in Area 51 / COVID 19 was nothing but population control / Mount Rushmore is filled with pirate gold / the statue of liberty is a great big camera / to monitor the spread of a certain diaspora / those trails in the sky? ya think planes, perhaps? / no my friend that’s compliance gas / n’here’s something interesting that’ll make you jump / the great-great-great grandson of Jesus and Mary Magdalene is Donald J Trump / I mean – what the hell ya think the J stands for? / they’ll tell ya John but I’m not so sure / and when you go to vote, be in no doubt / they’ll make you use a pencil so they can rub it out / Bigfoot, Nessie, Elvis Presley? / controlling everything indirectly / via underfloor channels on the QAnon / that’s where I get my intel from / I convert that white noise kinda signal / into interesting collections of colourful pixel / which dish the dirt on the shit they did / from J K Rowling to the Pyramids / Marjorie Greene – hell – I’m a real admirer / now – gimme twenty lights and a National Enquirer

The Lurcher

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

(with sincere apologies to Wm. Blake)

Lurcher, Lurcher, burning bright,
In the living room tonight:
What immortal hand or eye
Will fling the nearest window wide?

On what polluted rugs or sofas
Burns the fury of thine odours?
On what lap dare he aspire
To lift his tail and ease the fire?

And what mouldiness, & how tart
From the twisted sinews of thy arse
And when thy guts begin to heat
What dread sound? & what dread squeak?

What the clamour? what the screams,
In what furious, faecal dream?
What fresh hell? What dread gasp
When supine canines spritz their arse?

When the stars threw down their treats
And walked the earth’s first lurcher sweet:
Did God smile his work to see?
Did He who made The Nose make thee?

Lurcher, Lurcher, burning bright,
In the living room tonight:
What immortal hand or eye
Will fling the nearest window wide?