poems

Jimmy McQuaide – Flower Detective in: Dead Header

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Retired flower tec, Jimmy McQuaide
rocks on his porch in hat and shades
quietly sipping pink lemonade
as around him an arbour of roses fades
in a pathetic fallacy display

Suddenly somebody flips the latch
on the garden gate, shows a badge
and into the garden walks Sergeant Madge
‘Sorry to intrude on your beautiful patch
but we’ve got a serious perp to catch’

McQuaide takes a long and thoughtful sip
as Madge tells him how the city’s been gripped
by a pair of secateurs who snips
fancy selections of planted strips
in oddball patterns no-one predicts

‘I’m begging you Jimmy – come back to base
they sent me to ask you, face to face
it’s not been the same since you quit the place
a nose like yours can’t be replaced
so be a sweetpea and take this case’

They ride in his fuschia pink chevrolet
to the scene of the latest horror that day
a tub of pansies in a shopping arcade
their sweet little flowers clipped away
leaving their stubby green leaves on display

Whilst Madge throws up in a shopper’s tote
McQuade pulls out a boastful note
stuck together from letters and quotes
from Honeysuckle monthly – a mag he hoped
might help them get the psycho smoked

‘Y’know they’re calling this sicko Dead Header?
Well – y’don’t have to be a flower professor
to see they’re under serious pressure
I don’t know if they’re just lucky or clever
but they seem to come and go at leisure’

‘Hmm’ says McQuaide, smoothing his tache
‘Luck is for losers, this one’s too flash
our friend here wants to make a splash
this ‘ain’t yer average garden trash
this is more horticultural dispatch’

Just then a guy in green overalls
stepped out anxiously from the mall
‘Hey man – any news at all?
I think our friend is having a ball
No way I see him stopping till fall’

McQuaide piles him face first into the ground
‘How’s it going, Dead Header? Ya clown!
You couldn’t help yourself stickin’ around
to see your handiwork goin’ down
Cuff him, Madge and take him downtown’

Back at the precinct Madge is puzzled
‘How did ya know to give him the muscle?’
‘Easy!’ says McQuaide, ‘his bag was unbuckled
I saw his chopped-up Honeysuckle
Boy! These psychos make me chuckle’

‘Be honest!’ says Madge. ’You LOVE this shit.
You’re a Flower Tec, baby! Be proud and shout it!
You’re the best of the bunch, so go ahead, flout it!
Don’t kid yourself you can live without it.’
McQuaide just smiles: ‘I’ll think about it.’

blockbusters lurchers

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

PAWS
A great white lurcher
sneaks up on the sofa
I’m horrified. drop the remote
we’re gonna need a bigger boat

TOP PAW: MAVERICK
A lurcher travels beyond Mach 10
from the sofa to the kitchen and back again
how the hell have we ever bourne it
a dog that’s faster than a super hornet

AVALURCHAR: THE WAY OF WALKER
A lu’cha from the RSPCA tribe
in a vaguely glastonbury kinda vibe
a walk in the wet is never easy
(vigorous towelling can make you queasy)

a worrying tail

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

it’s a delicate, dog / human stalemate
I want to sit down but I’m worried about your tail mate
look at you – sprawling
on the floor
between the desk and the door
with awful
indifference
but ignorance
is no defence in law
so if your tail gets a kink
when I sit down to think
and you howl
and growl
and kick up a stink
any attempt by you
to lawyer-up and sue
will be laughed out of court
so here’s a thought:
why make snoozing quite so fraught
tuck in your tail before it gets caught
I know you find the desk inviting
but I GOTTA sit down and do some writing

very bad horror poem

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Three school friends shoot a TikTok video
in a mansion owned by the famous Ol’ Billy Jo
Billy disappeared in the twenties or so
and the place is long boarded up, y’know
overgrown, roof blown, even a CROW
squawking on gateposts, to and fro
in your basic slasher-type scenario
the friends are Jake, Alice and Mo
they jemmy a clapperboard and in they go
Mo says Oh Jesus, God, NO!
Alice says don’t fuck with me, mofo
Jake says he’s just getting in character for the show
Alice says Oh
Sorry, it’s this goddamn creepy chateau
It’s really freaking me out, so
can we all agree to forego
the dickin’ around, just shoot and GO?
she’s right though
says Jake, shaking out the spooky throw
he’d brought for the clever, closing tableau
Mo says Okay listen, yo!
and gives a scenic blow-by-blow
as he turns on his GoPro
focuses on the window
and the beady-eyed crow!
the next thing you know
they’re colder than Froyo
and they try to run but can’t move their toes
like they’re paralysed, polaroid photos
while shape shifting shadows
coalesce in the porticos
then shriek in vibrato
Well – goodness me! HELLO!
My name’s Ol’ Billy Jo!

Cut to a cop in a black-and-white combo
night shifts are tedious – always so slow
plenty of time to practise his banjo
but he quickly chucks it for the radio
when a voice crackles on, says Hey, there, Monroe!
Get yourself over pretty quick n’pronto
to that place belonging to Ol’ Billy Jo
I think another hippy politico
has gone in where they shouldn’a go

So Monroe goes
pulls up outside Ol’ Billy Jo’s
gets out – sees the crow
says Hey Crow whaddya know?
shines his torch and in he goes…

God – this movie truly sucks
I can’t believe it cost ten bucks

snack rabbit

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Stanley was standing
off in the distance
and notwithstanding
my whistling insistence
he showed a deal of dogged resistance
stopping where he was
and I saw it was because
he was furiously snacking
on something
compelling
he’d found in the grass
and I hated to think what that something was
so I hurried over
and as I got closer
lost my composure
because what I saw was grosser
than anything you’d see on a horror film poster:
a particularly ripe and reeky rabbit
a deceased easter bunny with a belly full o’maggit
absolutely gross
an ex bugs’ bunny th-th-th-that’s all folks
one decidedly final dose
of goodnight bright eyes adios
I won’t water shit down:
this rotten ol’cottontail was pound for pound
the most hideous dinner a dog ever found
and suddenly hey presto
he’s tucking in with gusto
all fright, al fresco
abracadaver
doggy mind over dodgy matter

who the hell knows
why a dog with a nose
so super-sensitive
would think
such a stink
was representative
of the finest feast a dog could eat?
a canine Michelin, three star treat?

and it makes you feel a bit of a lummox
buying dog food for sensitive stomachs
when he dines like a fiend with a dirty habit
on a rotten ol’pile of rancid rabbit?

status update XLIII

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

And it’s quiet on set, please – lights, camera, action / casting for words with a modicum of traction / cute sounding fragments of sweet abstraction / but it’s less addition, more subtraction / a jackdaw’s nest of raw distraction

Okay shaky, hit me some news / I’ve got the fear and I’ve got the blues / politicians smiling as they’re interviewed / stats and stories misconstrued / headlines made and facts abused / they like to keep you well confused / so they can score more gold as the planet gets screwed

I’m a Kaiju counsellor strategizing / taking notes on matters arising / godzilla on the couch, catastrophizing

I’m a lazy ghost in a vaping store / watermelon ice across the floor / chuffing and puffing through creaking doors / writing on mirrors, slamming drawers / why is haunting SUCH a chore?

By the way – the store looks neat / but I’ll buy me some shoes when I find me some feet

I’m a spy balloon in a shopping arcade / gathering intel for the easter parade / Spiderman, Trump, celebs in hats / the Duracell Bunny, Biden in spats / and suddenly that’s that / game over / locked and loaded, ready for the changeover / if you’re sure that’s really all you’ve got / I’ll fly back to base and upload the lot

Seize the day, Jim – carpe diem / I donated my knees to the local museum / with carpet burns if you wanna see ‘em / along with all the other exhibits / but hurry – they close in a coupla minutes

Okay, UK, I feel your pain / steady as a tent in a hurricane / where CEOs blow and non-doms reign / and power means never having to explain / the funding streams of your golden domain / where the heads get the hats and fuck the extremeties / they love austerity, hate amenities / they’re used to strife without any remedies / and that’s one hundred percent the truth / (who’d have thought a country could produce / so much corruption under one roof?)

‘tis a consummation devoutly to be wished / now pass the bottle, Bill, let’s get pissed

ghost therapy

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I dreamt
I was in hospital, sent
to see a patient
admitted that evening
a screaming
werewolf
scared of
needles
I said it was certainly the lesser of two evils
because it’s either a jab or a silver bullet
so he grabbed the emergency cord to pull it…

but then I opened my eyes
and to my surprise
saw my dead dad
ludicrously clad
in the big black cloak he always had
stagily wreathed in thick grey smoke
waving with boney bonhomie
from the foot of the bed in front of me

Alright son? he said
nodding his head
grinning so broadly
I was inordinately
worried his lower jaw
would pop right out on the bedroom floor
‘We’ve got to stop meeting like this!
but it’s another full moon so I couldn’t resist…’

I sat up
plumped the pillows and backed up
as he worked his cloak and flapped up

‘DAD!’ I said
as he hovered next to the bed
‘I thought when you were dead
schtum – that was it
not all this ghostly shemozzle instead’

‘I know!’ he grinned
‘but turns out when the ol’ body’s binned
the essence carries on regardless
don’t be so heartless
you can hardly
blame me
anyway I’m still a trainee.’

‘It’s been nineteen years!’ I said

‘That’s nothing when you’re dead,’
he shrugged
‘But hey – it’s hard for me to judge’

I sighed
smoothed the duvet over my thighs
‘Sorry I was snippy
but it’s just a bit tricky
when you were alive you were so
I don’t know
buttoned up?
now you’re dead there’s no shutting you up.’

‘It’s true’ he said
‘I never felt so alive now I’m dead
but you see
the family meant a lot to me
I’m sorry I didn’t get to say how I really felt
but I guess that’s the hand your ol’man was dealt
my dad was a drunk who gave us the belt
so we grew up quiet and self-contained
which maybe explains
the strange restraint
but who knows? a psychotherapist I ain’t’

We chatted awhile about this and that
metaphysics; whether there are cats
and dogs
in the afterlife – or not;
what he thought about climate change;
whether he could arrange
to smuggle me over
so I could look around and get some closure
‘It’s not me it’s the paperwork,’ he said
‘It’s more straightforward when you’re actually dead.’

Just then we heard
a chorus of birds
raucously squawking just outside
a certain sign that dawn had arrived
and I reached out and shook his metacarpals
cold as a hand of wire-strung marbles
and despite all the smoke
the skeleton chic and the bullshit cloak
I have to admit I felt quite choked
when he finally twirled and quickly left
unexpectedly just as bereft
as nineteen years ago this June
when they switched him off in ITU

it was the best of times, it was the radio times

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I was raised by a rental Ferguson TV
suckled on her aerial lovingly
on a furious diet of visionary scraps
series, cartoons, stuff like that
UFO, Thunderbirds, Dr Who
sprouting eyes as I slowly bloomed
in the seeing light of the sitting room
The Clangers, Magpie, Mr Benn
Wacky Races, Ivor the Engine
down on the carpet, raptly hunched
Captain Kirk, the Hair Bear Bunch
my glowing brain a glassy fog
of Muppets, Flintstones, Noggin the Nog
Here comes Bod, Rupert the Bear
Crystal Tipps and Alistair
till I pulled the plug and ran from the house
me, The Wombles and Danger Mouse

make your own stanley

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

what you will need:
essence of fox
zest of wolf
sloth extract
some bagpipes
a whisk
a balloon
a clock
3m of curly white carpet
a big box with nothing in it
packing tape

method:
Preheat the oven to gas mark 3 (to heat up your dinner while you’re working)
Cut six holes in the big box – one in front, one out back, four underneath.
Place the bagpipes in the box with the four long pipes poking through the underneath holes.
Put the pipe you blow through the back hole.
Put the whisk in the front hole.
Throw in the essence, the zest and the extract.
Wind up the clock and chuck it in.
Close the box.
Seal the box with packing tape.
Blow up the balloon. Draw eyes, nose & mouth on it. Stick it on the end of the whisk.
Cover the box with the curly white carpet.
Have your dinner (sneaking Stanley some cheese when no one’s looking.)