The Mound
dogs
Frankenstanley
This is the story of Frankenstanley
abominable ears and legs a’gangly
thrown together from a box of bits
jolted alive with crocodile clips
Ha-haaaah…
but when I saw my drear creation
staggering around the messy work station
I felt so foolish! I’d been such a mug!
I immediately tried to pull the plug
Noooooo…
Frankenstanley beat me to it
saw a window and leapt right through it
out of his mind! out of control!
we only caught up at the fucking North Pole
Gggggggrrrrrreeeeeeat….
Now we’re doomed to traverse the ice
and the cold winds clamp my nuts in a vice
so in conclusion to this letter
I think science is fine but Literature’s better
suddenly stanley
We were way out over the fields for a hike
a fabulous April morning – but also kinda fake
every cloud just a little TOO cloud-like
the kind of cloud a cloud machine would make
the grass glassy and crunchy
Stanley’s hair tufty and bunchy
buffeted in the jesus-christ-this-breeze-is-actually-freezing kinda way
but despite all that it was a lovely day
Suddenly Stanley froze
(but not because of the temperature)
tense from his nose to his hairy toes
like a novelty dog-shaped piece of furniture
with lots of ribby drawers
and cute caster claws
and a whole lot of other things I suppose
but I’m afraid that’s as far as this metaphor goes
‘What is it, Stanley?’ I said
crouching masterfully by his side
so MY head was in line with HIS head
and the dog perspective that supplied
‘Stanley? What’s wrong?’
he was tense like a singer about to launch into song
after one or two bars from the orchestra
or maybe a brilliant scientist working on a formula
but just as suddenly he unfroze
gave his body a vigorous shake
trotted on happily tail thru nose
like all that drama was a big mistake
I followed on behind
turning over in my mind
the subtle differences you might choose to log
between the brain of a human and the brain of a dog
My conclusion?
heightened senses are a wonderful thing
but can lead to confusion
especially around Spring
the way of the dog
the octopus affair
we’d only had it about a week
I’d bought it on a whim
those googly eyes! that crazy squeak!
Stanley fell in love with him
they’d lie for hours on the sofa
in a great big gangly knot
a four legged casanova
an eight legged cephalopod
sometimes he’d wear it like purple hair
the legs hanging down like curls
sometimes he’d toss it high in the air
like a cheerleader doing twirls
the day the octopus went missing
Stanley was deeply depressed
his cruel existence consisting
of endless octopuslessness
the search was long and tiring
the toy had done its best
but eventually I found it hiding
under a wooden chest
so now they’re reunited
the affair is wilder than ever
Stanley overexcited
the octopus squeaking in terror
stanley style
I’m sorry to say
Stanley is not soignee
simply put
he is NOT NEAT
from his raggy old nose
to his shaggy old feet
his scragginess complete
his pedigree
higgledy piggledy
fishy as kedgeree
to say he was spiffy
is iffy
his fur a total bust
not at all lustrous
a little disastrous
dainty he ‘aint
breath to make you faint
the yeti end of hirsute
the cussed end of cute
a bark that makes you turn and take another route
speaking man-to-man
he’s hairier than an orangutan
not so much sartorial
as arboreal
is that pictorial
enough?
I’m trying my best
to describe his mess
but it’s tough
courage mon brave
le chien n’est pas suave
news just in
the dog is crustier
than a rubbish bin
so in that sense
there’s an argument
to say he is well turned-out
it’s a flagrant
but not particularly fragrant fact
that if you were his stylist you’d be sacked
and if you said he was gorgeous
the lie would be enormous
and legally you’d have to retract
if you said he was spruce
that would be a significant misuse
of the adjective
his anti-natty narrative
scoring nine on the Scruffs Scale of Comparative
(which I can tell you now
if you like
goes from oh my god wow
to oh dear god yikes)
he’s the opposite of opulent
a minging monument
to dirty dogs everywhere
an antihero of personal care
with antigravity hair
in fact it’s insane
how rough he remains
he could run through a black hole and come out the same
a totally scruffy scrapper
saluting the flag at the crapper end of dapper
a freestyling frank zappa
phi beta krappa
but none of this matters
why?
because love means
never having to say you’re sorry
and never having to worry
about how you look
(and as far as THAT goes
he wrote the book)
miner crime
the sofa
was woeful
fit for disposal
but my proposal
was to put a cover on it
and see if that helped a bit
the problem was Stanley
excavating constantly
(why, I’ve no idea
I’m not sure even he was clear)
and a monstrous hole was growing
and the stuffing was showing
and though there was no going
and throwing
good money after bad
especially after the bills we’d had
still we wanted to prolong
the life of a couch we hadn’t had long
so
we got this heavy cover
from somewhere or other
machine washable
as tough as possible
whose pattern wasn’t horrible
and all in all it was great
except – wait
what’s that sound?
like a giant mole shovelling underground
or a demonic miner pushing coal around
regular, rhythmic
cataclysmic
like some hectic neolithic
busy downstairs
using flint to prepare
a hairy carcase
well – d’you really have to ask us?
what’s in a name
we were coming back from the copse
(not CORPSE
of course
a copse is just trees
a corpse is a job for the police
or ‘cops’
but I’m afraid that’s where the matter drops)
anyway
Stanley was lagging
dragging
his paws
why?
I wasn’t sure
we’d had a good long walk
me shooting crows with a camera
Stanley using his nose with stamina
so it wasn’t as if
he was miffed
we were coming back sooner than we shoulda
and he’d have stayed out longer if he coulda
and he didn’t have a thorn in his paw
(I checked all four)
and I was pretty sure
he hadn’t torn
a ligament
he just stood there looking innocent
all in all it was quite a predicament
So – and I can’t believe I’m blushing –
here’s the thing:
Stanley is a dog of many names
some of them normal, some of them strange
it just depends on how the mood takes you
and how the hound currently relates to you
so, standing stuck with him there on the pavement
I said ‘c’mon sweet nuts’ as a means of encouragement
(where it came from I’ve no idea
he hasn’t had nuts for a couple of years )
anyway – all this would’ve been totally fine
if there hadn’t been another guy following behind
‘not you, the dog…’ I said
the guy shook his head
and hurried on
and it was only when I was sure he was gone
that I tugged on the lead and struggled on
(it’s really beyond embarrassing, Stanley
some names are better off kept in the family)
3 verses from the Book of Irritations
full lurcher jacket
Stanley Kubrick
was another famous Stanley
and although he was a dogged worker
he wasn’t a lurcher
which would’ve been difficult, understandably
as Stanley Kubrick’s hands were more handily
adapted for working cameras
or figuring out the lighting parameters
than Stanley the lurcher’s galumphing great paws
which are cute and all that but have certain flaws
especially when it comes to focusing a shot
so were there ANY famous directors called Stanley who were also a lurcher?
probably not
jim clayton 