Stanley

mutiny on the Stanley

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I put it to you, sir
that you are one galumphing great hound, sir
d’ye understand me, sir?
a hirsute, uncouth cur, sir
a sybaritic, rule-breaking saboteur, sir
a chaos connoisseur, sir
with poorly coiffured fur, sir
d’ye concur, sir?
it is most unfortunate, sir
that you are cursed with an importunate manner, sir
and I have scrutinised, sir
how you have utilised, sir
those unfeasibly & unwieldy paws, sir
to cause havoc in every hammock, sir

d’ye demur, sir?
Damn yer gorgeous & appealing eyes, sir!
THIS IS MUTINY, SIR!

The Rime of the Ancient Astronaut

~ jim clayton ~ 1 Comment

Argument: How an astronaut in a cheap, party shop beard and a spaceship dangerously like two toilet rolls duct taped together gets smashed off course by a storm of Kibble in the Constellation of Shar-Pei and crash lands on the planet Stanleynia; the strange things that befall him there, and how he doth make his return to Earth. And why he doth subsequently get chucked out of some kinda bougie, social media event.

PART ONE

I saw an ancient Astronaut
stand in line with a plate
so asked him very politely
to see his invite, mate

He whirled and fixed me furiously
with wild and wayward eye
his beard held on with string and tape
a kipper for a tie

‘There was a ship!’ the strange guest said
‘No one can deny it!’
I backed away a foot or so
as all around fell quiet

‘We blasted off from Space-X port
The crowds all cheered and whooped
– a whizz of stars, a space montage –
we landed on Venus, pooped

But coming back, tragedy struck!
We hit a shower of Kibble!
Many men died that fateful night
Our booster rockets crippled

Day after day, day after day
We stuck, no oomph nor motion
As idle as a cardboard ship
On a point of sale promotion

PART TWO

A ship hove by! Oh frightful sight!
The crew a pack of mutts
And at the door I think I saw
A lurcher going nuts

They towed us down to their planet
Hark to the tale I speak!
Every last seat was a sofa!
Every bone with a squeak!

A team of golden chihuahuas
dragged me to their leader
A scruffy old hound called Stanley
Asleep on a hairy two-seater

‘Say from where thou com’st, traveller?’
He spoke in speech most queer
(but then if you’re an alien dog
you’d sound all like Shakespeare)

‘Welcome to Stanleynia!’ he cried
‘I rule with iron paw
– the rate is just three treats a night
a double room is four’

I hardly slept in my basket
planning a quick escape
I stole a ship and up I ripped
before my guards awak’d

PART THREE

Since my return have I wandered
Press launch, party, soiree
Blagging whatever food I can score
From the all-you-can-eat buffet

And so, at this uncertain hour
My agony returns!
Until my ghastly tale is told
My gastric reflux burns!’

We bade him sit and clear his plate
But also called the bouncers
I liked the hustle but wanted muscle
To rule out further encounters

rescue dog

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Out on our morning walk we found
the storm had brought an oak tree down
blocking our usual route
with its branches & roots
‘I think we can climb through’
I said optimistically
Stanley looked up at me uncertainly
‘Just pretend you’re a rescue dog’
The inevitable epilogue?
Stanley got stuck
so I had to go back and pick him up
he’s a big dog; it was a big production
in his case ‘Rescue Dog’ more of an instruction

Frankenstanley

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

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

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

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 octopus affair

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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

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

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

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

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?