Post archive
Words and Images 2008-10
1 Power Cut - 2010
2 My Type - 2010
3 Is This It? - 2010
4 So - 2010
5 Little Winchester 1 - 2009
6 Kid of Jealous - 2009
7 Misconceived - 2009
8 Jerusalem - 2009
9 National Dysphoria - 2009
10 The Example - 2008/2009
11 Piggy - 2009
12 Opaque Peach - 2009
13 Pittsburgh -2009
14 Blow Back - 2009
15 James Deans' Childish Verse - 2009
16 10 - 2008
17 Ducks - 2009
18 Flat Life - 2008
19 No Reservations - 2009
20 Narrenschift - 2008
21 Yours Sincerely - 2009
22 The Interview - 2008/2009
Power Cut
From power brunch
To power hunch
To power launch
To power lunch
To power projection
To fuel injection
To power club
from power pub
With powdered guys
On power highs
To power pad
And power bed
With power ex
For power sex.
Yet the powder snow
Left his ink-well low,
Which goes to prove
That powder can be cruel
To the power trip tool
My Type
Every time I come in you're waitingWith a mouthful of tweets
And a Gooseberry head of tics
Am I your type? Is anyone?
Tonight I'd rather grunt results
With a tangle of tattoos
Than share a single conjoined minute
With you and your mothballed breath.
I'm going to burst your Gooseberry head
And let the ticks in.
Try liquidising my cochlea then.
Try looping the loop now.
You've started walking down my way
To show me your printouts:
Japanese poems and Arabic font.
Face it, you're not my type.
Is This It?
1
I lost my marbles in the penal colony of Magaluf, holiday destination of the dysfunctional Brit in the summer of '85. In the Irish bars and the London pubs Brummies battered Geordies while Manc's set upon Scousers in some flesh and blood recreation of a Dandy comic strip.I landed with some relative strangers due to my inability to say 'no' some three months prior. We all drank. Nirvana attained with help from chocolate Lamumba, Sambuca, Tequila and bottled beer. Then to the club.
Tone deaf speakers spewing out mid-eighties leg cramp, igniting black eyed eagles on gold backgrounds in my sponge head. Arses in minis and boobs in tubes hung about, sweating for hours. Like a swaying mass of skin toned smarties; Scotch blue, Preston white, Durham red, Bournemouth brown and cancer black. Club to hotel, to drip-tray supermarket vinegar. Like the alcoholic I would become I drank to forget.
I tanned quickly, quicker than the others. My eyes got bluer and my hair fairer. Outwardly a bronzed, Aryan surfer, inwardly a grey-green slurry of of rotting organs. My heart pumped out a weary trickle red piss. I topped up everything with ice and coke until even that became an unnecessary luxury. And then the money dried up and my 'friends' became my amused bankers.
Five days into my holiday and i had witnessed one female, German, beach front heart attack brought on by sunstroke and lard. On the sixth I was narrowly missed by a young blonde propelled a limb disfiguring distance off the bonnet of a speeding car. Up she got and five minutes later sat at an adjoining table with something yellow shaded by a miniature umbrella. This was Darwin in reverse, survival of the sickest. A parade of fools shipped in from Carlisle, Portsmouth, Halifax et al. A two week respite for the boys in blue back home. I longed for an emergency flight to blighty, 'Man Contracts Mystery Virus In Horror Hotel'. I felt old and tired.
At the club among the tattoos, blistered shoulders, casuals with mullets and obligatory shiny button ups I found Corrine Attane, tall, brown and beautiful. For the remaining three days we walked hand in hand, sat on benches and gingerly shared kisses, then snogs, then we truffled as young lovers do. She knew no English and I no French and we never returned to that club.
On my final night in that hotel with my by now estranged friends off out for one final bout of shamelessness I lay down a pillow and blanket on the balcony. We cuddled up while a pair of Welsh boxer's dried on a television aerial above. The act was in keeping with the holiday; brief, tawdry and utterly unforgettable. Surrounded by a sea of broken glass and fag butts I lost my virginity and Corinne told me she had too.
We exchanged addresses, kissed one last time and smiled to another as the coach pulled away. I remember it raining.
2
Corinne lived in a place called Meaux Beauville, Nr Paris. I lived in Chandlers Ford, Nr Southampton. The Ford as it was known was a suburb helicoptered in sometime in the early seventies as its soul was being stretchered away. Other than swinging and divorce settlements the highlight of the week for the majority of Fordies would be a feet up, laugh-a-minute Sunday night in with Songs of Praise and Last of the Summer Wine, followed by a desert of straight off to bed in PJ's. A land where I was once issued a primitive asbo for kicking a football against a sapling goal-post in the only patch of green available. I was ten.The comprehensive school, which had obviously taken Enoch
's 'rivers of blood' a little too literally and which I had the misfortune to attend hadn't one 'child of colour' among its thousand plus numbers. In retrospect there was more chance of a Norwegian goat herders con-joined twin daughters enrolling than a Jamaican.I hated it and it couldn
't care less.Every house had a gravel drive to alert its occupants to the danger of door-to-door communists or child-stealing gypsies.
One upmanship kept the Fordies ticking; church attendance-offs, gnome-offs, double glazing-offs, Tupperware-offs but in the main clean-offs; cars, carpets, leaves, gravel. Anything that could be soap-sudded was soap sudded. In early summer the smell of creosoted wood spread like a bush fire.
Across the road Raymond took this to its inevitable conclusion, brassoing his door knocker every day, rain or shine. Centuries past such behaviour would have rightly warranted a good old-fashioned dunking on the cucking-stool. Here in the Ford the only thing getting high were fences and gun turrets, optional. Ray was a Methodist and like many a conscientious objector to living.
This was Wogan country. Routine was achievement and individuality a mental health issue deserving of a large black cross. Unclean.
By eighteen I had ruined my C.V for life. Part-time postal delivery boy at a cable factory. Part-time ditch digger. Part-time grounds man, a glorified mole killing machine and the zenith, a part-time Beatrix Potter ceramic cottage roof painter. My future in the City was assured.
On my return from Magaluf I settled into part-time shelf stacking duties at the local supermarket alongside fellow serfs, smuggled in under cover of darkness, from our grey, ugly, yet infinitely more glamorous railway town neighbours. I quickly discovered that I had as much in common with my stacking comrades as I did with the Fordies.What
's that? Middle class, self-obsessed sulkster etc. etc. I'll bear that in mind.Most of the time I just felt homesick in my own home.3
I arrived in France for the Grand European Tour with an inter rail ticket and trepidation. A whole continent to explore, I'd told my friends back home; Rome, Berlin, Madrid, Athens etc. If they had known my true intentions the laughter would have followed me all the way to Paris.I had come to meet Corinne. There would be no stop-offs in the east to catch a spot of bear-bating, no trips north to join in a solidarity march with my polish brothers. Besides which the four hundred quid
's worth of travellers cheques wouldn't see me through a weeks youth hostelling in Istanbul. No, I was here for one reason, Corinne.She would swoon. I would catch her fall. We would marry in a Chateau overlooking the Loire river whilst the reddened valley below, flushed with the summer sun would be stuffed with unrefined rustic types, raising chipped peasant wine glasses to their betters.
"Vive la marriage!" I would teach them cricket and they'd crush my grapes.I entered the Railway Hotel in Meaux Beauville soaked and lugging a lead weighted back pack behind me as a giant turtle might emerge from the ocean blinking.
Old men puffed on roll-ups and played cards, whilst a grainy black and white rugby match on TV crackled away in a corner. All but one turned their accusatory eyes my way. Don
't cross the moor tonight, I thought. The one not seemingly interested sat at the end of the bar, slightly younger and unshaven, puffing on a cigarette and staring at the screen. "Merde" he yelled as one indefinable grey team scored against another. No buxom Gallic wench in sight, twinkling of eye and long of leg. No one twinkled in here.My backpack slipped to the floor and I turned and stood silently. The cadavers had stopped their staring and following a decade or so of dripping the familiar fag-cracked cry of
'merde' sounded from the bars end. The final whistle blew. "Dix franc," the same voice said I turned about and looked left then right. no one. "Dix franc" In front of me rested a small bottle of German beer. "Dix Franc?" I stammered, reaching for my rain-soaked wallet. "Oui" he grunted still staring at the screen and inhaling. A corpse across the room laughed as the score came up. Mr. Personality shut him up with one glance. I fumbled for any note that might have a 'dix' on it, when across the bar he reached over and clumsily grabbed a note from the wallet, disdainfully looked at the rain limp paper and threw it in the open till."American?"
"Non, Anglais."
His eyes momentarily lit up as he coughed up some speed French to the cadavers, which brought on a thin trickle of asthmatic laughter."Un chambre, s'il vous plais" I blushed.One more bout of speed French directed at me before a pair of keys appeared from his pocket. Holding up one he pointed to the entrance, the other to a staircase, no doubt leading to my piss stained, flea infested bed. I drank my beer and left the bar.
I got up early and left. Meaux appeared much as I imagine Middlesbrough to look, only smaller. No castles, no fields, just concrete towers surrounded by moats of litter and dog shit. Finding Corinne's slum I left a truncated note in the box marked Atane: 'Meet at Railway Hotel, seven, today, Monday. Love David xxx Can't wait.'
The rain had relented and I indulged a couple of urchins with a game of keepy-uppy outside the hotel. They laughed and I laughed back. The first laughter I'd produced or heard in three days and I was glad of it.
Once more unto the breach and barwards to share in some more poetic musings with Monsieur personality. Seven dix francs later, having learnt the French for beer and forgotten the one for thank you I sauntered outside musing fancifully on the cadavers new found respect for the Englishman; "That roast beef ee drink seven bier and he still stand, incredible. Quel homme!" Quarante-zero I told the ducks populating the canal and further pondered whether it were possible to twin bars as they do towns. The Railway hotel Meaux with The Dead Rat, Tooting Bec, a joyful meeting of minds and iron lungs.
Enough air. Wash and deodorise.
I returned this time to a chair and table alongside the bar. Half an hour to go before I'd show the Cadavers my true intent, to rescue the fair maiden from the clutches of Meaux's living dead. To the train and away leaving behind a lynch mob of leprous, balding, peasants, clutching inhalers and collapsing as we pull away in our silk-lined carriage.
Corinne entered the bar accompanied. She didn't notice me as her leather clad boyfriend brought a round of drinks to seven or so twenty something's.First the arm round the shoulder, then the kiss and then the playful cupping of breast. Her reaction? A playful slap on his leathered thigh.
I staggered to my pit, donned trainers and left the hotel heart pounding. I looked at the roadside bench opposite. Sit down or run. lie down in the street or run. Drown in the canal or run. I ran.The rain started up and I ran and ran, faster and faster, whilst tears lost themselves in the sweat which sprayed off me. I was liquid.On returning, as I struggled up the grass embankment of the canal I slipped on the wet moss and slid on my front a few feet back down. The stench of the dog shit was immediate. This was no ordinary dog shit. This was constipated, postman-eating, six-foot in length Rottweiler dog shit.
Covered from trainers to collar Shit Man strolled back through the bar without a head turning, leaving the cadavers to decide whose colostomy had been breached this time.
I tugged off my poo-covered garments and left them unseen on top of the cupboard, sat by the window writing rubbish poetry and imagined Monsieur leather humping the night away in the backseat of a Citroen C.V to a looped tape recording of 'Born in the USA'.
I took the morning train, having perforated the hidden bag (a gratuity) and avoided paying Monsieur personality a franc for my stay. Off to the South for me to seek fame and fortune.
Bon, je vais te quitter car je n'ai plus quand chose a dire. Exscuse-moi encore de t'ecrire si tard. A bientot. Je t'embrasse, David.
4
Last night I found myself walking the streets of a town much like a memory of Brighton but it may have been any and every town. It is bitterly cold as I pass rain-soaked pensioners at bus stops whilst enormous seagulls rummage through chip paper. The sky is an oppressively low promenade grey.
The sliding doors suck me out of the cold and into the Jonah's belly of a plastic pastel warehouse masquerading as a department store.
"Do you sell pyjamas?" I ask
"No" she replies
"Dressing gowns?"
"Only women's" she gestures and I turn.
Hurriedly throwing on a silk number I head out of the whale without paying. Since my dream began I had been shamefully cupping my conkers, shrivelled and blue, my naked white body on view to pensioners, shoppers and seagulls alike. I awake in a cold sweat, leaving my sheets sodden and my day disturbed.
In my late twenties I found myself living above a take-away pizza 'restaurant' that prided itself on wet dough and burnt topping. The boss was a friend of a friend but not mine. I had developed an unhealthy unemployed troglodyte existence comprising cigarettes, Jack Daniels and bed sores. My blissful Eden had to end and so it did. Inane skills in transporting a hod of overweight, yawning brick-layers at a ridiculously early hour to another county far, far away saw to that.
It was a family firm and as I wasn't, first in first out applied. I worked hard and was generally accepted by the tribe. I hod-carried bricks and shovelled muck, laughed at bad jokes and serviced the monosyllabic sun readers with dog-pies from the local bakers.
My cash-in-hand barely covered the rent yet miraculously covered a four-pack and a nightly bottle. I never drove in sober and I never returned anything other than exhausted. Cement dust burnt my skin and the angels deserted me. The greater my new families acceptance the more my heart sank.
In due course and after an allotted probation I was given what was considered a vital position within the clan, that of protecting Nobby.
Norbert was an enigma, my enigma. Only he could trip over nothing, fall off the second rung of nothing and enjoy a modus operandi of very little. Norbert caused me headaches and hair loss but he was a kind and gentle man. The rest of his tribe remorselessly bullied the "useless twat" and "waste of oxygen" who was my ward. After all as they pointed out on numerous occasions "What the fuck else could the fuckin' idiot do?"
Norbert needed my watchful eye for good reason. His role on site was to double or treble the clans weekly income. His special talent was a near photographic memory. I say 'near' as it only applied to the gee-gee's. Norbert knew horses, Norbert knew owners, jockeys, courses, conditions, distances, odds, histories and for all I wondered saddles, stirrups and equine astrology.
Norbert was wealthy. At weekends he would smarten up; shiny shoes beneath a shiny suit and off to the races, invariably winning. The money was then handed to his dad and transferred to a high interest account, or so it was said.
I laughed with Norbert, wanted to drown him in the nearest puddle but without him my time on site would have been even more soulless and miserable. As the clan moved north onto a new job I stayed south, leaving Nobby picking winners. Before they left I gave him a hug. Wherever he is now Norbert will be tripping and falling and cupping his conkers.
5
I never had time as a lecturer to care too deeply for my colleagues, or they me. There wasn’t time for break ups or break downs. No time for jaundice, cancer or hubris. They came and they went and this wenting earned the governmental double entendre of ’natural wastage’. My pals were so much excremental yesterdays.
Students became ’customers’ and we as ’service providers’ were annually u-bended to some beach front sewage outlet near you.
“Ever worked twelve hours down a mine? Ever been shot at by a sniper in Helmand Province?” No and neither have you.
My wonderful first year in lecturing proceeded as follows:
“Oh, you didn’t know….. Sorry would you pass the pepper?”
“A lecturer?” Intentional pause.
“Yeah, art history, well contextual studies apparently.”
“Smug academic then?”
“I suppose I am. Good eh?”
I wasn’t a lecturer. I was a fully inflated bouncy castle of a lecturer. A super lecturer. I was a pause, pass the pepper academic. Respect due and duly received. From hod-carrier to intellectual icon. Stop the clock. Pathetic.
Year two was somewhat different from year one. They found me out and made me behave as if I were employed. I now had enemies in the form of initials: AVCE, GNVQ, ND, AS, A2, PGCE, BTEC, GCSE, JD etc. Lecturing consisted of mastering these codes. In the beginning I tried but even then realised a stance of insouciant rebellion, an academics right I believe, could serve me better. In reality it only served to piss off the course leaders of the aforementioned initials. However, no one fancied the poisoned chalice of contextual studies with its student boredom and essay marking. This allowed me a certain leeway not afforded my colleagues. I complained about the paperwork without doing any. Incited rebellion at the fag break college gates and whilst fellow lecturers acted. I scratched my insouciant stance of an arse.
I enjoyed my time in the lecture theatre and in the classroom. I liked the majority of my students and many times my preconception balloon pricked by their fundamental decency. Their ability to overcome often dreadful home lives and occasionally to get in on time. The work they produced and the progress they made warmed my cynical old bones In fact I was seldom cynical toward them, merely the system designed to shaft creativity, imagination and individuality, mine and theirs.
Without them this job would have been the singularly most pointless office bound torture ever devised. Fags and students were good. Word processing and middle managers weren’t. End of lecture for now.
Sean’s baseball cap read ’same shit, different day’. During my fascinating lectures he would draw Bart Simpson. He drew Bart and I lectured on ism’s and stuff. Sean could do whatever he wished and as his wish list didn’t seem to exist that was fine with me. In a class of thirty or so he disappeared as no doubt he always had. Pale and silent, he had little in common with his hero save for the sentiment on his ever present cap.
I grudgingly agreed to escort Sean around the Tate Modern as a London trip approached and as he apparently suffered from mild asthma.
Big Gerry, my animation lecturing partner in crime and Sean, our asthmatic appendage exited the coach and tactically lingered at the rear of the Tate herd, eventually to left, right and left it out of view down the South Bank with beery, lovely naughtiness in mind.
“Here okay Sean?”
Three pints later and an aborted attempt at a minty stroll to the Tate was scuppered by myself and Gerry having to all but carry the ’mild’ asthmatic the entire way. We found ourselves parked in the gift shop on the ground floor as our patient, face now the shade and texture of a butter bean, had become unable to ascend the escalator. An hour and a half of not looking as though we were about to pilfer an overpriced Ikeaesque poster somehow passed by.
Gerry looked at me over the top of Sean’s cap and mouthed the words ”same shit, our day”. I gave the piggy in our middle a man to man bear hug. He looked up at me as a crippled Spaniel might, fatal jab approaching.
I subsequently heard that Sean had died in his late twenties. Bart would have found the words but I hardly knew him. There was never the time.
I had my fifteen minutes with Sean, but within two years the system had already initiated dehumanisation. Feeling smug Mr. Warhol?
So
I think somebody asked
like
where you'd gone, but we don't bitch. Yeah?
He's quite funny when he's wasted as well.
My house really smells of curry.
I was
like
clearly not! It's
like
you need to leave the door open.
Basically fit and
like
black. Fierce.
I always forget I'm really dark.
Like this thing she got in a porn shop.
Yeah, like when you hit twenty-five and everyting is shit.
And I'm a racist!?
This girl I know called Daisy
like
literally.
I so didn't see that coming.
I think it was
like
yeah
and he was
like
this is the worst place to go.
Tattoos? Yeah
She went bad, like in therapy, yeah?
Oh yeah.
You find
like
if there are customers and i get to be
like
on the till.
Did you see that?
Fucking crazy old bitch!
What was all that about?
If old people are
like
nice to me, i'm
like
so nice back.
Let's chain smoke as long as she's around.
This one is closing up
like
really fast.
Sometimes i take my nose stud out when i sleep.
Why take the risk?
Duh!
You end up
like
scarred. Gross.
Pretty much i don't hang out with her.
If she ends up a massive freak.
Yeah
like
art school.
It's not
like
her being
like
you know
like
unattractive.
Like
seriously.It's not
like
i'm not doing A'Levels, Yeah?
Psy (fucking) chology, yeah?
Also i'm quite an angry person.
I mean, why can't you not
like
hold hands?
I just didn't want to walk with them.
I was
like
bye louise.
Amy's doing drama or something.
she'll find something.
Where did that woman go? I
like
don't care.
Think she works in
like
Next, or something.
What is her freaking problem?
Like
why us?
At least i
like
work for a living.
like
so what, yeah? How fucking dare she!
Oh don't fucking worry, she's a mentalist, yeah?
Jealous.
Yeah. I don't care.
Bitch is
like
still looking over.
No way am i going!
Is that
like
Luke and Milly?
No don't look over!
So not right, yeah?
I thought he was
like
gay? He is gay, yeah?
Like
total gay. And she's a fucking spaz, totally.
Sit over here so they can't see us.
No you come here.
Eisenhower was incredible.
Korean war.
Yeah.
Fierce.
This place is
like
weirding me out.
Panic attack, yeah?
Like
literally.
Little Winchester 1
I couldn't remember if it was a Saturday or a Sunday.
Yes, but you were in the finals?
I thought, 'forget it if I'm gonna play it'.
The boys' were there, Jack was there.
I actually like doubles,
I'm very different.
One, two, three. Five, six, seven
Can we change partners again?
On five we step back
Otherwise, we one, two, three and tapped
We went to Cornwall. Texted your sister.
Three grand a week, basic.
Wood burning stove.
They said, 'Mummy'.
I've heard rave reviews about it.
Oh okay, email Chris, Unique Homes.
Check it out, Oh God, so beautiful.
Quite dramatic, we got there, we arrived
And I said, as usual, we were shunted to the back.
One, two, three. Five, six, seven
Can we change partners again?
On five we step back
Otherwise, we one, two, three and tapped
Winston Churchill, no it wasn't Churchill.
Stunning, you know what I mean?
Smuggling, great, tidal flow, rip.
Serious bloody beaching.
Lovely café.
Brilliant. So anyway, Jamie says,
On the pontoon. Oh God, you know.
I love it, nice pubs, boating.
Basically hilariously fabulous barbeques.
Big cliffs.
Is that one of the nicest places to go.
One, two, three. Five, six, seven
Can we change partners again?
On five we step back
Otherwise, we one, two, three and tapped
I'm fine, thank you. I'm exaggerating.
An hour east of Tour.
Jesus, 36 degrees see.
You're a harsh woman.
It was like, anyway and so.
The Loire.
Sleeping beauties-type castle
You know, Spa type thing.
One, two, three. Five, six, seven
Can we change partners again?
On five we step back
Otherwise, we one, two, three and tapped
I'll never forget your wedding.
I thought they were buying in Greece.
She flew down with Sue.
Lost two stone. Snored all night.
Separate rooms. Valium.
Mark's bought a round.
I was like so…
Daddy left, Craig arrived.
Got to the beach at 12. Fabulous.
One, two, three. Five, six, seven
Can we change partners again?
On five we step back
Otherwise, we one, two, three and tapped
I mean literally, literally two minutes.
Seventy quid to La Rochelle.
Really stunning, stunning hotel.
Let's do that.
No hills, that's the joy of cycling with kids.
He got all 'A' stars, going to Camford.
Well done Leigh, got two 'B's.
Elliot got them all, high achiever.
Max got basically chucked out
Love it, she said.
If they're not good enough, they're not good enough.
It's down to you.
Self-motivated. They're hot on that.
Crammer sessions.
Remember this, this and this.
One to one.
And Robin was like woo hoo hoo.
Harry got amazing results, makes you think.
But that's good banter.
Taxi
One, two, three. Five, six, seven
Can we change partners again?
On five we step back
Otherwise, we one, two, three and tapped
Kid of Jealous
And we all tossed about in this motley mixture
Myself, Bertrand Russel and his tea pot
But I could tell that he was more than afflicted
By his very close veins.
Not without hope do we mourn and despair
However, nevertheless and perhaps, his sesquipedalian stuff
And seven rows along and three from the back
ennui on ennui consumed mine.
In the canteen (at one) theological was an oxymoron
And those nodding heads, nod, nod nodded in time
And your very close veins are beginning to itch
And I'm considered a kid of jealous.
Your theories on the universal and the existential
Are all well and good and so and so
But the clismos is still twisted torture
And my cheeks are my only angst.
And you want us to be cavemen in a world of museums?
You want us to be cavemen in a world of museums!
Well I'm collecting old man's beard on a country lane
It sticks like candyfloss in the breeze.
Oh and ambition is the last refuge of failure
And I never, ever, thought of that before
And now my veins are beginning to itch
And I clench and resist the grapes of wrath.
Still, two wheels on my wagon and i'm still rollin' along
Them Cherokee's are after me
Arrows fly, touch the sky
But I'm singin' a happy song.....
Dear Son
You were my secret and I didn't want to believe you were real. My first and only. My heart burst with the joy of being a creator and of what we could do together. You would rest on my shoulders and I would breathe in your sweet chemical air.
I would go in goal and you would repeat dirty words and I would laugh 'til, "he said arse" and parents would drag their kids away and cancel party invites. I would kill wasps for you and you would draw kangaroos and sunny houses. I'd screw in screws, you'd unscrew them and I'd screw them in again.
We could hide-and-seek one another in the grey blanket of a spring morning. You would always hide, of course, and I would be left listing numbers for you to learn. On the count of 'twenty' I would miss you behind the oak. "You're too good, I give up."
'Come here and look. What is it? You tell me. What does it smell like? Lift it up. Don't be afraid, it won't bite. Good. Is it heavy? Be gentle, don't drop it. What colour is it? I know you know, Daddy's being silly, isn't he? What does it look like? Like who? Like me! It must be very handsome then. Now put it down. Come on, let's go.'
Running faster and faster, crying and consoling after tumbling and bleeding. All patched up with correction fluid and black marker, I would hang you out to dry.
Neck deep in sand, you build castles on my buried toes, hysterical as the foam fills the moat and engulfs Dad to his ears. With a giants strength I emerge and chase you up the dunes and onto the grass banks, growling. Wurde das meine liebe in einem einzelnen wort einfach gesagt wurde.
I can feel under my finger tips the fresh black ink of you pitted in my skin.
Walks in woods, pets you would bore of, teachers I'd 'sort out', nightmares of monsters we would battle and slay and your perfect black and white coat would spoon mine, pink and alien.
I would sing to you and you would laugh at my fag-cracked chords.
'Pick a card, hit me hard, give us a hug'. Is it too much to imagine that I was once your age, all flesh and bone, unlike you, all colour and tone, all DPI and lie.
You were my Xerox Baby and you were conceived on Boxing Day 2007 and you were shredded within eight weeks. Sixty grammes per square inch. RIP.
Love Dad.
Jerusalem 
In front of every Spar in town
Through every park in Albion
On every naked crown.
Up every littered hillside
Down every maudlin stair
Behind every twitched curtain
Of every kitchen hair.
At every love lorn bed-sit
in every piss-stained bar
For every batter swallowed
Rev every souped-up car.
Between every crustless sandwich
Before every family do
Endure every random put down
Drink every luke warm brew.
To every one I ever crossed
And every drunken brawl
To every black-eyed bruiser
The Good Lord splayed us all.
National Dysphoria
1
For review of process
And self-assessment
Sing hallelujah
Pending contentment
For dips in achievement
A lull in retention,
For raising moral
And hubristic intention.
For training provision,
Daily re-invention,
For Director of Standards
And re-inspection.
For an Organisation of Learning
With a pyramid revolution.
For tracking and improvement
And a new resolution.
For flat-screens and graphs
And class-room intrusion,
We thank you oh lord
With lap-topped effusion
(Rise up and give thanks
to this gulag institution,
For reducing its flock
To a state of confusion)
Hark! a Judas emerges
Raising doubt in our congregation,
Ending my flow
With his witless summation.
A cut in the budget
Could be the only solution
To this cancer of insubordination
And collusion.
Remove the heathen
And replace with a fusion
Of utter obedience
And delusion.
For it is only by a method
Of give and break
That the festering blister of fear
Takes shape.
And you my comrades
Will never be sure
Whether salvation beckons
Or merely the door.
2
Tea for three
One weak one black
Management of absence policy,
Utilisation of coping strategy.
Indicators identified,
Progress made
No rep' result of fees unpaid.
Condition controllable
Assistance in place
Facilitation of return
Review of case
Confirmation of terms
See 2.3
One for him, no sugar for me.
We the above
In accordance, of course
Have need to ensure a productive
Workforce.
Absence of staff
Represents at its core
A significant cost to the body
And more.
The man hours lost
While your 'illness' persists
Merely confirms
How much you are missed.
Your colleagues are coping
And we express our regret
Though economics require
No replacement as yet.
So there you have it
Ergo, no cause for alarm
In the future we envisage
No foreseeable harm
A relief to return
Back where you belong.
A drone among drones
And the madness was gone.
3
So where's my curtain call
And where's the applause?
When the inspections are over
And they've listed our flaws.
This sad, painful, spiral,
That turns Knights into ghosts
That sends us out of the gate
With lumps in our throats
If you care enough,
Then you care too much.
If you do the extra,
You'll still go Dutch.
Not that money's why I did it,
I did it for them
And their brothers and sisters,
Then I did it again.
And yes we're all whingers,
"Who've still got your jobs,
Whilst there's coppers and squaddies
Fighting Afghan's and yobs."
Well if that's how you feel
Let's all propose a toast
To the sad, painful, spiral
That turned this Knight to a ghost.
The Example
"Get your hand off my breast
you rancid little pest"
"Don't assume I'm a sexual beast
It's your shrunken tits I like least.
I'm more a man of looks,
I breed rabbits and I read books.
I had a spell as an unbeliever
But God restored my joi de vivreur
Before that day I was prepared to jump.
I breed rabbits, they like to hump,
Rabbits aren't fussed, they do each other,
I once saw one brother do his brother.
I pride myself on my mind
Always eat with a fork. Refined.
I was a drummer in a tribute band,
'Til I got the shakes in this hand."
"I'm sure you were a lot of things before
But for now you're just a sweaty bore.
I'll shorten my sentences and limit my words,
I'll assume you're familiar with the term, 'birds'
We like a little romance, not a flaccid drunken state,
I'd rather fuck your rabbits, or stay ce-li-bate.
Now I'm off home to my darling wife
After another sad edition to my cross-dressing life."
Thanks to Hilaire Belloc.
Piggy
For Chris and Grace
One day soon my piggy may fly
Our saddle I'm making as she rests in her sty.
A seat of grass for our chubby pig-plane
A stirrup of ivy and a daisy-chain rein.
Keep an eye on the ground and one to the sky
Blink! And in the moment we'll have passed by.
Our day trip flight is booked for two
And my puffy pink friend could wait there for you.
So child, go to sleep and there learn her name
Not to falsify your friendship, nor her to tame.
But simply to call out on our journey through
For my name's David and my porky pilot's Poo!
That'll do…..
Opaque Peach
Grinding teeth, blurred vision, skin rash to one side
Michrocrystalline, gelatin, Titanium Dioxide.
Abnormal ejaculation, lack of orgasm and tremors
Serotonin noradrenaline reputake inhibitors.
Constipation, slurring and feeling morose
Iron Oxides, printing inks, Ethylcellulose.
Agitation, abnormal dreams, feeling tired
Venaflaxine Hydrochloride.
Sore muscles, impotence, trips to hell
150 mg of Effexor XL.
Pittsburgh
If I were with you I would have you teach me all the things we knew,
Walk through places we had been and read books we had read.
You would whisper words to me that we had heard
And dress me in ways that I once dressed.
We would visit your friends I had already met
And swim in pools we had already swam.
I would laugh at lines we already heard
And have you kiss me in places I had already been kissed.
You would tease me in ways I had been teased
And present me with flowers I had once received.
You would paint my nails for the second time
And we would sing songs that we had sung .
And all this would happen because I once loved you.
Blow Back
She laughed with me, we laughed with him
I laughed with her, you laughed again.
They laughed with him, they laughed with you
We laughed together, the laughter grew.
I laughed with him, you laughed with them
He laughed with you, They laughed again.
She laughed with him, she laughed with you
We laughed together, the laughter grew.
I laughed at her, I laughed at them
I laughed at him, we laughed again?
I laughed at me, I laughed at you
I laughed alone, the laughter grew.
James Deans' Childish Verse
If it were up to you
I'd lose a pound or two
Drive around in something new
And drop my friendship with that Jew.
You'd see me in a proper job
Or even on the rob
Anything to earn a decent bob
Instead of living the slob
And acting the Knob.
Repeat: If it were up to you
I'd be eating steak and voting blue
Cruising country lanes in a Subaru,
Breeding kids named Drew and Hugh.
You'd have me coming home at five
With colleagues named Clive
'If only I had his drive
I'd keep our dreams alive.'
But you see I can't
And I couldn't care less
My car is old and my life's a mess
For all you've done, it's clear you care
But I'm James Dean and you're a square.
10
Get out of bed and touch your toes
Have a cuppa and put on your clothes
Go to the cupboard
And pull out a bag
Take the bag to the park
With a camera, pin and pen
Catch air in the bag, breath in
Count ten.
Put the bag in a bin and follow a man
Tell him your name and give him your hand
Tell him a story
Then wave goodbye
Go to a pub
And order a pie.
Leave it behind and go to another
Order a pint and draw your lover
Down the pint
And return to the park
Take the bag from the bin
Prick with the pin, breathe in
Count ten.
Lie on the grass and sing a song
The grass must be wet
The song must be long.
Every step of the way
Photograph your day
From the bag to the grass,
To the pint to the pie,
To the hair of the man
Who you waved goodbye.
Ducks
Howling at the moon wont help and any amount of passing cloud wont carry you away. You've come to feed the bobbing ducks, the geese, the swans and the gulls on strings. You're also here to mix it with the young mums, the pigeons and the black boys from the home. The dough ripples its way into rubber-ringed lips, snatching glimpses of the keeper on their way back down. Kites soar and the circus arrives, all chipped wood and painted Russian beauties. You'd rather be anywhere than under this tent with its strongmen, its dwarfs and its crippled life worth living and so you and Sailor Jerry take a seven year swim with the fishes and await the bread.
Flat Life
Cardamoms, cayenne, boil in a bag,
The bon viveur beadsman
Sets sail on his foggy night.
Pans'n plans in place
Not for him some Filipino fille de joie
No jiffy bag of broken glass and bits
No mixer monkey along
On this maiden voyage.
"Sure, no worries,"
Said the eugenicist to the Jewish princess
Running late on their foggy date,
"Never you mind and shalom shalom!"
Lapsus Lingue will have to wait.
And there goes the bell on his nissen hut
An hour has passed but the wire's been cut
The sandman's told his eyes to shut
And so his eyes have shut.
The Chief wasn't the only Injun in the village since the arrival of the Khans, however he was the only white Indian and the only one to wear a headdress. When he was up The Chief was up, but that was a long time ago and now he was down,mostly lying down on a single mattress.
Gout had seen his legs swell and the fug of fags had left him a stranger to oxygen.
Tonight, though we join The Chief in The Ship, alone, of course, save for the array of village royalty, King amongst them Gray from the cricket club and his band of merriless men.
"So Chief" Gray aimed his arrow. "What do we make of it? Eh? That black Injun in the White House. Victory for the cause eh, son?"
"Chief, you raising a glass to the final overthrow of the white-man?"
The Landlord did as Landlords do in villages… "We should 'ave a day of celebration Gray, some sort of ethnic thing. Get them Indians along and The Chief there could organise a raffle under a Tee-Pee out the back - I'll get a barbeque on the go and we could throw on a buffalo?"
"Or a Redneck?" added Gray and the merriless men joined in the laughter, careful in length and volume aware of their subjugated approval.
"Chief, so is he one of yours or not?" Is he a red man?" continued Gray colourfully.
The Chief finally raised his eyes and fixed them slightly below floor level.
"I don't do any of that."
"Any of what?" Gray shot back. The Chief Paused.
"Politics" he said
"A Chief that doesn't do politics, that's a bit like an alcoholic that doesn't do… talking of which, get the boys' a drink my good man."
"Chief, chief can I get you one? By way of congratulations."
"No, ta" The Chief replied
"Oh come on, maybe a Black Russian?" Shot back the opening bat, "Or a Red Bull?" Bowled the all-rounder. The Chief, though had already adjusted his glasses, finished his pint and headed home to un-muffled laughter.
Before the Chief lay down he applied cream to his swollen, chapped legs, emptied the ash tray and lit a fag. As he inhaled then exhaled he imagined a wondrous, orange tinged landscape, a heat haze that rose from the desert plains. Beautiful women dressed in next-to-nothing, muscular bronzed men on horseback speaking in a tongue only they and he understood and then on the point of sleep he transformed into an enormous eagle that swooped and soared the skies, talons filed, eyes fixed in search of cricketers, hundreds, thousands of vulnerable, white clad cricketers, in jock-straps, pads, gloves and short sleeved sweaters.
One by one he would hurtle toward them as they screamed and begged for mercy, from third-man to long-on they ran and fended off the bird with wicket and bail, yet all were slaughtered until the playing field ran a thick crimson river of blood and bone.
Finally the raptors prize was in view. Despite his swollen, reddened veins the birds legs descended, the size of a pavilion (on the large side) he dropped and devoured the cricket captain in one, his final bloody squeal somehow carried away on the wind and as he once again lifted himself to the skies so the bird discharged his prey on every roof top in the village, church and pub alike… Sailing up, up, up.
Narrenschift
We took the morning train to Timbuktu
Just me, my friend the Fuhrer and you.
We stopped at a lake and sat under a tree
Just you, the Fuhrer and me.
I played with your hair as you played with mine
You called me faggot, I said that's fine.
The Fuhrer looked on impassive and cool
As he strapped you into the cucking-stool.
Three times you came up, three times you went down
A yo-yo, A yo-yo
he announced to the crowd.Anon the sadist tired of this game
Sat on a rock and hatched more of the same.
We came to the sun and lay on a beach
I called you my love, He called you a leach.
Fugacious and fickle
spat the stoatThen purred with delight I'll fetch us a boat!
We sailed and sailed to an unknown land
And all the while I held your hand.
I wept as the Fuhrer tied to your leg
A killick in the form of a keg.
As I begged the monster to release his grip
He turned to me from the bough of the ship
Zig-zag toe rag, for you are me
Watch as your love sinks into the sea.
And so you did and so I cried
Unable to swim, you sunk and died
I sailed alone, in pain and despair
I sat on the beach and I stroked your hair.
Yours Sincerely
Parking Services
Southampton City Council
PO Box 1098
Southampton
SO14 7WE
David Keeping
28 Beach Grove
Owselbury
Winchester
Hants
SO21 1LS
tel: 01962777271
21/10/08
Your reference: HP/PS/X622JBK
Date of notice: 03/11/08
Dear Sir/Madam
FUCK YOU...........................
Yours sincerely
David Keeping
The Interview
The works standard Alba Easytime Wall Clock that hung on the magnolia coated walls of the waiting room informed him that the show was now running twenty-two minutes and thirteen.. fourteen.. fifteen seconds late. Nothing unusual in that he thought. Common practice to keep you waiting. This was his third interview of the week and it being Friday, the weekend approaching and with a restaurant booked for two that evening he allowed his thoughts to drift . 'Unconcerned' may be putting it too casually, nevertheless, as his evenings date had made clear; "whatever happens, a lobster thermidor awaits." Among other nocturnal pleasures he deluded himself.
His dress code betrayed his comme ci, comme ca nonchalance. He would no doubt describe his look as informal, even accidental. Indeed his whole approach to the interview and his means of acquiring it could be seen as such. It arrived via one of those full page adverts with countless positions to fill, all within the same company, none of which set the pulse racing and all of which demanded qualifications far and above what was actually required. He had 'ringed' it, mainly out of some sense of obligation. His evening date had become irritated over the preceding weeks by his inability to break free from what she described as his 'slothful, indolent mentality', whatever that meant.
She on the other hand and despite her oft-repeated tales of childhood woe and hardship had never slipped back one rung on the ladder of her never ending quest for.… for what he thought? It didn't matter, she would be paying for the meal as a reward for his willingness to obey and despite his tender years he was already too indolent and slothful to fight, argue or even make rudimentary decisions for himself. Why should he? Someone else was doing it for him, enjoying it and making a better fist of it. He was useless. She knew it, her mother knew it, his mother knew it and he knew it and he thrived on it.
The red door opened and an immaculately presented middle aged man exited clutching a briefcase in each hand. Before it had closed two more sliding doors had sucked him into the chill, January morning and on into the charcoal interior of his buffed, silver Mazda 6. From the warmth of the waiting room he turned to inspect his competitor only to be thwarted by the steamed up windscreen of the car.
'Two briefcases? Why on earth would anyone applying for this job need two briefcases, let alone the full Marks and Spark's dress suit!' He glanced down at his own accidental attire; white shirt and jacket (new), blue jeans (dark), and Cuban's (unpolished) the look of confident understatement, he thought. In any case all that bollocks about first impressions. Interviewers' were trained to ignore the flossed teeth and starched collar, besides he didn't want this job, repeat: Don't, Want, Job. He let out a sigh and re-examined the clocks hands. Thirty-one minutes late. Who did they think they were?
"Mr Elliot, I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, we're ready for you now, would you come on in please?" Elliot followed the voice obediently. The voice itself belonged to an attractive, sweet scented, twenty something brunette. As he followed her into the room Elliot found himself staring at her, she moved gracefully, almost floating.
"Please sit down Mr. Elliot" she said indicating a single, cheap looking metal framed chair, the type he had uncomfortably spent much of his schooldays, shuffling uneasily on. In front of him and sat more lugubriously behind a large oak desk which dominated the small windowless room, his inquisitors stared down at three neatly stacked piles of paperwork. Nothing was said and Elliot's eyes were drawn to a familiar sight, a clone of the clock from the waiting room, hung above the woman he considered to be his chief inquisitor, who in turn was sat directly opposite him. The clock had clearly not functioned for some time, its hands reading exactly half past six as if the effort of another revolution was just too much. The walls were painted in some sickly off-pink except for the one to his left which had been left white. 'For God's sake get on with it' he thought. At last the chief inquisitor raised her head and fixed him with a pair of ice-blue marbles.
"Mr. Elliot, I'm sorry to have kept you waiting but I'm sure that you appreciate the importance of correct procedure." Elliot succeeded in smiling and lying simultaneously.
"Firstly introductions, my name is Ms. Compton -Wells and should you be successful in your application then I would be your S.C.O." My what?! Thought Elliot.
"To my left is Ms Svanidze, who shall be taking notes and to my right is Mr.Gray, who was at one time holder of the position to which you now apply." Gray was very definitely grey, Elliot thought. Almost unbearably so. From his lank hair to his dry, cracked, cardboard skin, to the desperately miserable material that passed for his clothing this man had been scooped from a tub of cold, limp, grey.
Elliot could barely bring himself to regard this wretched creature in case he too may be turned 'that' shade. Nevertheless, eventually his eyes did realign with the gorgon and to his surprise the overriding emotion he felt was that of pity. Although the glance they shared was brief Elliot was sure he perceived moisture in the corner of those colourless eyes.
A dribble of sweat made its way down from Elliot's hairline. It travelled too fast to be casually wiped away and settled on his eyebrow, a cold, singular capsule of an anxiety he couldn't explain.
"Mr. Elliot" The S.C.O. continued, "Would you tell us something about yourself in order that we may get to know you a little better?"
Although the question was phrased somewhat ambiguously it was not the sort Elliot felt uneasy with. After all his evening date had ironically pointed out only that morning that, "
"Mr. Elliot, whilst all of what you have told us is of interest this information is already to hand...." She held up a copy of his own page long C.V before letting it slip from her manicured fingers. The S.C.O. continued...
"What I was interested in is not so much your service history, you appear adequately suited to the position, despite your abbreviated academic career. No, Mr. Elliot what all of us within the institute are more concerned with and I believe concerned is not too strong a word is your….. Your..""
Reliability?" The note taker was treated to the 'look'."
Your trustworthiness Mr. Elliot , the full 360 degree's, what are your skillset's? We wish to look under your bonnet and most importantly to examine your loyalty. Orders are issued for reasons. Do you understand?" The dormant trickle of sweat that Elliot had all but forgotten about burst free from his sponge-like brow and slapped against his lid. Blinking, with his shirt sleeve he hurriedly dried his eye."Mr. Elliot, could you offer us some testimony to demonstrate this crucial component in your character" 'What are you talking about you insane old cow?', Elliot thought.. He sat still and felt his head lower and his eyes close in on his hands, moist and lacking answers.
"The reason behind my 'need to know' you see Mr. Elliot is that prior to my becoming the S.C.O. at this institution a number of practitioners took it upon themselves to display an arrogant disregard for company policy. Indeed upon my arrival it was necessary to correct a number of anti-institutionals and ensure that either they understood in no uncertain terms the logic and caring nature of the governance over and above them or that measures would have to be enacted….. Those that failed to seek cooperatorship were encouraged to find alternative employ. Perhaps Mr. Elliot you regard my approach as… draconian? However for any organisation of this size, trustworthiness and loyalty are the only, I repeat the only way to achieve harmony and profit, growth and love."
A silence enveloped the room and the final word of the final sentence echoed inside Elliot's head competing with the thud, thud, thud of his heart pounding his ribs.
"Mr Elliot. This is an interview and in interviews it is generally your right to either answer the question asked, or decline. Is that clear?" As if in a trance Elliot nodded.
" Well then Mr. Elliot the question is this. Were I to ask you to 'harm' a colleague, would you do so…. Unquestioningly?" Elliot's mouth dried instantly and he ingested the rooms odour for the first time as his jaw dropped in a cartoon moment of horror.
" I'm….I….I'm sorry, I think I must have misheard you" Elliot stammered through the longest, shortest sentence of his short life.
"Ms. Compton-Wells would like to know, yes or no, whether you would, upon request and without question, physically harm a colleague…If demanded by Ms. Compton-Wells?"
"Thank you Ms. Svanidze, I should be grateful if you would strike the word 'demand' from the transcript. Nothing is demanded. We are talking of a request. Mr. Elliot be quite clear of that." Again the pair turned to Mr.Gray and again he raised his head to meet the stricken stare of Elliot, only this time the eyes of the older man glinted like stars in a sorry puddle.
"Mr. Elliot,"
Continued the S.C.O. "…I must ask you this and just this once I would like an answer before we can move on. Would you harm a colleague upon request… Would you.. with… Mr. Gray?" Elliot freed his trembling legs from under the table, swivelled like a drunk and stumbled toward the door. The sickly walls closing in on him and the cold sweat now fell in torrents. As he reached out his hand slipped on the handle and he heard a strange noise much like squeal of a wounded animal. Only when he had finally forced himself into the corridor and pushed the door shut behind did he recognise the noise as his own. He leant, with his back to the wall, shaking and gulping air which re-filled his empty lungs.A minute passed and he edged toward the sliding doors. As he reached them he paused in an attempt to gather composure. Coming from his tormentors room he heard what seemed to be stifled laughter, followed by hushed whispers. His thoughts raced, horror replaced by anger, confusion by vengeance. He turned and took a step toward the red door, then stopped, unsure, but there again, the perceptible sound of muted laughter. He strode toward the door now and flung it open. All three were seated as he had left them. He stared, but none returned his gaze, seemingly oblivious to his presence. Instead the note taker continued with her notes whilst to her side Mr. Gray nestled his head in the bright white blouse of the chief inquisitor. As Elliot stood there once again breathing in the rooms acrid stench so Gray sobbed, his faced buried in the consoling arms and warm bosom of the S.C.O. Eventually the note taker glanced up from the table top as Elliot stood transfixed.
"Mr. Elliot, would you please leave us now. We will let you know in due course. By letter….. The door?"
Posted @ 14:54:08 on 09 December 2008 back to top
