A Jakes Progress


Father lampshade,

Mother rug,

go gliding upstairs

through dreek formless fug,

real time is taking shape.


Thus can Moby Grapeseed  dwell

in grotty motley,

spangled alcazar;

nasalizing hypnotic

verse into a well-travelled

voice recorder on the jakes

for acoustic, hygienic

and ambient purposes.


Here he will be found by a

stranger with an

axe and smartphone,

who will flush out thoroughly,

do his duty and wash his hands

View original post

…two doors down

red cross parcel  weird ripped

Open by calm alacrity

Strident cumulus

Any colour you pick out twice

Peculiar paint box bollard

(at this juncture-named red house—

You know the old barns?)

Straw broke tallow willow

Sceptred broken leather clasp

Strange Misericord

makes definition

stop making sense by

form without we breathe


”the who…?-

What bliss awaits me below?
Something hot & spicy
Most probably not
You’re really struggling
Hey-ho dontya know the cats
Seethe despair differently
Mucal chissled grins
Hang hissing round the door
Most insistently
They beg for essence:
Ignored children shout a lot

Trial by Ordeal

Love trains leave by night

How swift desire passes

in this Wistful age of steam

Ecstasy clouds good judgement

All’s unfair in love

We are all war Criminals

Awaiting trial by peer

Group hysteria

Tread wary hunted Minotaur

Now standing on Platform Four

A seagull bound to tell lies

Omniscient eye drifts lullaby

hooded peregrine


sleazy keyboard,

diligently counting syllables,

keen hidden gleanings,

scatter chipped prune stones,


behaviourally disturbed rook

that mistook

all night pharmacy

for a sweetie shop




Eleven bellows
cogitate thirty eons
of time that never was, is,
or ever will this day forth:
More coffee and quanta, my Duck?
Und warum nicht, my Leda?




Dusk come dark

drapes half drawn

Hear a bark

feel a yawn

View original post

Toe & Froe

Back again at just gone ten
after a power breakfast
with Mr Clay, Ms Self, and the Demi-urge.
A frozen garden, a propped
up green wheelbarrow glued
to an icy rotary clothes line.
Frost suspends decay of jungle beanplants.

What else did you see?
Or hear? Or taste? Or touch? Or smell?

Fields in collision, tectonic plates lying shattered,
or just another trad night down the Greeks.
I see.
So thought Inspector Spangle, flicking through
the photos from scenes of crime:
no time, no space, just action
invisible, eternal delight,
energy in a bun dance.
What could be less clear than that?

Yea, housing, phone calls, Victoria Derbyshire…

I know, I know, I know. Stop nagging me!
It’s all work in progress.

Aleppo Sleeper


o’clock news blackout
Losing all integrity
Over emissions

Aleppo massacre

hogwash lubricant green room

full of terrified white elephants
Modest interim proposal—
Nothing to add
I’ll go back to sleep
After drawing the curtains
With indelible charcoal
Inside our discrete brainwaves

New Big Deal


suppressed desire 
to broadcast hogwash today
 too busy making
 myself gross again-

Hey Tiresias!
quit moping round
them knobless herms and tributes

go saddle up my Hippocampus
let's make a big splash 
downtown at sundown
a proper shindig
down the five and dime


Go attend those dismal drapes
cheapest seventies vintage tat
lurid floral potato prints
emitting neither light nor heat
prize them open to reveal
a frosty morning, frosted green
frosted black, frosted silver
frosted yellow cars, parked up
neatly by frosty drivers
living cryogenic lives


Witch black liquorice
Void awash particles stress
levity breeds gravity
Time bent space compressed
Fractals spawn new chaos
Alternative eyes
Turn a light back on
Inside stark basilica


Came across The Book of Sand
beneath ragged jagged edge
buff beige dusty envelopes
(yes, I am a lady of letters)
bright yellow blue black cover
page turner guardian
tiger stares me out,
Aztec Mesmer—stark migraine
must open the window,
sudden urge to air the air
nice icy chill low sun
cold steam chuffs bright misty air
horse nostril ectoplasm
novelty will soon wear off.
Write to ease the passing of time
seems as good a reason
as any I have heard so far…

Wet Long Grass



diluted liquid fear

shy retiring acts of violence

child neglected architects

fabulise rustic cities

serial killer

chainsaw milk vandals

forging lawless frontiers from

farflung sporren lands

they can only kill

you once you can kill yourself

one day at a time


too cold to go out

eleven freezes over

bad for tight muscles

limber up indoors instead

slow motion vowel movements


Sporting clownish garb

Long legged daddy long legs

spatula juggler

feelgood factory engines

churning waffler in motion

time soars slow below

foundling in feather bucket

crow ravaged thorax

doctor who goes noncing there

on fabulous adventures

british broadcasting

corporate porkies

View original post

Figaro the Cockatoo

So what if the boss you ask
catches me meeting my needs?
I will tear his nose off
tar him with the soggy end
no one but no one crosses
Figaro The Cockatoo
Lord Protector of Ancient Woodlands
Peanut Pilferer to the Beak
Crown Jewel robber by
Royal Disappointment
to the Most Asperiou Great Monad
of  Gibraltar Rock


friendly strangers came to town
now guess what you did
you made enemies of them
go find yourselves
smart ass fair weather friends
you ain't riders on the storm
your just pishogues
in the solar wind
so that's what pinko lefties
bang on about till your sick
of hearing it any more
...and the sky is wide
just like in the old days when
people used to dream on you





On the blue rock

Of a lapus lazuli

Under western skies

We, our feet caked with soot,

Dance like idiots


The Idiots Are Winning

View original post

Chocks Away!



The Right Horrible Member

for South West Heaven

crawled from the lobby

at nine eleven

View original post


Cold turkey chasers
Chain smoking peccadilloes
Twenty four seven
extinguish milk bottles
pending replacements
A nice drop of air cascades
On the woodland hideaway
Two crooked ravens
hell bent on mere survival
strike trade deals over roadkill
during mad rush hour

An Impostor Falls


Wichita Lineman
pitches up 
out of the blue 
 Was you not once a carpfish
 plagued by crippling doubts
 about a distant golden
 age of innocence?

Yes,I  was once that Carpfish

You confirm resonantly
with disarming brevity
taking it all in 
your jackboot 
crushing a face 

making cryptic hand signals
in clipped bespoken 
cabalistic tongues

Yes. I was that Carpfish:
for old halibuts die hard
go hang a sharp left at 
Cape Codology

bipolar dancing bears picnic
out on melting strawberry 
ice floats on mustard

wallowing in unabashed self-pity
seconds before the bullet
hit you in the forehead

Trespassers will be Executed
read the flashing pulsar
over the black horizon



Lawrence Binyon eulogy 
condemned to years of turgid 
crass repetition— 
if he knew then what we know 
that war is manufactured hell
would he have set to 
writing pretty propaganda 
in nineteen fourteen 
one hundred miles away 
in a picture book 
rustic Georgian vicarage 
spewing out doggerel for 
the yellow papers
to assuage the fears
and galvanize national pride 
in imperial sacrifice
to be ridiculed 
and derided by 
seventies rebels 
in army surplus great coats 
sat enjoying themselves in 
muddy fields listening to 
Van der Graf generator
making a racket 
shivering and exhausted 
in stockinged feet cos a 
playful reveller 
robbed your trendy espedrilles
defiantly pretending 
you would not rather be 
toasting fresh muffins 
with a giant fork on the 
glowing coals of 
the lampblack brazier?


Interviewing Memory Loss

Mystified belligerents
Gaze knowingly down on sleaze
Napoleon Solo is killed by thrush
Monochrome wasps attend
full state funeral
Arlington cemetery under
Heavy leaden skies
Silent unfolding time spent
Observing the detectives
Watching empty space

Shuttlecock & Battledore

Not writing thus read
Goes the old threshing machine
Inside out workings
Belching, churning, lurching with
All the bits showing
Like Norman Foster
Or the Duke of Kent thanking
Ball boys and ball girls
For their servile services
Perhaps if he wore a floral hat
Like his smiley wife
It might brighten things up
Cut the military kit
If it’s nice out wear no clothes
Watch out for that wild fanbelt
And the people in smocks
Sporting giant pitchforks
Tripping on ergot
In the antic hay
And the grumpy teenager
With the machete

mute ballerina

christian forbearance
instinctively took up wing
walking fearing to
look back in anguish

Same Old Malarkey



-Apart from walk what

would you like to do?

-Dunno, don’t think about that

much these days.

Go out?


What to do?

I’m skint anyway,

then there’s the weather,

and, to be honest

I’m not much company,

and, repulsive to look at

except in a ghoulish way.

See I’m pretty much

resigned to that these days.

Don’t get me wrong though,

I haven’t given up.

Where there’s life…and all of that.

What about you, what are you up to?

-Cosmic time travel,

the laundry,

a spot of Pilates,

watch some junk on the box,

maybe a spot of bear baiting.

Same old, same old.

Isn’t online shopping a godsend?

The time you save…

-Dunno, don’t do it much these days,

too much damn hassle

and then there’s identity theft,


and you don’t know

really see what your getting,

well you can’t can you –

not unless you’re really there,

View original post 41 more words




Away from chaos radio and noisy gadgets

I try to hear my own voice.

It is jumbled, jerky, muddled


When it hears me listening it shut’s up.

Intruder, it whispers under my breath and hides behind an eyebrow.

Another voice comes, quite the opposite of my sonorous lilt

An abrupt  jibber-jabber

accompanied by

a mellifluous buzzer.

Just as I begin to make it out

It stops and hides behind an eyelid


Unperturbed I resume my

interrupted bout

of shadow boxing.

So far the shadow is ahead by two points:

it is southpaw, dogged, cunning, experienced.

I stand firm, steely jawed, granite eyed,

bleeding, unfeeling, waiting.

Rope a dope, Ali called it;

or, was that Angelo?


Zap, I’m downed

a momentary lapse is all it takes

bloody WASPs

get me every time

I let my guard down

View original post

Butter & Twisted

Turmoil! Chaos! Anarchy!
Toast marmalade sour grapes
Washed down with orange
Mug of ersatz crude …

Forthcoming Distractions


We are going to a very dark place, says the 
primal scream on global wireless: the
republic cannot withstand its savagery
Selfie Studios set to release
A blockbuster Thanksgiving 
special Double Bill
The Death of Nation
Built on Slavery
The Decline & Fall
of the Human Condition
that must not 
under any circumstance
improve but may register
its disapproval
by pressing buttons
that turn out the light


Zero Hours Poet

Just get the one hour these days
to write this guff so I’d best
just get a move on
there’s others waiting
and they’re growing restless
Yeah, they cut me down
to one hour for my own good,
or so they tell me, and, in
many ways they have a point.
At least when I’m just sitting
doing nothing else, I know
I’m doing nothing.
Sure, I could be making do,
doing a job, all of that right stuff,
but that is not what I want to do

Be, be and write?
Yeah, write & be
Is something missing?
Yea, happy
Happy, write and be?
That’s it. Write and be happy.

You’ve got fifteen minutes left
Now I’m very sad
I’m very sad to have heard that
Send my commiserations
All my thoughts and prayers
To whom it may have concerned


Damp Squibbles

The road is full up
bold brazen alien cars—
fireworks party sleepover,
vodka cheeseburgers,
Haircut 100 (Boy Meets Girl),
Megadeath (Love’s Old Sweet Song)
—sailing metaphor
discovered cringing in
uncharted waters.

Early night after watching the box—
quiet as a sober xmas and about
as memorable
as a drunken one.
That time of year is about

After all that sleep I am up early,
cognizant of bowel, reminiscing all the time,
self-nutting, never the plaintive, always the pontiff,
he who must be dismayed at all times,
grovelling before the
altar of adverse opinion.
Waiting for my hat to be knocked off

Ireland beat the All Blacks in Chicago—
were they wearing Blue Shirts?
Always feared the Moor, the Bogmen*
And its bog weather down here in the Cut
Dross grey damp dank murk
Sunday in November

Glamorous brown tortoiseshell
bicycle clips seconded
make-do Alice bands
by stray myopic pedlars

*The bogman learnt to fear the Moor
when they left the quay of Baltimore
with a penchant for paella,
whitewash, and a wife and kids,
slave traders of the Levant,
sporting nubian pantaloons,
chain smoking ali baba camels
swiped them in the night

warm wind & piss on

really quite remote
barren archipelagos
Warts, nomads, bunions
carbuncles & verukas
Diver plunges in

‘Come out of there!’
Loud came the stern reply
‘Not on your Nelly!’
‘Leave my Nelly out of this.’

Democracy drives yo proper crazy

Roller Skaters glide
on dried up cripple creeks
ambulances circulate
half-buried yellow Thunderbirds
poking wings out of true blue sand

long hair blowing in the wind


Midday monkeyhouse
Vicarage tea anecdotes
Stretch out big red chair
Occidental death of an
English Inanest
Praise the ammunition
Bypass the Lawyer
Lost in a golden fairy light
Seven ages of America
Iron this and iron that
Crystal methodology
Clear as kerosene
Smell of burning ice

Daft Parade

Just sat here watching
The saints go marching
in picking up sweets
& detritus of consumer
hellraising last night—
abandoned cellphones
grotesque prosthetic
cruel rubber masquerades—
O! to be a flea
in that golden fleece
Slurping ambrosia
Post richly deserved
An unknown soldier
Marching as to War
Seventy six trombones
In the morning sun
Kill the Pig Parade
Magic mushroom bands
Trip the light fantastic
Lambs to the slaughter
O! Muse why art though not
wholeheartedly sick
Of this daft parade
parasitic worms?



Alpha, beta, theta male

Turgid prone blue bloated whale

Wretched in the morning sun

Tide went out, your undone

Mr Pye and Mrs Fleece

Dissecting you for ambergris

View original post

noon moon

down in tinkly dell
erratic heffers gambol 
pissed from windfall quince  
tranquil chaos rains solar
moon bewildered shrubberies
tired armies retire
benevolent anarchy rules
sentimental clocks warble 
hogs go truffle rummaging
lepidoptera go with


A Dude Awakening are not writing
thus you are not a writer
i am not writing
thus i am not a writer
-better quickly jot that down
quick over there  
that paper scrap with spuds
eggs, toilet rolls, dog food,crisps
some forgotten shopping list
or postmodern masterpiece
what a bloody mess better
get out the Hoover later
there's nothing on the other side
where's the pen? there, a pen, blue 
dried up biro, it might just
work today. Increasingly 
violent circles- watch it,
you'll rip it: A pencil!
there behind the box of menthol vapes
behind the burning candle
careful, slowly does it
that's how accidents occur
i really must go 
to the loo. the dog wants
to go out i can let him out
and go downstairs, listen 
to the early morning news
Shit! the clocks went back
it's bloody Alan Bennett
fetching in the milk
i am not a writer
i am not writing
you are not a writer
you are not writing



Night falls in an hour…
Selwyn had that look of his
Infinite dismay
Tempered by mendacity
A cruel melancholy

On the steaming heath
Feral energy flickers
Burning orange furnaces
Spit molten napalm globules
Vitriolic lavas creep

Embolismic pus
Overflows the mildewed culverts
All carnage and corruption
Premature fireworks fly
Down in Dingley Dell tonight

Stairwell to Paradise

All pills bulletin
Filthy crypto dawdles neath
Hazardous staircase
Awkward traverse to summit
Landing guarded by clutter
In the shower I crouch
A potbellied question mark
I anti-pasta rasta
Hairier than thou
Either me or this gut must go
green beans & brown rice
Matabele tea and toast
The clever money’s on the gut
Hope springs eternal
Skinless sausages in brine
The politics of cheesecake
Pressing issues of the day
Weigh heavily on my mind

All Loved Up

Foggy light six forty five
Quarter to eight summer time
Chronology sucks
Watched Michael Moore in Trumpland
Who the hell is Vince Foster?
After filling up my senses
Overnighting in the forest
John Denver for company
You cannot imagine how
Subliminal I am feeling
In the last colony left on earth

Trumpton Riots



Green sky thinking

Prevailing Ditherama

Mexican standoff

Stop the world right away

Figure out what’s going on

Stuck in a sand trap

On the dodgy nineteenth hole

Fiddling with your quiff

love the sound of your own voice

No choice is a choice

View original post

Collateral Cabbage Patch

Behaviourally disturbed
A pharmacy for
An inglenook
In a sweetie shop

Psycho-socially unhinged
A hospital for
A children’s book
In an ambulance

Cut the Crap

That’s enough! Enough faffing
Let’s get down to business
Cut the elephant shit
Pass me a slice overhear
‘How do you like it,
Over easy or sunny side up?‘

Quantum Limp


Wyoming, 1953. Interior: Homestead. No Boy. No Van Helsing 
Superstition plays stridently in the henhouse...
—Eliza there is no genie, there is no bottle—it’s all in your head!
Eliza looked at the genie and the bottle and smiled
—And I am not Aladdin, I am Alan Ladd
Eliza sucked the genie up with her pipette, 
filled the bottle, and sealed it with the orange 
rubber bung from her gingham pinafore, got up tutting, 
shook her pigtails and hollered. 
-Well,Silly old me, she said, I do go on sometimes, don’t I? 
How do you put up with me?
Alan Ladd winced and smiled simultaneously. 
Good question.
—What shall we eat tonight?
Better get some out then
Abingdon, 2002. Interior: Abattoir kitchen, morning. Tiptoe through the Tulips 
fills the air
—Matter prevails over anti-matter, it’s self-evident, said Zak pouring 
yak’s piss over his brexit, slurping Jasmin tea, slicing a green banana, 
feeding a profound need to purge.
—Yes, said Andreas Muggleton, hurry up for God’s Sake I’m famished.
—Food is love and love is to be nurtured, said Zak, buttering wholemeal toast
Bollocks, thought Andreas Muggleton, restraining his tongue till he got fed
—How could you be wrong?
—Here, get that down you
Saragossa, last Tuesday. Exterior: Orange grove, dawn, two bodies hang, Yaketty-Yak blasts from the Tannoy
Ferdinand and Isabella were not talking again. The silence was golden. 
Man, could they go on when they got started. Three days was nothing to them. Their record was six. 
They held the Bigmouth Ruler’s Cup eight years running. 
The novelty had long worn off.
Los Alamos, 1944. Exterior: Carwash. The Sun has got his Hat on sung by 
Billie Holliday, crackly car radio.
-Oomph, that’s what we need. Oomph! 
-No mate, graft is what we need. Graft!
Chain gang noises exercised Paul Muny and the Seven Dwarfs all morning
-Hi-Ho! said Walt, dodging airborne digging implements.
A nightmare in the dream factory, Walt’s Deepest secret fear.
When will Herbie ever ride again?
Here, today. Interior: Coal Hole. Hit the Road Jack echoes from 
inside the big house.
Witheld rang ten times
Nobody answered twice
How very remiss, thought a piece of wayward Anthracite


Green Scarabesque


Midnight Lamp

Conundrums scatter

splatter pellets eavesdropping

incendiary devices

hailstrom rakes still night

tickling all living all dead


Jade scarab beetle

Rattles gentle window pane

Psyche delivers nights

Between prayer and thought

Dwells mystical abundant


Incidental wireless

Wishes you were here

Butterfly shadow

Breaking up frozen window

Separating the pair of you

Here is the measure of my dreams

Green synchronic broach

View original post

American Dream #487

Tom Paine quits Paris
Radical departure lounge
For America
Detained on entry
Political Booksmith
Bona fide fully fledged
Common Sense applies
Mounties line the border north
Mexican bandits the south
You are surrounded
There is no way out
Remember the Alamo?
No, was it any good?

Smart Phoney

Groping around for
something to digitize—why?
Dunno—some farce of Hobbit
Said Dildo Dogends
Pulling on a Panatella
Dripping diamonds

Hothouse Flower

Dong! Wednesday afternoon
schoolbell tolls for double English.
Today is plot and backstory.
Immersion in what-if’s and why’s
Tedious causality
What makes your characters click
Or does it, really,
does it make them stick?

Gaze out through translucent glass
Deserted whitewashed goal posts
Abandoned summer sandpit
Railway green rough shrubbery
Tops of posh detached
four bedroom dwellings
Cinereal heavens

The hut is stifling
Oil central heating
Fit for Kew Garden
Hothouse water lily pond
Encased in wrought iron glass
Tempting setting for
Clandestine assignations
Ruffled purple crinolene

Home Secretary


loitering waist deep 
in lush plush blue grass

Reginald Maudling
resident garden tree gnome

disappears most nights
reappears most days

Harlekan Tears

The noose was too loose; the trap door stuck.
‘Lydia Steptoe, you are, by dint of serendipity, free to roam the earth, jejune and fancy free’
The voice removed the sack. It was Mr Kipling.
‘James Hayter?’
‘None other’ said James Hayter, glowing with avuncular warmth
‘Are you pulling my leg?’ said Lydia.
‘No, dear lady. The rules are clear as almond slices. Now off you trot, and sorry for the cock-up.’
Hayter doffed his manky indigo topper and indicated the door marked ‘Exit’
The lights went orange. The cluster of onlookers began to hop on their right legs. Lydia stepped down from the rickety scaffold and scuttled toward the door. Before pushing the bar she turned
‘For what was I condemned to hang, James Hayter?’
‘Wasting court time with mediocre card tricks’
‘Seems a bit harsh’, she thought nodding mock penitence

Outside it was dark. The cathedral bell rang six-fifteen. A Hansom cab was waiting. The driver smiled a welcome. Lydia jumped in.
‘Where to, Lydia Steptoe?’, said the Cabby, ’My name is Sylvia Sims’
‘Hounslow please, Sylvia Sims.’, said Lydia, ‘and don’t spare the horses.’
‘Right you are Ma’am’.
Sylvia cracked the whip, off they sped

Hounslow was beautiful. Lydia cried.
‘Here we are, Lydia Steptoe’, said Sylvia Simms opening the carriage door with consummate aplomb.
Lydia composed herself and blew her nose on the black satin curtain before jumping out. Sylvia caught her and they kissed at last.

Love hides in familiar faces.
Love hides in the strangest places

Lydia Steptoe was falsely tried on trumped up card-trick charges. Sylvia believed it beyond all reasonable and unreasonable doubt. With Sylvia beside her Lydia found it easy to forget. Without her she never stopped thinking about it, talking about it, dreaming about it. She knew she was losing her mind, but what could she do?

Sylvia Sims knew this too and was uncomfortable with her chosen role. What could be done to help? How was there to change it? Her cabby work afforded her the leeway to sniff around Hounslow. What if she found out what had really happened. What then? How would Lydia cope when she found out. Sylvia was stuck until …

‘…and the one that got away, eh, the little doxy…’
A pair of Siamese twins had paused beside the Hansom to have a smoke.
‘the Girlies are most displeased, there’s mutterings of sacrifice’ said the other half. The rest was about shoes. They finished their pipe and left, leaving Sylvia Sims curious. She followed picking out the odd word above the traffic’s din.
The Siamese went into a Mrs Hopper’s Milliners. Sylvia trotted past. Was she losing her mind as well?

‘And so it follows, that the Siamese twins know something…’
Whoa! Hold your horses, thought Lydia— a League of Siamese Twins inveigling naïve young lesbians into performing absurdly in Court, and then fitting them up with Capital offences. Surely, not. It simply made no sense. And the overheard words. The murder in Deptford that implicated Christopher Marlowe. Why would Siamese twins be talking about that? None of it added up, Sylvia was losing her mind. She would have to be very kind to her.
‘You are very kind to me, Sylvia Sims’ said Lydia, shuffling the deck.

‘We’re all stark raving here, Sir. It’s a certified madhouse’ said Lionel Barrymore, pulling on his long clay pipe in a broad Norfolk accent.
‘Yes, I know Barrymore I live here’ said Marcel Duchamp’s sadistic first cousin, Matt Mutt, kicking the legs from under Barrymore’s milking stool. The venerable thespian fell to the floor with a sickening thud, blood trickling from a nostril.
‘Not this time you don’t’ growled Matt Mutt and finished him off with a handy gargoyle.

‘What about a trip to the coast, Lydia Steptoe?’
‘Which one, Sylvia Sims’
‘…the Norfolk Coast’
‘Yummy!’ said Lydia, hopping with joy.

‘Bring me John Clare, Mister Lush. I will with him gas’ said Matt Mutt
‘Yessir’ said Lush, ‘Rightaway, sir’ and duck walked down the corridor. Matt Mutt spun playfully on his shooting stick in the epicentre of the panopticon.

‘It’s like driving back through time, Sylvia Sims’ said Lydia Steptoe as they neared Braintree.
‘Yes, like turning back the clock.’
Two days steady progress, sleeping under the stars, living off bread and cheese,
drinking cold, stewed tea. Bliss.

The jester morriced up cautiously to the parked Hansom, giggles and yelps issued
from the gently rocking cabin in the gently mocking rain
‘What’s that?’ said Lydia Steptoe, sitting up abruptly
‘Tinklings, little tinklings. Sweet little tinklings’ said Sylvia Sims, kneeling.
The tinkling stopped. Sylvia stuck her head out. It was a harlequin.

‘Hello John, how are we today?’ asked Mutt of Mad John Clare, who stood on the threshold adorned with pondweed and wode.
‘Newton. I have been Newton’ said Mad John Clare with a nod and a wink.
‘Did you thrive, dear John. did you fare well?’
‘Farewell, Master Mutt. Have I not just arrived?
‘Very good, sharp John. Now, let’s cut to the chase—have you any words for me?’ said Mutt, quill poised over paper.
‘Alligators like potatoes, carrots favour oliphants, whispers mimic silent shouts, craven alma maters fade to grey.’
Mutt wrote it down fast, his tongue protruding in rapacious avarice. Mad John Clare began to jig. First just little footsteps, then spinning and leaping, and falling writing floribundant on the cold marble floor.
‘Lush! Lush! Come take him to the icebath, he fugues’
Lush swiftly despatched Mad John Clare, pulling him away by the hair, screams echo like a wild cat down the long gallery.

Why must one feel the urge to disclose all, to give it away, to confess in bundles? thought a rain sodden Will Kempe. People may not, after all, be as stupid as they look. And there is great humour in subterfuge. There is until it gets out of hand, then everything unravels. Yes, the simpler the better
‘Sir, you are in distress?’ Sylvia enquired from the Hansom, pulling up her ruffled drawers.
‘No, ma’am. Just Morris dancing, bound for Norwich. A nine day wonder!’ Kempe said dripping, forlorn with mock gusto.
‘Good Lord! You’ll catch your death!’ Sylvia Sims upbraided the pathetic harlequin with intense dismay
‘Who is it Sylvia Sims?’ said a hot, dishevelled Lydia Steptoe from behind.` ‘Will Kempe is my name, invisible lady. Minstrel and actor.’
‘But you’re dead’ said Lydia Steptoe
‘Lydia! Really.’ Sylvia Sims exclaimed, ‘How could you?’
Will Kempe wept Harlekan Tears…


Wibbly-wobbly from 
the mix of food & barbies

Boris the Bulldozer
Venal disobedience

Deathrow expansion approved 
by ruling classes—

all merry hell to break loose
To govern and be governed to

One way discourses are so
Abortively pedantic
%d bloggers like this: