11 more free 'uns

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stuck with the plan

 

all of them are gone

just the sons & daughters left

one of whom succumbed

early well I kept

warning him but he was numb

joining those who slept

parents aunts & uncles on

past a place called rest

 

hard to put in words

how the sighs of love & fear

end with flocks of birds

taking off from here

where they gather other worlds

none of which are near

 

 

 

cloud 10

 

Rolls Royce of tinitus here

thirty thousand feet above

the electric pools now cheer

up here’s a dove

wave it’s got a postie’s sack

snail mail birthday greetings eh

taking people’s bubbles back

out of the way

none of this redundant thought

cogitating round my head

gives me peace of mind it ought

to ease the dead

night like automatically

counting sheep or else remote

data processing for free

taxes my goat

did Egyptian mummies hear

engines from a future world

after drinking too much beer

not so absurd

 

 

 

 

dropping the pilot

 

the inversion of diplomacy

Bismark skates on ice with score by Bach

handled tastefully of course the buck

on the settee

 

sitting down discretely next to it

slide a hand along the cushion there

reaching for its long & curly hair

wait for a bit

 

some diversion tactics are required

gentlemen & others let us pray

Christ almighty called the other day

greatly attired

 

now see this my favourite parlour trick

find the lady gather round we need

quite a crowd yes friends & watch me lead

taking my pick

 

just a dollar each it's place your bets

Britain France & Germany OK

Italy & Finland change the game

Russia roulettes

 

 

 

Fake Mews

 

Set in Chelsea during the Swinging Sixties: Trumpie, Epstein and Harvey Wallbanger share a groovy pad. Upstairs live the Glimmer Twins and next door there’s even a man about the house. No plot beyond you can’t always get what they got. Series ninety plonk, episode diddly squat.

 

 

 

cull

 

shooting Gaza grousers tax

free the vermin way no wax

dolls the real deal ask

anyone to task

 

slash of rubber dinghy frog

marching foreigners the wog

word is out it’s time for shock

tactics en bloc

 

give the Ruskies hell they don’t

mind their lives are cheap you won’t

stop them at the sticks the boat’s

loaded with votes

 

euthenasia by sea

land & air no vacancy

black or Irish all who seek

heaven a peek

 

population needs to stop

growing up & down the top

bottom half requesting rope

ladders not hope

 

 

 

award ceremony

 

Stilton is a rather noble cheese

Danish Blue & Roquefort look on

while the Judge of Fromage does their song

hard on the knees

 

no one dares to laugh out loud or sneeze

stifling like smelling salts the pong

majesty gives off the rest have gone

out for a wheeze

 

call the counterpart they’re in the john

wotsisname a house of something Cleese

wait a moment let this stripper tease

off where the sun

 

never shines where do they get them from

knockout knockers grab her number please

what a cheek to get behind & squeeze

them as in Rome

 

OK time the Pope was here the crown

Baby let’s be having it that’s brown

gold you’re holding there my son now freeze

shoot like the breeze

 

 

 

fair cop

 

wouldn't want the world to end

while I’m in such debt

pay my dues & make amends

let the bailiff cast their net

not a pound unspent

catch me dry or dripping wet

wipe the balance sheet

neither in the black nor red

sporting stocking feet

have them haul me from my bed

broke on Watling Street

either way to smile when dead

came as I was sent

game for anything a right

miserable gent

 

 

 

code

 

what if no

deal’s the best

you can get

Bro

take it back

walk away

time to play

Jack

shit & switch

your ID

licencee

pitch

merchandise

crypto shares

bulls & bears

lies

scoop the geld

that’s the prob

with the job

dealt

 

 

 

one horse race

 

nobody invented speech

lingos speak up for themselves

kept in a jar on the shelf

words only preach

 

human beings drag them down

talking feelings blood & guts

complications fits of buts

reach for the crown

 

separate intelligence

from its source yes surgery

given life it’s Section C

birth in a sense

 

just across the Rubicon

Rome awaits her Julius

half a billion folks like us

daughters & sons

 

you can make the world your own

what’s a planet for if not

ruled by thee who else’s got

rights to the throne

 

 

 

new citizens’ advice

 

fear turns a person loyal

not respect you don’t love kings

queens or princelings clip their wings

sneering at royals

 

sex adultery’s the same

crossing paths with someone else

viewer in Tunbridge Wells

naming of names

 

stealing bread from shops or banks

use a credit card they love

rogues admire the guy above

walking off planks

 

streets are narrow keeping left

isn’t always possible

face the overcharging bull

property’s theft

 

mostly though it’s keep your head

down deploy the old school bluff

stay ahead of spies & cough

up when you’re dead

 

 

 

trust me

 

no one is responsible

blame cannot be portioned out

every act’s a random bout

sanctioned by bull

 

wish fulfilment rules our lives

it’s legitimate to rob

kill & diddle those who slog

out of their piles

 

furthermore deception’s good

daylight crime is neither wrong

bad nor mean in fact it’s strong

talking a should

 

they expect to be deceived

sold a load of horse manure

folks we gonna die it’s war

chaos our creed

 

Jesus Christ there what an act

Buddha spat their mother’s love

back in her face you can shove

friendship & tact

No Chit!

Turning Amateur

Turning Amateur

As hits on downwritefiction finally pass 10k, the proprietor summons his front of house staff. They assemble at a conference suite on the seventeenth floor of Sock Puppet House, expecting Lee to make an historic announcement. Peeled-back necks of vintage Champagne bottles stand erect in ice buckets. Sideboards belly dance with trays of canapés, fancy cakes & Belgian liqueur chocolates. Hundreds of coloured balloons, tied in rude bouquets, waft gently in the breeze. Several windows have been left open. As the crowd of employees roll in, faint honks of traffic from the boulevard below can be heard above loud whispers and excited giggles. Suddenly Philip Lee appears in person, raises his hand and opens his gob,

Now hear this. Yr ironies be darned, I'm sick to death of the lot of you, bloody shower of frauds, pseudos & time wasters. You're all sacked. Pack yr shit & leave.

Gasps, sobs, shrieks & bellows rebound from his words. A bevvy of St John's Ambulance men ferry out the faint of heart. Staff members queueing to leap from the windows are ignored by snotty security guards too busy helping themselves from the buffet. Hardened Ehacks, huddled in corners, give head to vapour fags & gabble into Moby Dicks. Champagne is passed hand-to-mouth by stack-heeled receptionists and lowdown office pros, swigging straight from the bottle. Balloons burst spontaneously. The sweet sickly pong of high end vomit mingles with a sharp stench of acetone as bewildered executives neck vials of pink nail varnish remover.

Meanwhile Lee has left the building. Exiting via service lift and back door, the former CEO and proprietor is disguised as a municipal dog catcher. In green cap and overalls he carries lasso pole and gunny sack slung over his shoulder. The streets are hot tho' not bothered, lazy sirens of ambulance, fire & police have converged too late to offer much succour to the dead or shocked onlookers. Lee ducks into an underpass that takes him to the far side of Punchnose Lane. He disappears into the district of all night wedding parlours and oldman early morning diners.

What's it to be, fella?

Two hash brownies, scoup of beans and eggs over easy. Gimme a coffee, there, too, matey. Oh, and a hunk of apple pie with molten cheese food.

Coming right up, sir. Sit yourself down & take the weight off.

This is the Cafe of Horlicks Wind Attempt stuck in the year 1974, patronised by homeless schmucks that nurse empty tea mugs, smoke Old Holborn butts and scratch. Radio cackles, too faint to make out tune or word, just the hiss & fry of distant galaxies. Yesterday's newspapers are marked & folded, phelgm chawed, yawns let out raw. Unemployment is kept alive here & flaunted like leprosy, women who enter abandon all hope, naked lunch boys shiver in long white trench coats, the letters FBI stencilled on their backs.

Incessant whirrs of Horlicks machines emanate from behind the steaming counter. Lee swills coffee and wipes his mouth with the back of a filthy glove. He eats slow with fork & spoon, paying with luncheon vouchers and tipping the waiter with fake chocolate money. As he makes his move for the door, a rent boy, old before his time, rises in unison. The blue skinned boy opens his jaw but before speaking, drops to the floor like a broken scarecrow. Purple smoke emits from the pockets and cuffs of his trousers. Somewhere out of shot, a cinema audience writhes in toothache boredom.

Back on the street the chase proceeds. A huntman's horn blares out as Lee hails a passing taxi,

Follow that hearse!

His yellow cab, lasso pole sticking from passenger window and followed by a pack of red-tailed vixens, pulls into the grim afternoon traffic.

Tallyho!