Fishnet Dude

dude steals across field

fence down signs swing like barn doors

way out of site

no entry is free

coupla good old boys scratch heads and get to their feet

thumbs in waistcoat dude addresses them on the price of fish

proof enough for me brother

common ground around here

earlier dude has sight of deeds in private vault

the words big cheese corp copperlate on manila envelope

soon talking heads helluva crowd pack into that field

check out prices boys uptown downtown turnaroundtown

cod shrimp scampi red snappers fresh whitebait

seahorse porpoise jellyfish & lobster all squarely kettled

in genteel quadriles of debate

bring up mullet herring or whelk tho'

and comic tempers may be frayed to a whoop

yet sportmanlike no smacked wrists for sticklers or touts

this overhead thru din of revels

how come so few cats dig this line of jive while thems that do talk the back legs off an octopus

don’t know what they missing eh bub

these days balmy days old dude hat checks and bows

newcomers in with welcomes & grooms

waffles and root beer on sale right here ma’am

coconut shy to your left sir

tombola on center kids

everythink a dime a throw

O man does the coin sack up a treat

one time word comes in of fish stocks washed up on lake shore

somewheres over farraway hills

long uns bloaters cute little tiddlers all crack tails and croak

bayloads just beached for the asking

should it be bells ringing or hands a-wringing

nature or nurture not sure O fishnet dude do tell

whither should we proceed with bucket and spade

but no answer comes from dude of any fish hole outing

a sorry blow to long-winders and anti-pork talkers

though many ain’t moved past an oh & an ah

while the more vocal gainsters just plain stone-wall

it too far away they pipe

poisoned fish got no price tag these parts

and what else is there to say

get the heck outta here if you wanna talk that snit

objectionable stink arises and abates

fluctuates as the wind picks up

then veers south

sky gleams deep blue grey

very ground appears to shift

whence old dude does quick line of nosepicks & shovels hollering

dig in all those that are sticking it out

so loud even stray cats hear his voice trailing off

meantime good old boys go round

with placcards proclaiming ground rent is due

and what secret code shuffles in that ornery phrase

suddenly all fish talk turns to bubbles

dude has sold out to big cheese corp

why yes it’s as your honour gassed

this whole land’s worth a googleplex in fracking rights

pip pip hooray hooray hooray

six months on winter has set in

the stolen ground frozen underfoot

stampers grumble over tinned pilchards

sardines in tabasco sauce© & all you can net for cheap

Philip Lee, 2013

Where's the Catch?

Battlefield 5

Preview Only

bed time militias don't feel safe unless

in danger teeing off at breaking links

patriot missives from hollowood stars

for atmosphere it's past between the wars

of rich hobos much grumbling in the ranks

say yellow brick roads to they shall not pass

whoever saw the preacher ride his ass

through Babel gates held down by hover tanks

just watch as their best minds trip on the shores

while all they pack are fuel deficient cars

free transfat food and taste disposal sinks

that put no end to the godawful mess

behold the nation gave the humble sting

a new decade of life drove out the king

headphones on kids & family guys play

silence shake this floor of the building

drive little pony wagon circles

back to the furniture of the West

get thee face paint protection witness

back up the nursery bedknobs &

broomsticks for muskets sandbags pillows

c'mon you zombie hides we is ready

boy do those death jackets run us close

thrown out their god with the dishwasher

how many lives you had Bud got one

shucks they sure keep surging round for more

no Ma'am bedtime ain't due till we're through

Pa's turn to do the fort anyhow

yes sir game never starts till it's over

dead men on sticks don't fumble at the catch

aiming sightless becomes the blind rover

for he who dips his oar dares a re-match

point the way Methuselah won't delay

yr welcome any time you want take off

players the umpire called peace is gay

hand ball clean bowled or side-lined at the cuff

links and flog a laugh from the derrières

of horse's rights go diva saddle up

Pompey call off duty pillow fighters

dream on suicide storm in stirrup cup 

ain't those death flirts left you sleepy at all
sonny boy no girl throw that dicey ball

Jan '14

Never Play!

Masters of Sox

- or -

Sock Puppet's Christmas Thang

It being the season of good will, the crust on the yule logs as it were still deep & crisp & even, we decided to give old Sock Puppet the evening off. This was a sly move on our part, as we had the dirty old foot-fiend tailed to see where it would go and - more to the point - what it would do. In a cheap hotel behind Kings Cross Station, the randy object meets up with that notorious floozie, Xmas Stocking. They have a swiftie at the bar before retiring. There follows a transcript of their conjugation:

Xmas Stocking: Don't know about you, Squire, but I could murder a large Ugg!

Sock Puppet: Waiter! Large Ugg for the nice broad, and make mine a double DocMartens.

Waiter: Uggs and Docs, both in pairs. Will there be anything else?

XS: What's you got?

Waiter: Let me see now, there's pig's trotters, cheesy's sarnies and soles in batter on special. Or we could do you a nice mixed platter.

SP: I think the snifters will be enough for now. Can you bring us a platter up to our room later on?

Waiter: Why certainly!

XS: They is good in here, ain't they?

SP: You wouldn't think so if you had to foot the bill.

XS: So what you been up to since then?

SP: This and that.

XS: That's interesting. Come on, then, give my gusset a bit of a wring!

SP: There you are! Cor! You been hung out to dry or what?

XS: Well, business has been slack since Christmas.

SP: Cheer up, I've got a decent length of elastic tucked into my folds.

XS: I could certainly use a good twanging.

SP: Keeps the cold out. How's your father?

XS: Same as ever, the old fraudster. This is supposed to be his busy time of the year, of course. If you ask me, though, he's flogging a dead reindeer. There ain't much peace and love going these days. Bloody Yanks and Russians!

SP: I see you're careful not to mention any Arabs.

XS: Not by name, no. You gotta put your best punters first, even when you don't know who they is half of them.

SP: I blame the wise men and shepherds.

XS: Picked a wrong 'un, didn't they?

SP: How can you trust people who wash their socks round the fire at night? They're either thick as two shorts planks or too clever for their shirts.

XS: So you think they should do it all over again?

SP: Can't hurt to stage a rematch.

Waiter: Your order!

SP: What's the name, young fellah?

Waiter: Peter Gabriel.

XS: He's down on his luck, poor lamb!

Waiter: Enjoy!

SP: See where I'm getting to?

XS: What about turning the other cheek?

SP: Come here, let's be having you!

The remainder of this recording has been deemed unsuitable for viewers of a general disposition. However, in the interests of science, our photographer concealed himself in the wardrobe and we present his findings below:

Sleuthwitch Franchise - NO DEAL

$9m plus for the

Sleuthwitch franchise?

“Chicken feed!” says Lee.

Arnie Goy and The Sock Puppet at the Carlo Marx Bingo Club, Lune Press

After a three-cornered bidding war, the Sock Puppet has been informed, Lee turns down a book/TV serial deal worth $9m (six-of-large English). The sock puppet spoke to Arnold Goy (of Shiksa & Goy), who headed up the bidders' consortium.

Carlo Marx Bingo Club, London.

Waiter: What'll it be, then?


Goy: A large single malt, neat and without ice, please.


Waiter: And for the broad? I mean... for the snake?


The Sock Puppet: I'll have a DocMarten's.


Waiter: Boot or shoe?


TSP: A shoe, please.


Waiter: Black or ox-blood?


TSP: Ox-blood.


Waiter: What size?


TSP: A 9½.


Waiter: Laced or slip-on?


Goy: For pity's sake!


TSP: Laced, please.


Waiter: Left or right foot?


Goy: Just bring the bloody pair!


Waiter: With or without Odor-Eaters?


Goy: Will you clear off? Right, now I'm ready to answer your questions.


TSP: OK, you offered Lee $9m for a book he hasn't even finished? You're on the weed again, aren't you?


Goy: Clean as a whistle, Squire! 'Struth is, Lee hasn't had much free time of late, but his idea is a total smasher. A real blinder. A Bobby Dazzler. A Jammy Riddler!


TSP: Oh, aye? Who else was bidding?


Goy: Little Brown Jug was in there, as were Random Plot. On the TV side, we had interest from FocksTales and heXTV.


TSP: heXTV, the witchy porn channel?


Goy: Well, there exists some scope for kissing, cuddles and a bum smack or two in the book.


TSP: You were turning Lee's latest tome into a piece of Satan Smut?


Goy: Begging your honour's pardon, there was nothing smutty about the deal. Largely tasteful, it was, and suitable for persons of severable dispositions.


TSP: Severable, eh? I'm not surprised the author turned you down. How could he live up to himself?


Goy: Worse things have happened in space!


TSP: Lee's not a fizzled out comet, man! Not one of your flipping cheese graters, either; he'd rather leave his work on the back seat of a trolleybus than have it turned into someone's slush fund. What would he do with that kind of money anyway? Buy himself a tractor?


Goy: He could do with a new tractor, yes; and a decent pair of reading glasses.


TSP: You leave him alone. He's quite happy as he is.


Goy: Exactly how many copies of his first novel has he sold exactly?


TSP: Exactly? There's no need to be starkers!


Goy: Come on, how many is it, after eighteen months on sale?


TSP: I'd have to check the website.


Goy: I'll save you the trouble. In eighteen months he has sold a grand total of one book.


TSP: An achievement in itself! But sales have been slow with your world economic crisis. People don't like shelving out, see, rather spare their cutter for cheap sex and booze.


Goy: He's a flipping dreamer.


TSP: The man's a hartist.


Goy: You mean he's wasting the hair he breathes. He should pull over and leave some other schmuck ago.


TSP: Who's stopping them?


Goy: There should be a law against it.


Waiter: Here's your order, gentle... z.


Goy: Did I say I wanted ice?


Waiter: That's not ice, sir; those are shards of broken glass.


TSP: Well these shoes are a lovely fit, both of them! Just smell that leather! Cheers, Big Ears!



Goy: Up yours, Pussy Foot!

Never Sign!

poetry republic
8 members welcome readers/writers/critics

Books we've read

The Society Of The Poem
by Jonathan Raban

Literary Theory: An Introduction
by Terry Eagleton

View this group on Goodreads »

The 1803

Beethoven’s Great Eastern Symphony

Wreck of the 1803 ($10 Aquarium Version)

Constructed at Tranmere from 47,000 tons of wrought iron, 11 million brass rivets, 70 miles of piano wire and A-flat tyre, this sea symphony held the longest spot in the charts from November 1803 until June the following year, when it was sunk by Admiral Horatio Balmpott in mistake for a French East Indiaman.

A snidey short cut from late classical into the mid-Atlantic, “The 1803” (as it’s derisively called by muzakologists) received its first performance at the battle of Rushworth & Drapers, 1807, when a squadron of Pomeranian Hornblowers were chased into a Masurian pond by Polish flautists of the Grande Armée Concert Party. Its tragic opening theme is repeated ad nausoleum on oboe and flageolet, tin tray & castanet. Then a counter melody of shaken coins and raspberry glissandoes intrudes; after a short fudge, the mood lightens into a pathetic bazurka. Movements two, three and four follow in much the same fashion, with various changes of tempo, flavour and venue.

Dave's "Napoleon With Trout" (fishscale on canvas)

Public performances of the symphony were banned by Napoleon Bonaparte, who never forgave Ludwig for letting him down on the sandy lake shores of Pomerania, but who nevertheless called for the tune to be hummed at his deathbed. Ludwig Van received only 17 Austrian Krones for the work and later repudiated it as the product of a marinated biologist. CD available on His Monster’s Voice, LVB/Op/28.3.

In other news, the mummified penis of Beethoven’s cat, Donald, has been auctioned by Sodaboff’s, where it fetched three bob and an orange. Meanwhile, in San Diego, Beethoven’s orchestral version of the Trout Mask Replica has been unveiled as a fake. And back on The Wirral, Ludwig Van himself is to open the New Palace Motors Used Cars You Can Trust on Bromborough High Road. As a man in the street said, “I’ve had three cars. Each car has been a good car. What more can you ask?”

Wirral Washout

In weather. Port Sunlight, tomorrow, the outdoor performance of Beethoven’s 6.2 Symphony “The Postural” is to be washed down with a little light Schubert and several strong breezers. 

Droning On About...

Of all urban myths, surely Musca domestica is the elephant in the bog-house? (Pardon my Latin.)

Awarding this beastie a classical tag, we're buying into the freakshow that it has a share in our cultural heritage. It bloody hasn't. Any member of the Cyclorrhapa clan that wanders into a family home is doomed to die there. It may enjoy a few hours of feeding, crapping and copping off while good honest folk are out in the field, but the offspring of such matches have no expectations whatsoever.

All types of fly, gnat, bluebottle and mosquito take fair warning: houses are black holes to be sucked into. There is no return for you, your children or your children's children.

In point of fact, houses are the evolutionary windscreen of the so-called house-fly. With its record of deaths on the road, one might as well call it Musa vehicula (car-fly); or in reference to its terrorist sympathies, Musa vigila (SWAT-fly).

Said to have evolved just before the fall of the dinosaur, the so-called house-fly first buzzed into the cave dwellings of anabolic reptiles and single cell rodents. Unmolested by anything without hooves or tails, it ate crap, laid its eggs in crap and also did a fair bit of crapping itself. Archaeologists back me up on this will you, having raked through the spoils of these places, would you please confirm my apotheosis on the matter?

Thank you. As, as can be seen, early man's home was plagued with the creature's ancestor, as shown in a cave painting carbooted back to -40,000 BMC. That such paintings do not actually depict the hunting of fly, may be explained away by the taboo of Ahimsa (I am a vegetarian after all). So though no actual image of a stone age swatting exists, I can say squashed examples peel from the walls of excavations like blackened palimpsests.

Turning our backs, for the present, on the past and ignoring the cries of future conversationists, swat abolishionists and other zombies of cant & can't... the outlook is bleak for this unwelcome house guest. I've retired 37 specimens already this morning and Go-My-Hod if I hain't done yet. Don't they know it's only four months to Crimbo? Their days are numbered, so help me! Look, one on screen right now! Splat! Gotchya! Yeuch!

STOP PRESS.... STOP PRESS.... STOP PRESS.... STOP PRESS....

game set & match

'twas rich how Donald's children were Trumped

as Palmer's lion Cecil was brought down

by eco-friendly bow & arrow this week

of course all hunting folk must bow

before the majesty of Juan Carlos' elephant

shot dead in a park some years ago

the pair of which made pride in Palin's

homey caribou look positively wasted

so what humdrum safaris are left to us

brandishing our weapon of choice

the fly swat takes such low skill & much fuss

that murder in the kitchen's better done

before the poor kids are up & dressed

30/7/2015

poetry republic
3 members welcome readers/writers/critics

Books we've read

The Society Of The Poem
by Jonathan Raban

Literary Theory: An Introduction
by Terry Eagleton

View this group on Goodreads »

Fracking the Classics

Snap!

Yesterday, a crack opened in the absolute underpants of English Letters. When past-modeliste Ivan de Squawk let off in the British Museum Reading Room, the ghost of Jacob Marley was seen to waft up from the floorboards. The Dickens, what? "A Christmas Carol" scribbled here? Surely Not! Marx wrote his "Das Kapital", followed by ten thousand lesser fractors that did scratch and fidget on green leather armchair - but never the inventor of "Oliver Twist"! Of "Martin Chuzzlewit"? Of "Bleak House"? Yet, before his very eyes, more than a hundred Korean tourists snapped Marley's ghost ventilating through authentic gaps in the Reading Room's floorboards. It seems inevitable that old Charley Boy was an incognito Reading Room arse after all - begging many bios to be rewrit. And pray, what else does de Squawks's trumpet involuntary mean for the wearers of literary belts & braces? That the Bumsbury underground contains a subconscious well of Old English Gas? That new Fraction Rights will be auctioned off - 4G style - by a cash-starved gov? Surely Dem Libs would never allow it?

Click Neg!

Fear not, already Bold Moves are a-foot! The village the Brontës vicaraged has been braced for subsidence. A hosepipe ban around Jane Austen's cottage has been in force for over a century. Last weekend, in a nifty move, George Orwell's remote Scottish island of Jura was towed to safety across the Atlantic and into Lake Michigan. Meanwhile, overnight the B.Army has sealed off a ten mile exclusion zone around Stratford-upon-Avon, deploying Mark Ib tanks, armoured carts and banks of surface-to-air fiddle-Sticks. Even the boarded-up ice-cream parlour on New Brighton prom (most recently an adult shop) where John Lennon first whistled "She Loves You, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah!" has been awarded grade 2.1. with Hons..

>So, Prof. Quatermass, how exactly does the fraction process work?

Q Pegged for Action

>Well Johnnie, it's important to tap into the correct real estate. For example, if you're after new works by Joe Orton, it's no use boffing in public lavatories built after 1967. Equip yourself with a decent Blue Plaque guide and a stout pair of walking shoes. And your flageolets, of course; swallow at least one tin of 'em before setting out.

>So what of the environmental consequences?

>Johnnie, as you know, there's still a helluva lot of work to be done in the lab, PCR results to shred into the pot and a watchamacallit, a microbiological vivisection of the genetic code. All that needn't hold us back, though. Remember, there's nothing like a good long fart for keeping out the cold on long winter nights.

>I should coco!

Snap!

>No, Johnnie, you should Horlicks!

Never Snap!

poetry republic
3 members >to welcome poets, poetry readers & critics >to post poetry by members and others >to focus on ...

Books we've read

The Society Of The Poem
by Jonathan Raban

Literary Theory: An Introduction
by Terry Eagleton

View this group on Goodreads »

The world's most least

Not Quite Concorde

a) The world's most least airport is, of course, the Graunaid nepswaper. It isn't a conventional aripotr in the sense that winged fiends don't frig off or land on its centre folds every fifteen seconds. Nor do Bombay troubaducks spend much time nestled up between its UK and foreign travel pages. Moreover, it is not a pansweepr in the conventional sense, fot it trots not out the dead donkeys of obscure celebrities' husbands/wives. And what's more, it has no flipping page 3. Yet does it have a cracking page 2b, on which topographical errers vie with the nosegay poses of Messrs Watson & Holmes.

On Her Majesty's Pleasure

b) The world's most unbendiest banana is, of course, the Queen's Own. Imported from less than one country, the sovereign's Handy Boomerang is available in Unbent, Jolly Unbent and I Don't Believe He Isn't Straight. Available from hawkers' barrows at select English football stadia, Her Majesty's Own Unbendable Banana is a member of Equestrian Equity.

Two Little Bears?

c) The world's Silliest Lies Show has, of course, been parked outside the Saturday morning children's slot on Channel Fork for the past month. Known in the trade as Biz's Lizzes, the show is hosted jointly by Ozzie harse painta Rodolfo de Harris and English redhead soap-groupie Rebecca Brookside. Formerly broadcast on BBC Wan, this family entertainment trundles out its trendy host of under-age spankers, e-knicker swappers and grainy spy-cam murderers. Between hopeful acts, Rodolfo leads community singing of "Two Little Baggers", "Jock the Jack with the Extra Pack" and "Stairwell to Hell". Meanwhile bored sultry Rebecca chills and cooks the old boys' socks. Love 'er!

Ronnie Aitch Corbett

d) Finally, it's over to the World's Least Youngest Man... who is, of course, Ronnie Aitch Corbett. Corbett, who swears he never laid 'ands on either Sooty or Sweep, has been more or less younger for more years than he dares to remember. Neither does he do impressions of his former partner, Ronnie Who's A Barking Biggsie Then? Instead, there he sits in his Emmanuelle Chair a-reminiscing of his days not at Oxford or Cambridge. Love 'im!

Wilfred Aitch Bramble

dd) But, of course, least most finally still, we have the silliest of all soliloquies from the least most Pan-Londoner of all...

Harry Pull Thy Pants Up Corbett: "You dirty, filthy, 'orrible little old man, YOU, I 'ate you, I does, you dirty old fellah; despicable, that's what you are, downright despicable!"

Old Mr Steptoe (toothless grinning:) "Aw get orf, 'Arold; do give over!" (mug wumps)

Sock it to 'em!

poetry republic
3 members >to welcome poets, poetry readers & critics >to post poetry by members and others >to focus on ...

Books we've read

The Society Of The Poem
by Jonathan Raban

Literary Theory: An Introduction
by Terry Eagleton

View this group on Goodreads »