Keeil*

On a hill above the sea
stones in a rectangle, half hid in earth.
Three steps by two – and a doorspace.

Flat on my back, within the walls of air,
I watch a flock of clouds inch slowly by.
Below, on tumbled rocks, the tide
hushes to and fro
like an old man breathing.

He lived here a thousand summers past,
The Good Man.
Chose wind and rain for his companions,
lived on seaweed and rabbits,
sunsets and whirling stars,
prayed to a god who shouted back at him
from every tree, from every curling wave.

Later, walking back to the hotel
I had the feeling I was not alone.
Someone trailed behind me. I could hear
his footsteps clatter on the stony path,
his breathing ebb and flow,
but when I turned to look
the path was empty,
the evening still.

*a small hut/chapel lived in by hermits in the 12thC

 

Which witch ?

th-2
Sylvia ? It’s me darling. Listen.
I want to ask the most enormous favour.
I’ve heard from Big Mac again! Yes !
He wants another seance –
still has issues around his career development plan
going forward.
He wants to come round tonight !
Just a little kitchen supper like before.
Could you have a word with Susie ?
See is she could make it as well –
and tell her to bring her leotard.
That Progressive Dance thing she does
really gets the spirits going.

No. My real problem is the food.
I’ve got some fenny snake in the freezer
and there are some newts’ eyes and frogs’ toes
left over from last time.
But I’m totally out of wolfs’ teeth and bats’ wool.
I don’t suppose you’ve got any, have you ?
And if you haven’t
could you teeter down to Waitrose and get some ?
They have some lovely artisanal stuffed bats
and you can pluck a bunch of fur
whenever you need it.

I’d go myself
but I have to collect Piers from his playgroup.

Be a darling.

York

2731062891_b6ea74b610_z

 

When I am dead I shall come back
to this place
and watch
Tom’s black cat leap from the roof line in King’s Square
and curl in the baker’s doorway, purring.

I shall come back
to this place
and listen
to the trees in Dean’s Close
applauding themselves;
to the flat pavement slap of feet at noon,
to the tumbling drunks at midnight
to the Minster bell.

I shall stand
with the long dead
listening to wild geese pass
in the darkness.

We shall wait in the shadows
for the first gleam of sunrise
to tip the Minster tower.

When I am dead
I shall come back
to this place
foregoing heaven.

Hey Mister Tangerine Man

th

 

Hey, Mister Tangerine Man
build a wall for me,
I’m so weary of Hispanics
walkin’ over me.

Take me on a flight
to where all the guys are white
where the sunshine never ends
and the chicks are perfect tens
and they’re lustin’ all over me.

I’m ready to go anywhere,
believe the things you say;
keep Islamics well away
kiss Vlad Putin twice a day-
cast your golden spell my way.
I promise I’ll go under it.

The Donald Trump Drinking Game

The sheepdog- U A Fanthorpe

British Summer Time

th

That last pretence of summer –
slanting sunlight, and the air
settling into velvet – has gone.

Street lamps stutter
pour their pools of steely light
and photoflash each passing face
before it fades in shadow.

We turn back the clocks
enjoying, for a moment, the conceit
that we can turn back time,
control that slippery, elusive hour
which we have lost
or maybe not yet lived.

Wtng 4Gdt

th

 

Here WR
R we ?
tree,over there like he said.
YR we txting?
Evry 1 txts
Y?
its what they do.
but im standing next 2U
so UR
is he late?
R we early?

were we here yesterday?
dont!
or the day B4?
isnt 2day enuff 4U ?

Wait!
i am waiting.
Got an email – from him !
Me2!

“God is experiencing high volumes of traffic at the moment. Your message is really important to him. Please try later.”

“Angry German dents car with giant sausage” – The Times

th

Whose car is it ? Is it his ? Or does it belong to someone else ?
A brother who has cheated him out of an inheritance ?
A mistress who left him for a shorter person ?
Does it have a sausage on the roof rack ?
Or painted on the door ?
Does he see the sausage as a crude slur on the German people ?

Or is it his sausage ?
It is a giant sausage. How big could it be ?
It must be very hard to dent a car.
Is there a possible ambiguity in the word “ sausage” ?
An innuendo ?
Was the man particularly muscular ? Or the devotee
of some dangerous martial art ?

Or is he angry, not with the car
but with the sausage ?
Did he really intend to buy 250 grams of cheese, but had a momentary blackout, and found himself clutching the giant sausage as he stepped out into the street ?

Or perhaps, deep down, he hates the taste of sausage
but dare not reveal his aversion
as he is German.

That would be the wurst of all possible worlds.

Bus Pass

bus_connections_ride_268304

A passport to purgatory
with no request stops
and one final destination.

Blank eyed, killer cold,
I look just like some shifty cove
of interest to the police-
a drug baron or someone who
does dreadful things to cats.

I place my effigy face down,
wait for the electronic ping
which says I am still me,
then find a seat.

The bus, packed full
as a milkman’s crate
with silver tops,
is loud with chat.

“These car wash people are all Russian”
“They’ll soon get finished then.”
“Isn’t it funny – you often find
something you haven’t lost.”

Museum Street. The conversation’s stilled.
We shuffle off, take up our own affairs –
optician, dentist, hospital for tests-
all necessary measures for survival.
That way we can eke out a few more years
but still

the journey matters more than the arrival.

Man hollowed out wooden leg to smuggle iguanas

th-1

I would have got away with it
but for the noise –
claws scratching at the wood,
those genteel coughing sounds
iguanas make.

“One moment, sir”
I knew then I was done for.
“ If you could come this way..”

In my skivvies, standing on one leg,
I watched him spring the secret trapdoor –
out they tumbled – all my little darlings
skittering across the polished floor.
Tiny dinosaurs in Terminal Two.

It’s said that they escaped into the drains
and flourished there…

One day they will return, Godzilla like,
crunching Jumbo jets to junk
between their claws, reeking of jet juice
and rotting airline meals.

Depressed penguins make recovery

images
We’re fine now. Thanks for asking.
White chests and black tail coats,
we look like waiters in some posh hotel.
Three times a day we go through our routine –
the comedy walk-on in perfect sync –
then dive in one by one and swim
to the ice floe
made out of cement
which never melts or grows.

They throw us chunks of frozen herring –
always the same but quite nutritious –
and laugh to see our antics.
Sometimes they clap their flippers in delight.
It is nice to be appreciated.

They’re very needful of our welfare.
Even the herring
has a special tang to it these days.

Yet still, some nights
huddled with others on a concrete floor
I hear  great bergs crash together
see distant sky
shimmer
feel the ice
sharp under my claws.

No, honestly. We’re fine.