Iron Hat

One night while I was walking all out and alone a man in an iron hat came along and told me, all in song, about his life - well so far, at least. 

It was a long tail, twisted and hairy, and tufted at the end and, as it swished from side to side, odd odes and never-heards came listening bound.

Some words were puddles, big ones, with ducks. Some words were horses, they thundered on the hard ground. And as he sang he tapped out a salsa beat with a bleach clean ulna bone, from a long departed monkey friend, upon the brim of his iron hat.

And i know you are wondering how the story goes, id tell you nothing more for tupence and not a penny less. For more id tell you twice as much - settle down upon this bench. Wait, feel the rain falling in your hair, shut eyes, still your mind. Here's nothing, think nothing of it, its a gift from me to you

Dance yourself dizzy

His own words silenced - cornered. 

Torn apart with fear he grabbed his nearest weapon. 

Brandishing his wife, he let her rip with her wit.

4 floors below, knee deep in lurid dancing, a brace of strutters bopped - stopped.

Caught in time, no rhythm just rhyme.

Paused to hear the cries from above.

The witty retorts, savage words cutting. 

There, on the dance floor, fingers in their ears they danced themselves dizzy and banned all thoughts of men and wives and voices.

"I have a horrid feeling that, like the concept of enlightenment, few people will ever truly know life outside my arse."

Mid-morning Leyton, just past 1986

All wrapped up in cloth, stuffed in a box, under the stairs, smelling of must, we found him. 

Unwrapped, he stood stiffly, blinked then eyed us - one by one by one - as he wound the watch on his wrist. 

We had been looking for chapatti flour, we had not lost that, it was where it was supposed to have been, in the dustbin, with its scoop and all. No, the box was the oddity. Too large for its space, too large to have always been there unseen, with dust befitting its situation.

 . ."its time I left," that is all he said, near upending the bin in his haste, and pushed past us. He lifted his arms, as he squashed through the bikes and our junk in the passageway, as if trying to avoid soaking his sleeves while wading.

And he was gone down the street, past the bins and dead cars and trolleys. Dust devils blowing through the chapatti flour, mid-morning Leyton, just past 1986.

Little England

Posh 'ouse. 
Shit floats in loobloo. Its not mine. 
Stinking island in a springclearfresh ocean. 
Bobbing. 


On its Northern shores tiny turd people munch on giant sweetcorn chunks. 
From bakedbeany lumps they erect statues, giant characaturds of their gods. 


They dont mind the smell, they have all they have their squables to entertain them, their little wars and grumbles over the disaffected yoof. 


Odd isnt it, i think, when i find a sight so displeasing that i dont want to piss on it, defile my piss. 
I smother them with an ultrasoftcushionquilted sheet of colourcoordinated skatrag. 


A dense fog blankets down on the tiny turd folk and their winnet babes cry as the oceans rage and i flush them away. 
Bye tiny little islanders.