ZINNIE DO YOU STILL LOVE ME?

ZINNIE

 

Zinnie do you still love me

After all that I have done?

That gal in Nice inconsequential

As was the meaningless fling with the nun

 

Mind my frolic with young Svetlana

I accept did cross the line

So too my affair with that actress

And the model I did wine and dine

 

My excuse? You may very well ask

And believe me I owe you the truth

I simply cannot control my loins

Just ask your sister, your sister Ruth

 

I point of fact ask your auntie

And your mother will tell you the same

For when the mood is about me

All of you gals are fair game

 

Zinnie do you still love me

After all that I have done?

If so then I’d feel so much better

If you put down that submachine gun

 

MAD FRANK DARWIN’S CORRUGATED SHED

mikesteeden:

My spitting feathers thanks to WP once more for posting this to some readers yet not others…one wonders why we bother!

Originally posted on mikesteeden:

dodo-bird-daniel-eskridge

“New shed Frank?” 

“Oh yes Brian, oh yes…finished putting it together last night as it happens…bit of a beauty don’t you think?” 

“Certainly is Frank…crikey you don’t see many modern sheds with such sturdy frames these days and the corrugated iron structuring painted a rather fetching pastel blue no doubt protects its innards from fire, rot or even a pestilence of termites.  Just the one question though.” 

“What’s that then Brian?” 

“Why did you construct it on top of the flat roof to your kitchen extension?” 

“Predators…I have to keep the bloody predators out.” 

“Predators? What here in Neasden, London? What on earth are you going to keep in it that has you so concerned about beasts of prey and such like?” 

“Dodos Brian…dodos. You see I have a brace of the blighters I discovered on a trip to the ancient woodlands of…

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MAD FRANK DARWIN’S CORRUGATED SHED

dodo-bird-daniel-eskridge

“New shed Frank?” 

“Oh yes Brian, oh yes…finished putting it together last night as it happens…bit of a beauty don’t you think?” 

“Certainly is Frank…crikey you don’t see many modern sheds with such sturdy frames these days and the corrugated iron structuring painted a rather fetching pastel blue no doubt protects its innards from fire, rot or even a pestilence of termites.  Just the one question though.” 

“What’s that then Brian?” 

“Why did you construct it on top of the flat roof to your kitchen extension?” 

“Predators…I have to keep the bloody predators out.” 

“Predators? What here in Neasden, London? What on earth are you going to keep in it that has you so concerned about beasts of prey and such like?” 

“Dodos Brian…dodos. You see I have a brace of the blighters I discovered on a trip to the ancient woodlands of Epping Forest in that shed of mine. Got to keep ‘em nice and safe see…I’m planning to have a whole waddle of dodos in there in the fullness of time I might add.” 

“Dodos in Epping Forest in the year of our Lord 2015AD…you have to be pulling my plonker mate. Insofar as I am aware the flightless and terrestrial bird what heralds from the subfamily Raphinae of the clan of pigeons and doves and is named the dodo is my friend quite extinct. If I’m not mistaken the last widely accepted sighting of a dodo was in 1662 on the faraway island of Mauritius. Epping Forest…you’re having a laugh mate!” 

“Deadly serious Brian…deadly serious. It’s a breeding pair what I’ve got and as such they will likely be at it day and night…wait, listen up I think I hear them rumping away like billy-o even as we speak.” 

“I think you’ll find that what you can hear is the siren of a passing police car no doubt chasing down a miscreant, nothing more.” 

“Oh ye of little faith. Look Brian, hand on heart there I was in the forest on a bit of a fungi hunt under the canopy – the rare Tulostoma niveum puffball if you must know – when I came to a clearing and there in front of me, large as life were two dodos.  Too good an opportunity to miss in my book so I rushes back to the motor, grabs me trusty club hammer…runs back to the clearing…gives the both of them a swift, yet plainly not fatal bonk on the bonce thus ensuring a short term anaesthetic effect…chucked them in the back of the car…popped round to the DIY store to purchase the shed and Bobs your uncle, job done!  I’ve called them Mavis and Cyril by the way.” 

“Do you mind if I take a peek through the shed window Frank…got to see this for myself?” 

“Do what you like you Doubting Thomas you.” 

“Er Frank…don’t know how to put this…um…this may come as a great disappointment Frank but what I am looking at here is, my friend, a couple of pigeons…big ones I’ll grant you yet pigeons nonetheless.” 

“You sure Brian?” 

“100% Frank.” 

“So I won’t be using any spare eggs for the fine cuisine I had been so looking forward to, you know dodo omelette and fries that is…or should I say was?” 

“Afraid not Frank.  I mean I suppose there are certain similarities in build yet the dodo stood over three foot tall, pigeons a mere dozen or so inches. Tell you what you know those milk bottle bottom glasses you wear with the multi-flex arms that if you put them on ‘about face’ they have a magnification effect …you know the ones you have on now that the boys down the pub say, ‘You must have fucking good eyesight to see through those’…well did you, indeed have you still got them on back to front again?” 

“Might have done…thought you were looking taller than usual…and thinking about it I did mention to the missus over breakfast that by the look of her arse she should consider going on a fat free diet in the near future.”

MEDZ YEGHERN

assassin 

He mouths his solo of undoing

the venue a derelict warehouse

due south of Old Father Thames

to an accompanying throb of

aimless raindrops succumbing

to relentless gravity via

fractured apertures, leaky roof

 

His gallery a wonky line-up of

couldn’t care less spiders

scurrying half interested rats

vagrant rummaging sex charged pigeons

 

Yet there was once a time when his

patriotic baritone could fill an opera house

chauffeur driven bib and tucker swank

boasting ‘a la mode’ razzle dazzle trophies

thunderous applause, ‘Bravo, encore, more…more…more’

 

Back then he piloted his own serendipity

back then was before he fell for the sleeper courtesan

who would orchestrate his fall from grace

 

Burned out he capsizes into canned flashbacks lockup

introspection ever the darkest of muses

her petticoats, her stays, alabaster smooth skin

raven plumage, siren eyes, and unornamented Byzantine intimacy

 

Wonders how did it all unfold thus?

 

“Your poison Sir”

 

“Sorry I was miles away…what did you say?”

 

“Your poison…what are you drinking?”

 

Another ‘another’ glass of bubbly for

the bleary eyed fuddled idol in his cups

she duly obliges, keeps his forgotten change

tie askew, dress shirt undone, face down on the bar

she recognizes her prey, her long awaited jackpot

she takes him home

 

That he fell in love in a flash there was no doubt

that she was just camouflage he could not be expected to have known

 

Time broke into a sprint as false romance

blossomed throughout a spry spring

 

One evening in her atelier, lost to the demon drink

his part time artisan pinned him to the bed posts

painted in oils his image as alive and as dead for posterity

drew forth her Armenian Serpent and severed his vocal folds

stole his voice

cast him adrift

 

No such thing as predilection for the enslaved one, the

one who had once, in the term previous to fame and fortune

sang songs of hate that incited the masses, fuelled the Medz Yeghern

left Delilah and the unmoored souls urging her on no choice

 

 

THE DAY THE CARPET FITTER ARRIVED

mikesteeden:

Having checked around I find that yet again (!) WP has this post on some readers not others! Hence another tedious reblog.

Originally posted on mikesteeden:

compassion

Imprisoned within a shutdown body, limbs but rigid stumps, only mother knew the things that went on inside his head.

 “Do you think bears are all mad what with dad bear so prone to scoffing babies of his own kind…you know like that fatal prion malady cannibals get…like mad cows disease?” 

Paralysis had not affected his hearing.  He neither knew nor cared save for a passing thought that bears may well be the fruit of jumbled loins as he himself might have been, perhaps was, yet he double blinked an affirmative regardless just to keep the old boot happy.

There were times when had he been able to communicate pointedly he would impart the chancy incantation that had come to visit years back and never moved on, ‘God has ways of torture only I know’ – even had a melodic loop to go with it within. Yet that was…

View original 923 more words

THE DAY THE CARPET FITTER ARRIVED

compassion

Imprisoned within a shutdown body, limbs but rigid stumps, only mother knew the things that went on inside his head.

 “Do you think bears are all mad what with dad bear so prone to scoffing babies of his own kind…you know like that fatal prion malady cannibals get…like mad cows disease?” 

Paralysis had not affected his hearing.  He neither knew nor cared save for a passing thought that bears may well be the fruit of jumbled loins as he himself might have been, perhaps was, yet he double blinked an affirmative regardless just to keep the old boot happy.

There were times when had he been able to communicate pointedly he would impart the chancy incantation that had come to visit years back and never moved on, ‘God has ways of torture only I know’ – even had a melodic loop to go with it within. Yet that was a mere spin off from the days he had been priest groomed to believe said God moved in ‘mysterious ways’. Since the village church had been abandoned for lack of believers and redeveloped into luxury flats for the Surreyite summertime tourists the pastoral pontificator had long since left his post; gone to God knows where!

After the recent death of his father he didn’t get out and about all that much. Big lump, nearly 18 years old that he was, mother wasn’t much use on the wheeling him around front. He didn’t miss the going out save for the pretty girl who worked the till at the Spa shop up the road.  He liked her. For her part she was all heart, made him inward beam and laugh.  He wished she knew she did that to him. Hoped she did anyhow. He dreamed of her regularly, sometimes X-rated guesswork, mostly just holding hands and playing tennis in the rain.

The day the carpet fitter arrived changed everything.  Mum’s new bedroom carpet was to be laid and her bed, wardrobes and cabinets needed to be moved to get the carpet down.

“Oh you can put all my bits and pieces in my son’s room. He’s got the biggest bedroom anyway what with….” she paused evaluating as how to put it… “what with his ‘disabilities’ and that.” The plural struck the fitter as an odd choice.

“Like a cup of tea would you?” 

“Yes luv…three sugars please.”

The carpet man dismantled the bed first taking its frame to the boy’s room. In an instant saw with his own eyes what she meant when she had said, ‘disabilities’. It fairly took him back. He rested the frame against the wall, cast his eyes about the place. Gave the lad wearing headphones a nod and smile.

“You like Metallica then…you’ve got their posters for wallpaper! Me and my boys are great fans…my favourite number is ‘Nothing Else Matters’. What an intro…my youngest can play that on his guitar.” 

“He can’t hear you with his phones on…he likes me to turn the volume up loud…the doctor said too loud is bad for his ears but he doesn’t have much to cheer about so I let him listen how he wants. Here’s your tea by the way.”

The widow and the fitter enjoyed their cuppas out in the courtyard garden under a circumspect sun.

“What’s the boy’s name?” 

“Harry. He’ll be 18 in a couple of months…my how time flies. He’s named after his dad…dad fell off his perch a couple of months back…tragic in more ways than one.” 

“How so? If you don’t mind me asking that is.” 

She explained that dad was going to organise a special treat for young Harry’s eighteenth yet in a moment of absent mindlessness had walked out into the road in the path of a number 37 bus and was no more. The treat was to be Metallica at Wembley Stadium. Metallica was Harry’s all-consuming passion. Yet what with her husband having snuffed it the treat was now off the menu.

“Me and my boys are going to that concert…truly sorry your lad won’t be able to make it.”

Job done, a satisfied customer the carpet fitter was weighed and paid and off about other business.

Harry’s birthday was on a Monday. An excited mum woke him early to show him his birthday card and present. Stuck for gift ideas for the boy without agility she had plumped for another James Hetfield T-shirt knowing these always went down well.

A knock at the door. Rarely having visitors she made haste to see who it might be. That it was the carpet fitter threw her at first. He was holding a large envelope with Harry’s name on it.

“Here luv give this to Harry…it’s a little something from me and my boys.”

 “Come in…please come in…you can take it up to him yourself.” 

“Cheers luv…there’s a little note inside…should I read it out or will you?” 

“You do it…it’s from you, I think he’ll like it that way.”

And thus it was that the carpet fitter read aloud the hand scrawled missive within the birthday card. It told of a father and three sons, their respective sponsored shaved head days, long distance bicycle rides, red hot chilli scoffing events…all manner of things.  It told of how they raised a sufficiency of funds to not only pay for the Metallica tickets but also for a mini bus to take them all to the event, a nurse to accompany Harry (just in case) and that there was two grand left over that for the lad to spend as he wished.

Harry had the best day of his buggered up life. Better still that the nurse was not a real nurse at all…it was the girl for the Spar shop dressed up. After the concert she had plonked a great smacker of a kiss on his forehead and thanked him for the most wonderful time. As she left she whispered in his ear, “I’ll pop round on Wednesday if you like. It’s my day off and we can listen to the band together. Would you like that?” prompting his swiftest double blink ever.

Utopia had found Harry who shed a tear of joy for a germinal love he, ‘no if’s, no buts’ acknowledged would not pan out like on the telly. In later years he would often wonder how the carpet fitter knew about the girl from Spa Shop.

BRAIDED HEART STRINGS

woman-scorned

Dear Elizabeth,

Forgive the intrusion of this long overdue letter.  How many years has it been? Fifteen at least I’m guessing and not a word exchanged twixt the pair of us in all that time! How very young and foolish we were to allow that little incident of the wretched jelly fish sting in St Topez to come between us. Naive as I was back then how was I to know that pouring a 10 litre bucket of balsamic vinegar over your infected torso was no ‘cure all’, indeed was an old wives’ tale and would cause you so much additional agony.  On reflection maybe it would have been better had you kept your bikini top on when you went swimming!  I do trust those scars eventually healed though. Still what is done is done. Plainly I should not have posted the snaps I took of you at the time on Facebook…for that I plead guilty and once more beg your forgiveness. Mind you I’d never had a million ‘likes’ and seventy thousand ‘shares’ before. Viral or what! I’d be a liar if I said otherwise than that I was rather chuffed.

Whatever, I imagine you are wondering as to exactly why I have chosen now to get in touch? Well the thing is I was reading The Times Literary Supplement just the other day wherein I spotted a review of the book of poetry you always promised yourself you’d write. I must say the critics have been most generous with their praise. “A masterful collection that will endure” – doesn’t get much better than that in my book, not that I’ve written one of course. Odd though your choice of title for your compilation, vis a vis ‘My Life with a Complete and Utter Bastard Womanizer’…can I take it that I am, as it were, your muse? The thought came to me when I stumbled across one particular poem that struck a chord;

BRAIDED HEART STRINGS

Blindfolded the carnal acrobat juggles fresh eggs

walking a high wire contrived of braided heart strings

each exquisite strand filched from an abandoned lover

Magnetic the aura of the one who attracts opposites so

triggering innermost voltaic tremors arousing elicit longings

such sweet torture beyond restraint too much for the bonded ones

flocking as lemmings to cliffs edge irresistible flight of foolish whim

Plainly this tidy little number could only be based upon me…couldn’t it? After all my reputation as a bit of a ‘stud’ does rather go before me!

I still miss you so very much and trust that one day in the not too distant future we may be able to meet up over a bottle of plonk and talk over old times…maybe…well best not push my luck…maybe though!

Yours, the one of encyclopaedic dexterity in and out of the sack

Twattersley Fromage

Dear Twattersley, 

Given that you are and always will be a puffed up supercilious rake I knew you wouldn’t be able to help yourself…that as soon as I published you would be in touch with the haste of a rat up a drainpipe in an attempt to worm your evil way back into my affections. As ever you are blithely unaware of your romantic shortcomings. Tosser! 

However you can take it that in a perverse sort of way I am ‘pleased’ to hear from you, you see I’ve got your address at last and armed with that little piece of information I can finally ensure you get your comeuppance!  Oh the things I will do to you not even you can imagine. You’ve never paid the price for breaking this girl’s heart. 

I take it you are still shagging floozies like there’s no tomorrow you two timing love rat scum bag. 

See you about and best you sleep with one eye open, 

Elizabeth

Dearest Sweet Elizabeth,

That you did respond means you still have a pulse and as you well know a pulse is all I ask for in a gal! What a result though…you’re more than welcome to pop over to my gaff on Saturday evening then. I shall even don my best Y-Fronts…how’s that for an old romantic then!

Had to take a cold shower when I read the bits about ‘the things’ you will do to me and your very mention of ‘perverse’ made me go all funny about my parts.

So glad you don’t hold a grudge and that I’m on a promise. Crumbs you’ve fairly put a spring in my step.

All my love,

Twattersley

‘HELLO DARKNESS MY OLD FRIEND, I’VE COME TO….TELL HER SHE’S GOT A SUBLIME REAR END’ as PAUL SIMON STRUGGLES WITH LYRICIST’S BLOCK!

simon garfunkel

New York City, 1964: Paul Simon is home alone trying without success to pen the lyric for the song, ‘The Sound of Silence’. You see poor Paul is suffering from lyricist’s block. At this juncture he plainly has no conception of the fact that one day ‘The Sound of Silence’ will be one of the most talked about, covered and successful folk songs of all time. With Paul at a loss for words enter Art Garfunkel his partner in song.

“I say Paul you do look a tad miffed with the world at large this fine day.” 

“Well Garficles my old fruit bat you’ve certainly hit the nail on the head for I am truly bolloxed beyond the credible that, lyrical genius that I am, I cannot for the life of me fashion the rhyme to the first line of that new song, The Sound of Silence I discussed with you last evening.” 

“What pray is the hitch?” 

“I thought I made myself clear on that front! Put simply I need both first and second lines of verse one to bloody rhyme yet my mind is a blank. I mean I’ve got metaphors galore for this little number yet they are as much use as a eunuch in a brothel without a belter of an opener.” 

“Maybe I could help…what have you got thus far?” 

“Just this, ‘Hello darkness my old friend, I’ve come to….’ That is the strength of it.” 

“Well you really are off form…I mean I can readily think of a host of rhyming lines that will sit most comfortably with what you have penned.” 

“Fire away then.” 

“Why not test drive this little beauty then… ‘Hello darkness my old friend, I’ve come to turn the light on again’ – see that rhymes majestically.” 

“Turn the light on again! Stuff me Garficles why on God’s earth ‘turn the light on again’?” 

“Well if the room is in darkness it would be foolhardy for health and safety reasons not to turn the light back on wouldn’t it?” 

“You do talk out of your arse sometimes you know…where’s the imagery, the poetry in that…it’s crap…and you sing like a girl.” 

“Do not.” 

“Do.” 

“Do not” 

“Do.” 

“Why I even bother to help a short arse like you I’ll never know. Whatever, what about this one… ‘Hello darkness my old friend, I’ve come to tell her she’s got a sublime rear end’…note ‘friend’ and ‘end’ rhyme like what you wanted!” 

“Rear fucking end! The Sound of Silence is not a song about some bird’s corker of a backside…if I used that I’d be a laughing stock…Dylan would take the piss something chronic and Cohen would ask who she was so he could pop around to her place for a swift hallelujah.” 

“I’ll give you one more chance.” 

“Well dwarf features you don’t deserve another chance yet so inspired with memorable lines as I am I shall impart yet another beauty, ‘Hello darkness my old friend, I’ve come to the conclusion that’s it’s so bloody dark in here my way I’ll have to wend’…note no mention of ‘light’ or ‘bums’. Take it or leave it shorty.” 

“It’s crap and desist with the goings on vis-à-vis me being vertically challenged…you’re haircut is shit by the way…I’m surprised the beauty salons don’t put up a snap of your bonce on a poster for ‘before’ and ‘after’ minge waxing with the emphasis of you being the ‘before’.” 

“Oh that’s it I’ve had enough I’m off I tell you…you’re going to be unfriended from my Facebook page for being so very beastly…I don’t think I’ll ‘come to talk with you again’ that’s for sure!” 

“Fuck off then.”

MY CAPTIVATING CONUNDRUM

turnstone

She would argue black was white

that Engels was blind to the lowliness of

the masses of ‘before long’ blue collar

peons choking on the toxic ash laden

manmade nebula overhead, the

product of vitalized, once satanic mills

while all the time engaged in the

picking of the marigolds and thinking

how beneficial a thermal underwear

store might be on icy Planet Pluto

 

Out of plain mischief she declared

she could no longer recollect the day

he had taken her to the end of the pier

beyond the tacky ‘kiss me quick’ hats

beyond the pinball and slot machines

where they stood amid the fishermen

over the briny and counted a cluster

of mottled brown, black, white turnstones

frantically whizzing this way and that ever

hopeful of a swiped fresh fish and bait supper

 

She was, is and always will be my captivating conundrum

“DON’T WAIT UNTIL I’M DEAD TO SEND ME FLOWERS”

man ray

How liquid the truth of recollection

when the inward eye is at play, its

chicanery fanning the fumes of fancy

transmuting the echoes of hoarded depictions

 

A sudden impulse to speak devoured her

“Don’t wait until I’m dead to send me flowers”

Not that ‘deaf ears’ was paying her any attention

more concerned with adjusting his indecent necktie

regardless her snow flake plea evaporated in an instant

 

Times previous when she first happened upon him

destitute under a mad dog North African sun

arrested his access to the shaft of imperious white light

substituted certainty where there had been mirage

reawakened bona fide red hot dunes, replacing the

faltering death’s door devilry of a silver sand island

a burnished sea, bare breasts and ice cold beers

 

Back then his thirst for life’s quests an insatiable compulsion

“You’re safe now. When death has no shadow the vultures stay home.

Lucky I found you when I did”

 

Such was life then for a free spirit now entwined in ho-hum

domesticity with her fatally flawed latter day daydreamer

Home alone, stuck with the drudgery of ‘could do blindfolded’

inexhaustible chores, she wonders just how she ended up so

 

She could slip away while he was stargazing, she could, really could

if only…maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, next month?

 

Renegade Lutheran words run amok, encircle her thought camp

betray her foibles, “How soon ‘not now’ becomes ‘never’”

 

She knows all too well a disengaged mind is by no means in denial

as she grudgingly admits, “And ‘never’ nearly always means forever”