SUCH IS LIFE

DEATHBED

He left at first light by the back door

In his wash bag your heart that he stole

You never saw him again till the day that you died

When past memories began to fast scroll

 

As if in an instant at your final breath

Like trailers from movies transposed

Onto the big screen inside of your head

Just as your eyelids for ever they closed

 

I believe that your last word was ‘bastard’

And must presume it aimed at that cad

Whose sanity took a leave of absence that day

For in abandoning you he must have been mad

 

Still now it is me who will inherit

Your great fortune; your real estate

So better I rush off down the pub for I note

The undertakers here with your crate!

 

DEIDRE’S LUBRICANT!

mikesteeden:

As ever a WP post it some places yet mostly not at all post…irksome WP again!

Originally posted on mikesteeden:

carruthers 2

“I say Carruthers it’s been so very long since we last did it I think I’ll need lubricant.” 

“Lou Bricant! Who the ruddy hell is Lou Bricant when he’s at home and why oh why Deidre would you need him…whomsoever the bastard is…am I not your husband…am I not capable of fulfilling even your more extravagant desires?” 

“What are you on about Carruthers? All I’m saying is that a little, or rather a lot I suppose, of lubricant in this thing of mine will, I just feel, will lessen the friction in this here delicate mechanism.  I mean it hasn’t been put to good use since the old King died has it?” 

“Don’t keep going on about that…you’re always badgering me to do that nasty thing and anyway it hasn’t been that long in my book…if you recall you made me do it the night we married…

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DEIDRE’S LUBRICANT!

carruthers 2

“I say Carruthers it’s been so very long since we last did it I think I’ll need lubricant.” 

“Lou Bricant! Who the ruddy hell is Lou Bricant when he’s at home and why oh why Deidre would you need him…whomsoever the bastard is…am I not your husband…am I not capable of fulfilling even your more extravagant desires?” 

“What are you on about Carruthers? All I’m saying is that a little, or rather a lot I suppose, of lubricant in this thing of mine will, I just feel, will lessen the friction in this here delicate mechanism.  I mean it hasn’t been put to good use since the old King died has it?” 

“Don’t keep going on about that…you’re always badgering me to do that nasty thing and anyway it hasn’t been that long in my book…if you recall you made me do it the night we married and that was a mere 15 years ago I recall! Regardless I would feel most uncomfortable…less ‘manly’ if you like to have to do it again as a ménage et trois…you know, me, you and this blasted Lou Bricant fellow.” 

“For pity’s sake Carruthers you’ll be saying I can’t put that old vibrator to good use next.” 

“Crikey Deidre first you want us to do it with this Lou Bricant now you’re telling me you wish to invite another…a gal to boot…namely this aged one you speak of, Vi Brator around also…is there no end to your carnal perversions?  This is really all too much for me!” 

“Now look here Carruthers…listen and absorb what I have to say. Firstly that the revolving drum on that old cement mixer I inherited will not turn without lubricant. Secondly once we have laid the cement out as a base for our new patio we will need a concrete vibrator so that trapped air and excess water is released from the mix and the concrete settles firmly in place in the formwork.” 

“Oh dear, dear…I quite forgot we were laying a new patio today…what a relief! I mean I thought you were suggesting that dirty business of sexual intercourse in the company of others!” 

“I wish! No Carruthers…let’s take things one stage at a time…today is the day we start work on the patio!”

 

KIM & VLAD’s MUTUAL LOVE OF WILDLIFE

motar

Central Luxury Mansion, Ryongsong, Northern Pyongyang; Early Summer 2015: Kim Jong-un the Supreme Leader of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea is at home readying himself for a hearty breakfast in the company of his valued advisor Tyrone and servant girl Svetlana having a chat about this and that.

“Oi Tyrone mate you’ll never guess the dream I had last night.”

“What’s that then Kimmy boy?”

“Well I was visited in me dream by none other than…Svetlana luv you couldn’t fix me a tub of that old Elvis ‘last supper special’ could you, you know four scoops of ice cream and six chocolate chip cookies…oh a tub of peanut butter wouldn’t go amiss, you know a bit of roughage for me Chalfont’s and all that…where was I? Oh yes, me dream of last night…I was visited by none other than Vlad the Impaler.”

“Really…tell me more.”

“Cheers Svet…I like nothing better than a good old fashioned healthy breakfast like what this is to kick off me day you know luv…right I’m with you now Tyrone. As I was just saying there was me fast a kip chatting away with Vlad whereupon he put it to me that…in his view I stress…I’m getting it all wrong on the old execution front!”

“Bloody cheek of the man…hope you told him to piss right off!”

“I was going to Tyrone yet for whatever reason I hung in there and you know what?”

“No, what?”

“He spoke a lot of common sense…I mean he was the perpetrator of many an execution himself back in the day so it would be silly of me not to listen to what a past master had to say on the subject wouldn’t it?”

“How very true Kim.”

“Well Vlad’s experience in such matters has lead him to conclude that my current preferred style of totally obliterating the guilty party as in my now famous quote, ‘leave no trace of him behind, down to his hair,’ isn’t all that eco-friendly.”

“How so Kim?”

“You see first of all Vlad cited the example of what’s his name…you know the vice minister of the army who’d been on the hit and miss when he should have been in mourning for me old dad…that bloke, his name hardly matters now anyway…where I opted for the ‘stand on the spot you bastard and cop this mortar shell’ technique…also the slaying of the defence chief just the other week by anti-aircraft missile…a ZPU-4 to be precise…well I’ve had a few more taken out using this method if the truth be told simply don’t cut the mustard in terms of quality.”

“But Kimmy they were genius modes of despatch in my book.”

“Thanks for that Tyrone, that’s what I thought at the time yet Vlad told me to think of the wildlife…the birds to be specific. You see the way he sees it leaving a bit of carrion behind ensures that the crows, the ravens and…these are my very favourites mind…the vultures all get to have a good scoff on the deceased thus ensuring the survival of their species…nice touch I thought!”

“Bloody right it is. So it’s back to the old firing squad routine then…boring I know, like when you took out that singer bird you used to shag, ‘Hyon’ plus her entire Unhasu Orchestra entourage for wearing iffy short skirts using the tried and tested machine gun approach.”

“No Tyrone not the same style at all…Svet luv I could murder – so to speak – a bit of Pecan pie if you’d be so kind as to get us some…where was I? Right, Vlad tells me that to move forward on the execution front I need to look back at his own methodology namely ‘impaling’. He reckons whether it be a single or multiple execution the impaling of the victim with the body left thereafter on a spike for any and all dissidents and miscreants to cop a butchers at not only sends out a message that no one should mess with me but also means the adorable birdies can feed to their hearts content on the corpses…you have a little peck here, a little peck there as the fancy takes them.”

“How very, very clever…it even means that at the end of the day you stay true to your desire to ‘obliterate’ plus you’re doing the birdies a favour. You know I think you should run with that mate…nice one!”

“As it happens I thought we’d give it go today…oh cheers for that Svet…yes this very day we’ll do away with that military commander by way of impalement.”

“What that bloke who looked at you all funny like?”

“Self-same bastard Tyrone…I just had him sent down to the court to get found guilty of a dubious facial expression a minute ago as it happens so if you pop down Poundland for a spike…best get a gross while you’re at it, you can use me white transit van if you like, they should all fit in…we’re all sorted and ready for the kick off!”

“I’m on the case Kim. Catch up with you in a jiffy.”

“Svetlana…just the girl. Here luv rub this haemorrhoids cream in if you would…oh, and in case I forget could you stick a post-it note on the fridge to remind me to put the ‘bazooka to the temple’ idea on ice for now.”

A WALK IN THE PARK

 

bandstand

A not so ‘fine’ drizzle blankets

both lenses and optimism

dampens the spirit too,

mucks up a walk in the park

 

“A penny for your thoughts angel?” 

That she did not reply did not deter

“Christ girl you’ve a face like a slapped arse…what’s up, maybe I can help?”

“I hardly think so…leave me alone please.”

“Your choice.” 

“I’m well aware of that.”

 

They go their separate ways, he

begrudgingly, she with just the

tiddliest hint of baseless fear

 

On the spur of the moment a pursed

lipped sun gobbles up a canopy

of disagreeable off-colour candyfloss

 

The first scan of the baby had added

zilch to what she already knew

 

Staying true to the path she walks on,

revisits envisaging a feasible, unique

perhaps take on the heliocentric system

namely that the entirety is little more

than just a cod liver oil capsule; a gel of

horse hoof origins riskily encasing

all that is and ever has been within

 

Ahead now the bandstand, a black dude

on saxophone centre stage serenading

two young lovers sharing tongues,

promises and guarantees under a petulant

curfew disavowing yet yawning moon

 

A spruced-up, long in the tooth gent

with a scatty Dalmatian requests she

holds the leash while he does up a

wayward shoelace, says “Thanks luv”

 

Next the chattering one from before

appears for his predestined reappearance

‘On his way home likely,’ she thinks…hopes

 

He blows her a kiss from enjoined cupped

palms, grins a saucy grin and is on his way

 

She ambles on by, head bashfully yielding

And suppressing her first smile for an age

 

A little way away a genial yet cocky young

lad is in a boozer taking an early pint, holding

court, quite blind to what he is missing out on

 

CHALK & CHEESE LOVERS

KNIFE THROWER 2

 

In the beginning, in a temper

tantrum over nothing much she cast

the deck of tarot cards skywards

 

That every single one settled

face down peeved, for gravity

had dealt her a cruel hand that

told nothing of the times to come

no clue as to twists of fate

 

That self-same day she became

a fatalist, sought solace in

mystery tours, blindfolds

and Gaelic shrugs, determined

a stage magician’s scarcely

clad factotum she would be

 

Trussed to the ‘Wheel of Death’

facing down a perpetual volley of

razor sharp knives and lapping up

the rip-roaring salacious sadomasochistic

undercurrent before the drooling

hoi polloi became her want

 

Better still and despite rumours

of a brood by floozies, gambling

debts and fierce altercations with

all and sundry the man of magnetism,

he who threw a mean knife knew

well that chalk and cheese lovers

are always the most devoted of friends

 

Yet time plays mischievous tricks

soon the days of hippodrome were over,

the milk and honey summer gave way

to a winter of condolence trumpeting

the long overdue gestation of a cabaret

of ‘care not’ bluebells no one dared tramp upon,

for beneath the carpet the magician and his

spellbound muse lay forever at rest

 

 

THE CUBAN’S MUSE

mikesteeden:

Another post that appears on some blogs and not on others yet I’ll lay odds the second I ‘reblog’ both post will appear as twins!

Originally posted on mikesteeden:

CUBAN 2

In an opium den in Kentish Town she was serving previously boiled River Wandle water ‘fresh’ from the jug into almost clean ceramic beakers. Such was the fervour she was all but in her birthday suit. Most punters paid her little heed though, lost as they were in both the purple haze and their private phantasmagorical illusions.

Not so the Cuban! He recalled surprisingly clearly given his muddle that she had posed for him once in the Quartier Pigalle.

“You never paid me.” The Cuban had hoped wrongly that her memory was not as sharp as his.

“Unmasked I am the one who would share my forgotten riches equally with you,” his flustered outlandish riposte.

All but spitting feathers, “You! Riches? How so you have riches? You are an artist…artists are always broke.”

“How does a tobacco plantation in Havana and more slaves than you can shake a stick at…

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THE CUBAN’S MUSE

CUBAN 2

In an opium den in Kentish Town she was serving previously boiled River Wandle water ‘fresh’ from the jug into almost clean ceramic beakers. Such was the fervour she was all but in her birthday suit. Most punters paid her little heed though, lost as they were in both the purple haze and their private phantasmagorical illusions.

Not so the Cuban! He recalled surprisingly clearly given his muddle that she had posed for him once in the Quartier Pigalle.

“You never paid me.” The Cuban had hoped wrongly that her memory was not as sharp as his.

“Unmasked I am the one who would share my forgotten riches equally with you,” his flustered outlandish riposte.

All but spitting feathers, “You! Riches? How so you have riches? You are an artist…artists are always broke.”

“How does a tobacco plantation in Havana and more slaves than you can shake a stick at appeal?”

“Liar.”

“Worth a try though!”

Later, after blackout the Cuban fed and bedded her. Come first blush he was but her tolerable stopgap meal ticket. Upon awakening he adjudged she was nothing more than wishful thinking.

COUNTING CRATERS

mountains

Before the earthquake
he was engrossed
calculating as best
he could the craters
of the moon through
the lens of a not new
telescope, a pawn shop
purchase made on the
Caledonian Road

He wished he had
tuned into any other
radio station than the
dispassionate BBC
World Service that
night of crystal clear
skies and sharpened
frosted flagstone

He took with him
petrified crippled
mountains, mangled
flesh and set corpses
into dreamland where
he witnessed a squalid
prefabricated moonscape
theme park had evolved
twixt the bowed crowns
of faraway emasculated peaks

‘Natural disaster verses war?
Always the same outcome’
A cynical waking thought
tormenting him as
he muddled through
his brand new day

TIFFANY MAKES GOOD HER ESCAPE

mikesteeden:

Another ‘hit & miss’ distribution of this post…thanks very much WP…not!

Originally posted on mikesteeden:

tiffany 3

Foreign Office, London; June 1941: Tiffany once a secretary to senior officials at the Foreign Office in London but now seconded as an undercover agent whose brief it was to undertake covert operations in German occupied Northern France has succeeded in her quest to disable a significant number enemy aircraft. With the current field operations complete it is now that she must make her escape before the Gestapo get their hands on her.

“I say Carruthers there seems to be a bird with a little canister on its back sat on the balcony.”

“Really…who on earth would be so cruel as to affix a canister on a bird’s back…beggars belief really. Let’s take a peek shall we?”

“Crumbs Carruthers it’s a pigeon…you know I’m sure I’ve heard somewhere about messenger pigeons do you think it maybe one of those?”

“Possibly…look I’ll grab the canister and see what’s inside…ah there…

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