Wednesday, 26 May 2010

THE CRESS WARS VETERANS

Macauley Culkin’s sulking,

Skulking in a corner with not so little Jack Warner of Warner Brothers.
Mothers driven to despair, by chauffeurs who don’t care,
En-route to nowhere.
Nowhere Man, Tomorrow’s People,
An ancient building with a modern steeple,
Steeplejack Warner bathing in a sauna has torn a ligament climbing out.
Climbing doubt reaches its peak,
Hiders hide and seekers seek,
Jacob Marley and Jacob’s Creek,
Incoherent references, so to speak.
Marleybone station, the Stations of the Cross,
The revival of Christian values, a revival of interest in Bros,
Moss Bros, Stirling Moss, gloss paint, faint floss—candy and dental,
DVDs and blue ray for sale or rental,
Detrimental, regimental, militants, the military and their artillery,
Capillaries, in a similar vein, connected arterially to the inner brain.
Hemispheres of the brain in the western hemisphere recognise where international, cultural differences appear,
Like saki and beer, football and gear,
Gearing up for a change, changing gears,
Shifts attention from motorised vehicles to outfit changes.
Changing times, time for change—two clich├ęd phrases from the limited range of politicians.
Statisticians’ traditions include lies, can involve spies and sometimes, even, the consumption of pies.
Thighs riddled with cellulite shake and quiver in the night,
Not gone into gently like a subtle Dylan Thomas allusion,
Maya represents the Hindi vision of illusion,
Whose intrusion clouds our reason.
The mating season, seasonal work,
A job for the summer and the winter to shirk,
The winter of our discontent, winter mixture,
A mixture of snow and sleet,
Making winter complete.
Completed tasks, good jobs well done,
Concreted casks containing diagrams of diaphragms
Disturbed by hiccups and the records of dire prams,
That once got pushed by our ancestors.
Ann’s cess stores stash the slash from those who fought in cress wars,
Now—bores—these vets walk their pets,
Making bets on pointless outcomes.
Out come their old war stories,
They’re like born-again gore-Tories,
These relics reliving their past glories,
Looking back through a rose-tinted haze at the good old days.
Romanticising the backdrop of global warfare and genocide,
With ignorant pride, they confide they’re currently terrified,
Of anonymous, lawless thugs,
Who claim benefits, steal and take drugs,
These mindless yobs should all get jobs,
Whether or not they get paid,
Simply because their predecessors did,
Thankful for each day they stayed.
Despite being poor and fighting the war,
Life was good, like during the blackout—
For that was when, mostly, they got laid.
If life was shit, they didn’t mind a bit,
Atleast they weren’t afraid.
They knew what was what,
They didn’t have a lot,
Still, there was no such thing as a communist plot!











Friday, 14 May 2010

LADDERS AND BLADDERS

Ladders sounds like bladders and full bladders can make you climb the walls without the former, while not being much use for reaching a dormer.
Snakes and Bladders is a piss taker’s game,
Aches and ladders combine arthritis with voyeurism and a window frame.
You can climb ladders but not bladders, which simply squish underfoot.
You can get bladdered—at which point it is inadvisable to climb ladders and tights can get laddered by drunks and when climbing ladders.
Black Adder rhymes with slack bladder, which sufferers from bemoan, can cause them to miss episodes of the former.
There is a gall bladder but no gall ladder.
I wonder if that galled Sandy Gall?
Accidents with ladders can involve a fall.
Walking under ladders is said to be unlucky…

What could walking under a bladder be described as?
Bladders contain various amounts of dispensable liquid,
Ladders don’t—but ladders help firemen and bladders won’t!