Tag Archives: humour

St Annes, Nottingham

 

Age 20

 

six pm, early start

for those who aren’t

faint of heart.

wait for service at the bar,

bloody desperate for a jar,

listening through

the hum and hiss

of conversations

hit and miss,

the girl with eyes lined in kohl,

black as coal

and just as dirty,

looks so old…

must be twenty five at least!

“two pints of cider and two Pernods please…

in the same glass…”

barman glances aside

aghast,

witnesses needed,

he catches our eye,

focus as yet unimpeded

by excess

“this’ll blow her tits off!”

laughter follows

and warnings…

never heeded.

 

we catch the night bus,

circus

on the move,

all the groovers

intent on proving

this night above all others

will be the night

for us,

and we troop,

sheep like in our aim,

following the crowds,

finding our way home

as does half of Nottingham.

 

word’s got round

bloody quickly

through the crowds

that gather thickly

on the stairs,

across the balcony,

pissed to shit

popping and eeeeeezing,

there’s no way of getting through.

“God… I need a… pee.”

“this party’s great… they’re my mates.”

“I should have locked the fucking door

and sent out invites!”

what seemed like a good idea

is by the minute

becoming less appealing,

as every drunk revealing

his true colours,

declares undying friendship.

“God… I need… a tea.”

“where are the police when you want them?

surely we’re causing an obstruction?”

 

twelve hours after we began

our first foray in party plan

and playing host,

we find it most

taxing…

manners laxing,

we step over

life’s malingerers,

find our way to

breakfast,

mop up eggs, bacon, tea and toast,

lick our fingers,

manners forgotten.

 

eager to feast

on life’s every morsel,

certain we’ll all die immortal,

never realising

home

will one day be our castle,

complete with moat

dug and overflowing

with life’s dreary flotsam,

anarchistic student dreams

long forgotten.

 

 

 

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Adversary

 

Every morning, freshly burst explosions

litter my once green and pleasant grass.

This warzone, reeling from each fresh incursion

needs help, we summon Moleman to kick arse.

He sets his traps which leave me feeling guilty,

as morning dawns I creep outside to look.

My foolish wish for death doled out humanely

is scuppered as I witness his rebuke.

 

He should be wearing tiny elf-made jerkin,

horn-rimmed specs and tweedy green plus-fours;

his fingers, better suited playing Chopin

than subterranean muddy midnight chores,

I stroke his nose, discover caviar eyes…

Oh how I wish we’d made some compromise.

 

 

 

For The Two Henrys…

The small blue eggs

sit

in the black wire basket

glow

like the white of an eye

behind

a mesh of black

lashes

surrounded by ordinary

brown.

 

Broken open

fat vermillion

yolks

a zillion times brighter

than other pasty

excuses

usually served up

as eggs.

 

Joe says

all the fat is in the

white.

I disagree.

We google it.

I’m right.

 

Tacey says

they are space eggs.

Inside each is a small alien

running

in slow motion,

tiny limbs curtailed

by gloopy glue of sticky

albumen.

 

We eat the space eggs

fried

with bacon and black pudding.

They are delicious.

Good looking,

tasty and nutritious…

Bloody amazing.

 

 

 

 

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