On the first step, the hungriest one.
On the second, the bookish one, eyes wide open.
On the third, the one who carried water.
Those that were beautiful, on the fourth,
Those that were not, on the fifth.
The ones that came last, swept the others up.
Then they broke the brooms, made us sweep up the splinters.

Jennifer Copley

Mr and Mrs Death

March 22, 2016


He sucks at his dentures,
spits, shits in his pad
and dumps it into the toilet
then pisses all over
the walls.

She’s a stunner, she’s every model
out of each glossy mag in the shop,
blond or brunette but sometimes,
just sometimes,
she’s redhead.

Inseparable always,
him slouching along
with his crutches, her gliding,
fondling the air, having no need
to breathe.

He prefers night
but it’s not just the old
that he comes to;
the girl in the wheelchair,
she saw him coming.

Her element is day,
spring, summer
but never too hot, she never perspires
and she never, ever
gets flustered.

He’s a rash of black sores,
his fingers break off, half his bum
is bed-sored away
with more falling off
when he shits.

She’s never been seen
in a toilet, make-up
is always already on,
she never
belches or farts.

His cum
sears concrete
and steel;
her breasts
leak odourless poison.

They’re always arm-in-arm,
the oddest marriage
everyone says,
priests, shrinks,
the boys, the girls and the men.

but one of the pair
always arrives in the end, lurches
or glides up your path,
knocks – loud as a klaxon
or soft as a feather –

and you’re always, always at home.

John West

What road…?

March 22, 2016


Alice asked the Cheshire Cat, who was sitting in a tree, “What road do I take?”

The cat asked, “Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know,” Alice answered.

“Then,” said the cat, “it really doesn’t matter, does it?”

Lewis Carroll
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland


Of all man’s instruments, the most wondrous, no doubt, is the book. The other instruments are extensions of his body. The microscope, the telescope, are extensions of his sight; the telephone is the extension of his voice; then we have the plough and the sword, extensions of the arm. But the book is something else altogether: the book is an extension of memory and imagination.

Jorge Luis Borges
La muralla y los libros (The wall and the books)


Diary 22nd March

Glorious day full of sun and clear blue skies yesterday. This morning overcast but warm. No rain forecast – so a day for cleaning windows.
Question: What’s green and smells like pork?

Answer: Kermit the Frog’s finger…

(play the yuk and groan tape, then quickly fade to grey for all our sakes)
Why did I get divorced? You really wanna know?

Well, my last birthday, my wife didn’t wish me ‘Happy birthday’. My parents forgot as well, and so did my kids. I went to work and none of my colleagues wished me ‘Happy birthday’ either.

Then, out of the blue, as I entered my office, my secretary said: “Happy birthday, boss!”

Suddenly I felt special. I was special. This woman cared.

She asked me out for lunch, too, her treat. And after lunch, she invited me to her flat. We went there and she said, “Do you mind if I go into the bedroom for a minute?”

“Okay,” I said.

She came out 5 minutes later with a birthday cake, my wife, my parents, my kids, my friends, and colleagues all yelling, “SURPRISE!!!” while I was waiting on the sofa… naked.

Our hero stands alone contemplating…infinity. He, after some not inconsiderable effort, sucks his mind back to the here and now. But only momentarily. It is soon off again, but not with fairies…this time he’s with R, and it is last summer.

They exchange covert glances at each other. She looks at him firstly with a faint smile, then not. Her glance is one of curiosity: as if he might be another species rather than another sex; questioning; potentially contemptuous, and undoubtedly wary.

Without speaking she unbuttons her summer dress, her movements practiced and swift, her hands fluttering like a pair of pigeons. He can feel the sun on his back through the cotton of his shirt. He thinks she displays the nervous intensity of someone who is covering the turmoil in their mind with a steadiness of the eyes, as when waiting too long for what one is not in any case very confident of receiving.

Then she is quite naked before him, and he begins to undress while she watches. She smiles as his erection is exposed, swaying head-heavy, as he tugs down his boxer shorts.

HE: We can lay on this blanket.

R: Fine.

She comes to him, kisses his mouth, then takes the blanket and spreads in over the rough ground.

R: Let’s hope no one comes along, eh? Major embarrassment for us all…

HE: Fingers crossed that doesn’t happen.

She lays down on the blanket and spreads her legs. Her breasts are small and her bush a mass of reddish curls.

R: I’m ready when you are. (Her smile is teasing, intimate, her voice low) Or have you changed your mind…?

HE: No, I haven’t.

He goes to her, takes her in his arms…


Our hero walks toward the lane. The whispers of memory, so faintly spoken at the back of his mind are like a tickle of breath in the hairs on his neck. Concentrating, he silences them for now. He returns to the house for breakfast.
Shy street artist Banksy’s secret identity has been revealed: the graffiti artist – whose works sell for more than £1million – is a former public schoolboy, Robin Gunningham!


That was a life enhancing piece of news, wasn’t it?
A study by the German Central Bank suggests the richest 10% of Germans possess 60% of the nation’s wealth. Like everywhere else, there’s a big gap between the richest and poorest…No surprises there.

“The Bundesbank, which surveyed thousands of households in 2014 as part of its study, found that the bottom half of the population had to make do with just 2.5 percent of the country’s overall wealth.”

And I s’pose the greedy buggers want more?