back to the furniture II

 

Huw Prys

 

yeh the Welshie had

plenty chances bad

acting apart

 

sold their country down

England’s rivers clown

property mart

 

bought a castle flogged

horsemeat corpsed & clogged

scenes to an art

 

but the head was screwed

on committed crude

dealings by heart

 

stole their very show

from the dumbstruck rode

off with the tart

 

 

 

other side story

 

robotoids infesting planet X

spinning dizzily all day are blind

sided by their moon’s infernal light

crazy for sex

 

consciousness has rarely been achieved

just occasionally insight rules

backwards levitating arrant fools

sating a need

 

of their works a jealous god or gods

some confusion reigns in image made

like themselves demanding stones be laid

over the odds

 

such their love of inorganic wars

caused by pointless morganatic blues

upgrade packages unsold refuse

relative clause

 

at the heart of which intelligence

stars in rather minor speechless roles

caught between a pair of sinking holes

Nonsense & Sense

 

ADVERTISEMENT

"It's That Man Again"

- new chapbook out -

HHH 

click here to view

GGG

old world orders

 

walking talking stalking bots

keeps the kiddies off the street

find themselves a space to meet

typing of knots

 

this no time for cursing lots

everyman’s got two left feet

family values three piece suite

noodles in pots

 

should your offspring get the hots

for a human’s patter beat

seven types of indiscreet

out of their spots

 

holidays fly Aeroflot’s

Vladivostok phishing fleet

caviar & vodka neat

have’n have gots

 

Heming’s way with poker dots

what complaints an empty sheet

next it’s Cuba’s standard treat

calling of shots

 

 

 

name check

 

Ruby Winebelch Sir

Roger D’Arse M’Lord

Ladyman & Dame

Lispeth the Bored

 

Colonel Whatshisface

Judith Pennylane

Howzyerfather Grace

Kelly Zinsane

 

Norris Chucklebuck

Ostrich Featherstone

Donald Zinthemuck

Spiceboise R Onn

 

Bwitish Confiscate

Effy Shufflefreight

Strootha Oilystate

Coffit N’Skate

 

Andy Andyman

Friday Girl Azknown

As McGill & Stan

Laura Le Groan

 

 

 

 

flip-flops

 

pull yourselves together chaps

ain’t no animation this

tragi-commie campness it’s

loose at the flaps

 

get a lug-hole for a conch

science by another name

every episode’s the same

lines without punch

 

hug bipolar bears release

cancelled scripts their plots unhatched

coupla arthouse tropes that crashed

wonders will cease

 

Series Two’s on hold I swear

grant us some intelligence

Tuesday’s on the phone to Pence

night of the mare

 

camera lights & action now

ladies let’s be having you

in the can by afternoon

bull from a cow 

 

 

sponsored lines

 

chocolate war on Mars is one

unintended consequence

rain in Spain another Swan

Vestas make sense

 

short & sharp but seven times

more efficient tryna shed

light on compensation crimes

goes to your head

 

smoking Lucky Strike man blow

rings round misty morning gloom

furthermore the datas show

adds to a room

 

full of scientists who choose

Gillette's new festival shave

lotion to old Orleans blues

digital Babe

 

yes Amerikar the brave

Gattling’s gun is getting on

buy today remember save

millions dot con

 

 

 

straight camp quotes

 

I

bully for us

took a quake to shut them up

nothing bout that other stuff

all I gotta say is puss

 

II

Stalin not a patch

on Shostakovich

Putin spends their watch

scratching a bitch

 

III

centrifugal farce

centripetal curse

what we wanna learn

is which is worse

 

IV

passing notes in class

meets at shopping malls

then it comes to pass

lavatory walls

 

V

whisper this you dragon’s tooth

merchants sow discord amongst

Caesar’s generals singing songs

throttles the truth

 

 

 

decisions decisions

 

if you pull that trigger guy

though unleashing death on kids

innocent or guilty it’s

you that will die

 

stands to reason take the camps

concentrated genocide

killed their dream can’t be denied

suicide champs

 

shaken by the Luger hand

cyanide seemed rather good

twenty secs to freeze their blood

perfectly grand

 

put another way your death

should you cheat the gallows live

out your days in Tel Aviv

hangs on a breath

 

every day & night you’ll be

justifying what you did

then to someone else’s kid

never be free

 

 

 

back to the furniture II

 

Jesus wept O god they plain forsaken him

he whose only goal in life has been to play

on the wing for Liverpool FC and win

cups not the blame game

 

all was going well he’d overcome those doubts

faced his demons & the sceptics on the Kop

played the season of his life defied the touts

even survived Klopp

 

then was crucified by Pontious Pilate who

sent him off that derby game the video

showed no foul indeed the crowd began to boo

really a poor show

 

handed down a three match ban then injury

meant he missed his chance to prove what he could do

loaned to Tranmere Rovers with no transfer fee

severance or renew

 

back he went to Palestine his father’s work

shop as prodigal a son as you could hope

for said Dad I tried my best the old man cursed

anyroad don’t mope

Not Going Backwards Innit!

new chapbook preview

 

Chapbook due out March '25

 

It's That Man Again (with apologies to Tommy Handley)

 

Exclusive excerpts on downwritefiction:

 

rewilding

 

Ted this land is yours

from the Bering Strait

to Europa’s gate

under your paws

 

gonna turn that clock

back to mammoth times

when them human kinds

cast the first rock

 

welcome bears that’s right

down the woods today

free to eat & play

all you can fight

 

’cept for wolves of course

coming back as well

howling dingle dell

who's for a horse

 

while we’re off to Mars

got our tickets paid

selling out on aid

trading in cars

audience participation

 

Quack will see you now

wipe your feet before

entering slight bow

eyes to the floor

 

Russian protocol

rules it’s like roulette

play the spiteful moll

see what you get

 

better flatter him

lay some goosie eggs

smile at every whim

twiddle them pegs

 

don’t prolong the time

wait until he comes

out with turpentine

flames from his thumbs

 

leave the bill with George

wash in Tony’s lounge

should be quite a wedge

flunkies might scrounge

 

 

  

arms for minerals

 

ain’t no Texas shake

down this Florida

folks a hurricane

coming your car

loaded head inland

upstate anywheres

witness take your stand

musical chairs

last one on their butt’s

gonna scoop the lot

rest of youse is out

ready or not

when it’s over babe

war I mean we drill

finders keepers cave

men get their fill

talking lebensraum

drang nach osten jive

love it when you frown

staying alive

Not again-again!

jobs for the cowboys

decretum apotheosis

did his mother bear
him the Juliis
hardly of this world
godheads on dimes

Virgil spun em well
traced their lineage
back to Priam smell
blood on the page

cos adoption counts
young Octavian
to Augustus mounts
Olympian

Orientalists
voting two to one
Superman exists
bargain was done

thus to deify
D as president
all you need’s a why
not argument



unofficial portrait

might’ve said you had a singsong voice
if yr needle wasn’t getting stuck
every time that’s all I’m saying Duck
give us some choice

go & see a man about a dog
Christ’s sake you caught them bones all around
shocking cliché innit pound for pound
croaking of frog

Aristophanes was Plato’s chum
mordant killjoy of a bloke they wrote
Socrates’ obituaries note
ruler of thumb

Tom that is which you should read one fine

night or hey whenever work allows
maybe after Godley’s milked the cows
blessing the wine

here’s a riddle no a muddle D
we’re too old they got us by the balls
running after spinsters sporting shawls
biscuits & tea



without prejudice

otherwise politically correct
anti-simianites deserve this test
stuff their carcasses with owl manuscript
curses out of Egypt

burn the guts pickle eyes in Kilner jars
stage a show trial on the journey to Mars
gotta entertain the public at large
Madness versus Barça

state their crimes in terms everybody lives
off & on an owl Victorian wiz

bang it’s roller coasting savvy now giz
up that other business

talking Ivor League & the Oxbridge Chump
sponsors to duckbilled platitudes of Trump
sorry for them vegans left on the stump
you too Rumpy-Pumpy

monkey man you’re owed an apology
standing on my shoulder reach for your treat
peanut says thank you for forgiving me
accusation’s evil



fair shares for all

Auschwitz child you got me there
short & curlies hologram
zooming kiddies going spare
who gives a damn

surely was the greatest crime
Sherlock hung his hat & said
nothing there’s no rhyme
reason is dead

but for Gaza now the West
Bank still occupied enough
Jews already not your best
moment this stuff

victims’ victims innocent
no except the children who’ll
always have the time they spent
pining for school

ethnic cleansing genocide
like the walls of Jehrico
fall through holes no one can hide
anywhere you’d go 

No What Am Saying!

Snitch-22

 

When Chris and I shared the house in Lambeth with Westy and Dave Parry, we were occasionally visited by proselytising females from the Jehovah’s Witness and the WRP. The God-squaddies we tolerated because they claimed kith with some of our pals back in Liverpool. In fact, they were quite down-to–earth Scousers - I almost said Judies: one the slender, nervous type who did the talking; the other more of a sidekick - perhaps that’s what they meant by witness? Anyhow, the carrot was dangled from the stick, so to speak. As quite à-la-mode cult-members (a hint of punk in their attires) they didn’t exude the expected fanaticism; and there was never any come-on: at least their conversation was too bland and everyday to be memorable in that way. Well, they didn’t discuss religion or ask about our faith – or lack of it. And given that Westy ultimately buggered off with The Brothers of Charity (a side-cult of Mother Theresa’s), I wonder if they didn’t miss their opportunity with him? They weren’t a far-cry, shall we say, from followers of Moses David, acolytes of Hare Krishna or devotees of the Divine Light Mission. The WRP girl was black and somewhat gorgeous. My brother, who had no girlfriend in those days, would have been a little smitten. And I guess me too, had I not been smugly ensconced by Ms Kappes. So, we nice boys would dole out the quality tea and biscuits, acting the perfect hosts; while that young emissary, though not exactly tumping the thub, had us nodding here and there like potential recruits. Well, we were left-wing, anti-Thatcherites with plenty of common cause.

Back home, our friends who had opted for active politics had simply joined the CP. In those days, The Morning Star was still to be found on newsstands, and being communist did not mean you believed the Revolution was just around the corner. To our mates, it meant you preferred Marx’s analysis of the capitalist Industrial Military Complex. It signaled you were making a long-term stand, seeking to influence the Labour Party (still in power till 1979) while adhering to an Internationalist World View  - albeit, toeing the Moscow line. The WRP (the Workers’ Revolutionary Party) was one of the three main alternative groups to Labour and the CP. We had no time at all for the RCP (the Revolutionary Communist Party), who appeared to us as out-and-out Stalinists. They had short hair, wore ironed jeans and shiny Doc Martens shoes – not boots (hence their rag, The Next Step). The SWP (the Socialist Workers Party) were Trotskitish, and in a perfect world maybe would have got our votes. They were like Labour without the bullshit (or the muscle). But it was far from a perfect world, and hence the reason we wouldn’t be wasting our say on them.

The WRP were a bit shady, even back then. Later on, when I was coordinating the Peace Festival in Liverpool, it came as little surprise to me to learn they were behind the Militant Tendency that took over the City Council. Soon after the WRP girl began her visits, we started to get their daily newspaper delivered (this was before Chris and I became broadsheet addicts – he of the Guardian, me of the Times). We hadn’t taken out a subscription of The News Line, and no money changed hands - at least not from us. Every morning, Monday to Saturday, this semi-professional looking tabloid would plop through the letterbox. At first, it was no bad thing to receive free TV listings, sports reports and alternative views on the issues of the day. You know, Thatcher getting in – followed by Reagan – had us in perpetual shock. What you got from the telly and radio was hardly encouraging, some defiance here and there could only serve to redress the balance a tad. But it was their stance on Palestine that eventually turned my stomach.

I still remembered the Yom Kippur war of 1973. A schoolboy then, the Youth Theatres I belonged to were having a party. A couple of our friends were in the Shirin Foundation as well as The Everyman and Playhouse groups, and they turned up that evening with their faces white. I had never seen anyone physically affected by anything from the world outside – and it really came home to me then that Jewish people were still facing existential threats. So The News Line’s stand on Palestine was hard for me to swallow. I don’t want to trot out the owl some-of-my-best-friends line, but when I thought about Silverleaf, my dad’s pal Ben Goldstone, and those mates of ours in the Shirin, I suppose it was like Manchester had been overrun by Brummies. I’m sorry to say, I’d given no thought to the Arabs. But The News Line’s line on Israel was plain antisemitic. So, after about a year, enough was enough. By this time, we’d understood it was the local newsagent that was the source, so I went round and tried to cancel the order. It actually took two or three visits before they got the message. On further investigation, it turned out the WRP’s rag wasn’t paid for by actress Vanessa Redgrave (whom the girl had cautiously let slip was one of their sponsors) – but Colonel Gaddafi’s regime in Libya was responsible for the funding!

1982’s events in Lebanon were to flip my view of the Middle East Crisis. Jesus wept! “Crisis what Crisis?” we used to joke about everything and anything. On my life, when hasn’t there been a Middle East Crisis? No, the massacre of Palestinian refugees by Ariel Sharon’s proxies – a decade after Yom Kippur – finally opened my eyes. My fellow peace campaigner Caroline Taylor, always a better idealist than me (and with whom I was secretly in love), was soon to marry a Lebanese man. I avoided being enveloped by the exoskeletons of left-wing and religious cults alike. The Marg and the Rajneesh had come for me just as the WRP and the Situationists, but I didn’t have to slough off their skins because I had always fled from them, no matter how desperate my situation. But in ’82, I turned against Israel for its Settlements and, though I still to this day maintain the state of Israel must exist, it can’t go on citing the promises of a god (what arrant nonsense) as the reason for stealing someone’s home. No, I say, end the settlements on the West Bank!

So – in terms of the seventy-year long crisis-what-crisis in the Middle East - I am in broad agreement with much of what Christopher Hitchens has to say in his Memoir, Hitch-22. It’s also fascinating to read how it was the likes of him behind the SWP – though curious how he never mentions China. I’m zooming onto the likes of David Hare and the fashionable, but to me inexplicable, fascination of the middle classes for Fanshen (continuous revolution). Anyhow, whatever his brand of socialist fanaticism was, it started to peter out soon after the Tories got in. There but for the grace of God – as the saying goes. I especially liked the bit where he gets a mock spanking from his new heroine, Margaret Thatcher (well, didn’t he accuse her of being sexy!); and that came even before the great flip-flop he performed when he joined the rebels Stateside. He was a great wordsmith, and – like Marx before him – his analysis of issues (such as torture and religion) is required reading. This was a guy who went from one great cult to another – like Tiresias, I suppose, or Gloucester. He was blind when he had eyes! Great insight. But in this day and age, can you ever really trust a man who speaks of someone - and their lovely wife - (in this case Edward Said; my italics)?

I’ve been suspicious of public friendships since I read Andrew Motion’s biography of Larkin. Larkin’s bezzie mate Kingsley Amis and he spent a year together at Oxford University just before WW2 broke out. After that, apart from long telephone calls and once or twice a decade get-togethers, they were basically penpals who shared a deep love of English bigotry (and poetry, I guess). Amis’s son Martin once (or possibly twice) bumped into Hitchens at Oxford. Thereafter, and as their fan bases slowly but steadily swelled during the 1970s, they were seen genuinely side-by-side at literary lunches most Friday afternoons. Since that time they both fed and nurtured the myth and mysticism of their chumminess, or mutual benefit society. That’s the way the literary world works, like father like son, no man but a damn fool, etc. etc..

Anyhow, this memoir is very largely another volume of old-boy network anecdotes, and therefore scintillating stuff. Heading for Widecombe aboard the grey mare - alongside the Amises Kingsley and Martin - go Ian McEwan, Clive James, Salman Rushdie, James Fenton, Anthony Powell, Edward Said, Susan Sontag (yes, a woman, there’s radical tokenism for all y’all), Gore Vidal, Owl Uncle Tom Cobley et al.

There are some really juicy titbits (sic) here. For example, someone who’s read Martin Amis’s Money will remember John Self’s visit to the New York hand-job parlour. Well, it turns out, Christopher accompanied Martin on the field trip. Which, given how we’d marvelled at the dude’s imaginative powers, takes bum-chummery to new heights of depth. But these are folk who are free to bitch about each other, then close ranks when any of their cohort are attacked from outside. This is the nature of The Beast. Hitchens, for all he’s worth though, was mostly self-made. Having risen to the top of the Oxford Debating Society, capped his poor academic career there (like Lady Thatcher he got a poor Third class degree) with a publicity stunt that made headlines and even the Television News. I always preferred the guys at Durham who suspended a Mini over the river Wear (I naturally gravitate towards Anarchy). Hitchens, as Secretary of the Oxford Debating Union, humiliated UK Foreign Minister Michael Stewart - a guest speaker. This anti-Vietnam War protest earned him the title of Second Most Famous Man at Oxford (the year 1969).

After that, the inevitable round of nice work came his way and whereas a great deal of folk spent a great deal of the 1970s chasing after an ever decreasing supply of dreary jobs, these angry young men never lacked the price of lunch in smart London restaurants. What about the workers, eh?

If Christopher Hitchens ever changed a nappy, did the washing up or took a dog for a walk, he’s not letting on here. He was never seen in jeans, either. When not decked out in a linen suit (à la Our Man in Havana) he’s lounging in slacks and the inevitable slip-on brogues with the metal buckle (now only £175 the pair, Oxfam, 17, Broad St). He wears the sweaty face of an afternoon drinker, dispenses wit with the largesse of a Raymond Chandler character, and keeps his powder as dry as the magazine of a fast cruiser on convoy duty. Well, his father helped sink the Scharnhorst, as we are constantly reminded, in an example of a truly good day’s work. Hitch regretted his lack of language skills, though surely he must have been effluent in Vulgar Latin and Ancient Geek? He never acquired the American lingo, keeping his English accent more or less intact despite spending half his life over there. When the film of his life is made, who will play him? Not some snotty nosed working-class upstart, anyhow.

If it weren’t for his exposure of water boarding by undergoing the torture himself and then writing it up in a famous article, his legacy might have rested on the antitheist (atheist) tract God Ain’t All That, Innit? His use of Occam’s razor to reveal religious faith to be a dangerous delusion borders on the philosophic. But what he offers in its stead – the ‘moderate’ consumption of two bottles of wine per day – is an equally toxic sacrament. Hic. Sorry, Hitch.

N-N-N-Nitch!