TRUMPS

‘I’ve got the whole world in my hands, I’ve got the whole world . . . oh, hello, there.  What do you think I should I do with it now?’
‘Behind you!’
‘You want me to put it behind me?’
‘Look behind you!’
‘Ah, you want me to drop the world in the volcano? Okay then, here goes. Drum roll, please . . . ‘

HEELS!

Ere, want me to help you with your heels?
No thanks, I’m quite okay.
Heels!
Yes, heels.
Rhymes with feels.
Yes.
Can I?
No.
Heels! I like heels. I like your heels and I like saying ‘heels’!
It’s a free country.
Heels!

THERE’S MORE TO LIFE THAN SITTING IN A PARK DRINKING BEER.

 

There’s more to life than sitting in a park drinking beer.

Says who?

Says I. Just look around, Jack: what do you see?

A bunch of twats?

The man with a dog: what’s he thinking?

I can’t feed my dog so he’ll eat me.

Your view is jaundiced.

The wide-faced twit on stilts will get his stilt stuck in a drain and fall on his tit.

What makes you so angry?

People saying ‘there’s more to life than sitting in a park drinking beer’.

Okay, do want another one then?

Does the Pope wear Speedos?

I don’t know what you mean by that.

Please yourself.

Promise you’ll lighten up when I get back?

Pinkie promise. Now, piss off and get the beers.

When Arnold is gone, Jack’s heart suddenly bursts and tiny splinters pour out and scatter onto the ground.

When Arnold returns he finds his friend lying on the ground

Jack is speaking softly and Arnold bends close to hear what he’s saying: I see it now, lovely birds, lovely people, lovely friends!

And then he’s gone.

The night falls onto the park. Arnold drinks both beers, and then lights a bunch of splinters to find his way home.

Steps of rain

Plink it. The rain it does.
Take it from me it says it does.
It rain. Refrain. It stain.
I, it drain.
For all man kind.
For brethren for friend it rain.
It pain.
And again and again
it fall.
The rain
                ..
                   ..
                        ..
                              ..
                                     the rain.

THE END OF THE KNOB

THE END OF THE KNOB

It was a strange mission and details of it were kept secret even from the

climbers. The team chosen were all experienced, veterans of the Himalayas,

and set about reaching base camp with a unifying sense of professionalism

and a common desire to get to the end, wherever it was.

At base camp they were told they were to climb Peter’s Knob.

‘Non heard of dis one,’ said Pascal Piste, the team leader.

‘It’s a penis, gentlemen,’ replied the Base Camp co-ordinator: ‘my name is

Peter and the penis is mine!’

The tent was silent for a moment for this was an astonishing thing to hear, but

then one by one the elite climbers began to laugh.

‘You can laugh all you like but tomorrow morning you begin my ascent. I

commend your aptitude and skill and wish you all the luck in the world.’

‘Mes amis,’ spoke Pascal. ‘Le Knob de Pierre, c’est dificile, mais un climb est

un climb, non? Nous must travail et succeed, oui, oui?’

‘Yes, wee,’ said the climbers and the next morning they allowed themselves to

be miniaturised and set to work.

It took seven arduous hours, jagging and faltering amongst bumps and

crevices, vein cracks and old love scars, but eventually they arrived at Peter’s

Summit, where they planted their flag.

Peter looked down at them disdainfully, and with a series of monkey like

scratches sent them plummeting into a dark abyss.

‘Never said anything about planting a flag you egotistical amateurs!’ he cried.

‘Are we in a cave?’ asked climber Two.

‘It’s warm and the odour is profound,’ said climber Three.

Climber Four kept coughing, and Pascal voiced what surely they already

knew: ’how do you say dans le postérieur dans Anglais, mes amis?’

‘It sounds almost the same in English,’ they said, before a terrible thing

engulfed them all.

FROM CHAOS

 

FROM CHAOS

From low, the semi-elongated-dwarf–bird-cat looks up at the absurd magnanimity of the metropolis and sighs. A cloud drops low and showers the steps before him. He will go no further.

Up in a bone tree in the high part of the city, a squat owl surveys everything. He has nothing wise or profound to say. He is looking for mice.

It is left to a parakeet busy sucking on the trail of a tsetse fly to explain but it’ll take a near eternity to hear his words, as birds either cannot speak or we cannot understand them if they do.

No matter, we know a bird who swallowed a fly . . . 

JAZZ ROCK

 

JAZZ ROCK

The cry of a trumpet: ‘I beseech you to go JAZZ’, it says and the spiky tail rocker transforms into a giant, pubic fuzz ball.

‘You is scrambling my brain in pussy weed, my horny friend,’ says the rocker.

The jazzster keeps blowing those difficult notes and the shaggy rocker rolls off, all hairy biker and tumble thatch.

‘Look at her go,’ croons the trumpet, suddenly sad and slow. ‘She’s got a bearded mass and a furry ass!’

‘Not she, I’m he,’ says the rocking fur ball, spitting hairs. ‘Just stop the jazz!’

And the horn is done.