Written for Monday Poetry Train Revisited CHRISTMAS NIGHT 1993 It was Christmas night about fifteen years ago I didn’t shout help. I didn’t have a phone heating water or electric in that squat. It was flummin’ freezing that night just like it is right now ice and snow. The last candle had died and I had no matches left to make a fire. I pulled the newsprint blanket over my head and tried to get some kip. But there was no sleep to be had that night in that old ramshackle gaff.
The rats and roaches put paid to that and then there was one massive crash. I looked through the crack in the boarded up window, it was just some drunks. They were kicking empty crates on their way home from the rub-a-dub-dub. Smashing them against the steel shuttered shop fronts on the parade outside. They staggered on shouting and swearing and soon they were out of my view.
As I watched another character came by, a Rastafarian. A blanket over his left arm and clutching a brick in his right hand. Without a second glance old Dreadlocks dashed the padlock off the shutter. Rolling the freezing cold steel cover up to reveal a plate glass door.
Like a bull at a gate he charged with the blanket placed over his head. Leaving a Rastafarian shaped hole in what used to be the door. Just a few seconds later, he came skipping out onto the cold street. He was carrying a heavy blanket, full of cigarettes and booze. He had already disappeared out of sight when the alarm went off. MSC301208
My friend Anthony North at Beyond the blog! has passed on the following Reader Award:
Rules: Pass it on to five other bloggers, and tell them to open the nearest book to page 46. Write out the fifth sentence on that page, and also the next two to five sentences. The closest book, not the coolest, or the one you think will sound the best. THE CLOSEST.
The closest book to my desk is called I'm Saying Nothing by Eric Topp ISBN 1-903160-07-3. Eric was a friend of ours from the Manchester Writers Group, sadly he died when he was 34 having completed thirteen novels. Three of them are in this collection.
"Nice to hear from you, can't hear you, sorry. Bye!"
There is an earthquake: I thought it was imaginary, a sympton of my over indulgence. But actually it's Janine, slamming cupboard doors.
"Shit!" She goes, "Shit, shit, shit!"
Please don’t feel pressured to take part, I'm not going to pass this on to you, but you can have a go if you like!
Hey Anthony, I'm putting a link to you in my sidebar because I'm sick of looking you up all the time...
Re-Written for the final Rick Mobbs image prompt. SOON The Martians are laughing at the odd, man-made dog, who 'conquered' the moon. Soon they'll reveal themselves as the little 'tin gods' that they think they are. They'll emerge from the shadows, throwing hot rocks at the automaton.
That poor dog, no space tree to bark at, legless, stranded, like a dead duck! The Martians, standing there like Montezuma, ejaculating fire. Spurting from every orifice and projectile of their tall tin frame.
But NASA will cut the delayed transmission - to the people on earth. A million Internet flunkies will never quite know what's just gone wrong. They press a button, terminate the session, find something else to do.
You think I'm kidding, maybe? the Martians will be laughing at us soon! 070797
Posted for Totally Optional Prompts I elected to take the totally optional option this week. ALMOST The first time, you're really subjective, autobiographical, almost.
Then later when you've had time to shop around, you get objective, pessimistic, almost.
And then, when you find your 'own voice' you become romantic, optimistic, almost.
But they do say that: 'Patience is a virgin', almost! 080797
Written for Sunday Scribblings. CONFESSIONAL Just to prove to myself that I don't know what I'm doing when I'm drunk. I went out to the pub last night and had a couple of pints, of Rum! I rolled home about two or three a.m. and crashed out on the sofa. Some time later, I woke up, crawled up the wooden hill and went to bed. It's not like me to get pissed so easily but when I do I zonk! And when I zonk, I snore, so the sofa is the only place to go. Sometimes the walls are paper thin, like in my house, then the whole gaff shakes!
I'd really like to have a date with you but don't let me near the Rum. Or the Vodka or the Whisky or the whiskey or the G and T. In fact, make me steer clear of the top shelf, don't let me near the vino. The laughing gear is strong enough for me but it has to be hand pulled. From the wood and gravity fed, I know they say: keg still does the trick. But any Tom, Dick or Lazarus can get up after a few of them! Forgive me Father, for getting Brahms, It's been a Rum time since my last... 261008
Posted for Totally Optional Prompts Piccadilly-Pick-pocket! ASSAULT + FLATTERY. Daisy Dippy on the 'dilly kissed my lips and touched my willy must've thought that I was silly. When she said she liked Big Ben! I didn't know she meant my ten... quid that she slid into her pocket that she dipped from my sky rocket! AS1393 Glossary Dippy, Dip = pick-pocket 'dilly = Piccadilly Big Ben = rhyming slang for ten quid = £1 English money (slang.) dipped = stole, pickpocketed sky rocket = pocket Have you read my poem Polyamourosity yet?
