The Santa Clarita Diet. Try it, one bite and you might find it’s good. Crazy good.

Poor Poor Pitiful Me.

Not too long ago I used to think I lived half a life;
The car, two kids, two mortgages, the dog, the wife,
Stuck on the endless treadmill of work work work,
I thought one day I'd lose my mind and go berserk.

I see now I was 'a glass half-empty' kind of a guy,
A sad sack who saw the world through a gimlet eye,
My father-in-law berated me as a self-pitying soul,
His wife told me straight- 'what a miserable asshole.' 

Abed one night, worried and awake at one o'clock
I rose and took a ruminative stroll around the block,
The streets and my thoughts were miserable and dark,
My feet grew weary but my brain continued to spark.

I was passing through the shadows of the church tower,
Deep in the dark depths I saw an eye's malevolent glower,
I was encircled and set on, just outside the church grounds! 
Do these roaming gangs of mindless thugs know no bounds?

In the darkness I could see naught but a flash of white,
The gleam of bared teeth, evil creatures of the night,
I fought bravely under their outrageous bestial attack
Till someone tapped my head and everything went black.

When I awoke my bloody head was pounding,
An alarm somewhere in my brain was sounding,
I arose from the pavement and shook my head
But in my mind a creeping realisation spread...

I discovered I could no longer focus my brain,
My fragmentary thoughts seemed half insane,
My attack proved a bit more than a minor scuffle-
Both brain and feet seemed to be stuck on shuffle.

In the pit of my miserable guts sat a hunger, gnawing,
A deeply primitive part I knew I was beyond ignoring,
On my approach I saw three pre-dawn joggers scatter-
This new Zombie shows a hankerin' for fresh grey matter.

As I shamble along I glance at a storefront window
And see a sight, in reflection, I have no wish to know,
And that last human part of me clenches in resistance,
And I know I want no part in this miserable existence.

So I'm stumbling back home where I'm hoping I'll find
An up-in-arms wife to offer me a bit of peace of mind,
I guess our shotgun marriage was doomed from the start,
Let's hope she aims for my stupid brains and not my heart.



(Obviously watching Shaun Of The Dead on top of a few tasty episodes of The Santa Clarita Diet inspired another addition to the Shlock Mock Horror genre. I thought 'why not try to see it from the zombies point of view?' At least it's a fresh one.)

‘Hey, I know I’ve changed. No, It’s not you, it’s definitely me.’

©Obbverse

After being in a locked down life, what harm is there in getting in a round, a quick nine or eighteen holes?

Same Old Abnormal.

After all these long dark careful months
Of staying locked down, home at nights
Some folk are missing what was normal once-
Just chaffing, a'wanting to exercise their rights.

They just wanna do what they used to do,
They just don't like the way things change,
They just don't- can't- wanna wait till '22 ,
They just wanna be home, out on the range.

Some do become increasingly frustrated,
Sick of staid-at-home and safe surrounds,
They wanna step out, feel free, liberated,
Go out to the club, let loose a few rounds.

A select few don't wanna stay quietly shut up-
Why go stir crazy, let the inner sports nut out!
Find your course of action, get out and cut up,
Or go crazy if they can't get their big butt out?

The urge to break loose grows ever stronger,
It is a curse, a burden many fail to shoulder,
Just a crazy one or two who can't wait any longer
Like those mad bastards in Atlanta and Boulder.

Yep, I think you've every right to those arms you bear,
But your NRA's wrong, blindly wilfully not seeing the link- 
Some short-fused dum-dums need to stay in Secure Care,
No harm checkin' on permits? On fingerprints? Do ya think?

©Obbverse

Donald Trump, baaaad actor, resigns from the Screen Actors Guild. If only we could edit out his discredits?

What's My Motivation?

Don's resigned from the Screen Actors Guild,
I suspect most members will be simply thrilled,
After starring in a four-year real life horror show
The audience that's Left is bloody glad to see him go.

But making Disaster movies?
He has no equal.

He's play-acted the President as an anti-hero,
His ability to portray actual facts earns a zero,
He's resigned before they cut off his membership,
Let's hope a jury rewards his efforts with a pink slip.

But fired permanently, please;
Who needs a sequel?

‘Two-bit actor, small parts.’

©Obbverse

‘An Alaska Airlines plane struck a brown bear on landing at Yakutat Airport.’ Now there’s a headline ripe for a satiric take off!

Living The Wild Life?

I'll never again fly Alaskan Air,
Not if you made me a millionaire,
If the flight alone wasn't a nightmare
The crappy landing was too much to bear.

Dicey icy touchdowns in the middle of nowhere?
Alaskan Airlines happy landings are mighty rare,
But there was nothing on that safety card to prepare
Us for seeing a bear using a runway as a thoroughfare.

So I'll be demanding a total refund on my fare,
Plus costs for trauma, shock and new underwear,
And could we spare a thought for that gristly bear?
A wing ding of a departure; poor bear hadn't a prayer.
                       
                  -------------------------------------

Wanna make our hero an anti-hero?
Try the four lines below as the opening verse.

The wife's nagging drove me to despair,
There are no burning embers lingering there,
So I hooked up and lit out with the air-headed au pair
But red-blooded animal behaviour crushed our holiday affair.

©Obbverse

A slightly perverse offering for Lucy’s Works/ Horror House Wednesday flash fiction #4. (Another one to toss into the Shlock Mock Horror vaults.)

(The prompt as supplied; ‘Isn’t this… romantic?’  “You’re a psychopath.”)

Work In Progress.

‘Isn’t this… romantic?’
You’re a psychopath.”
‘I’m trying to be empathic
So let’s not make this a bloodbath.’

‘What my psychiatrist proposes
Is I indulge in empathetic thinking-
So here’s a bunch of wine and roses
For your nose and for our drinking.’

‘Your eyes look wary and distrustful
Even as my finest Cabernet you sup,
Do my cold eyes turn red and lustful
As I see scarlet dripping from your cup?’

‘I’ve prepared a five-star meal,
Fois gras, truffles and sirloin steak,
My culinary eye can scarce conceal
The chef’s made an all too rare mistake.’

Her sweet face taut with leaden lividity,
Her tender mouth ceases its idle talk,
My eye falls with a dreaming avidity
Upon her gleaming knife and fork.

‘I swore I’d strain to show restraint
But you see the truth, you know I lie,
Now you look like you’ve seen a haint-
Now the knife points out your blind eye.’

It’s the nature of the beast
To take a lamb to slaughter,
My famine has turned into a feast
And my loves blood flows like water.

 

©Obbverse

The old familiar saying is ‘What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.’ Not in this dysfunctional family it doesn’t.

’66, The Mother Road.

Lucky Wandering Willie got a job in Vegas,
Willie wished to augment his Casino wages,
But he broke the rules when he marked the deck,
He broke and ran before Bruno broke his neck.

Lucky ran like a cut cat, he ran for his life,
He ran out the car park, he ran out on his wife,
Down dark alleyways he poundingly pelted,
He ran till his steaming Sketchers melted.

He skipped into the Desert Lodge only to find
He’d left his expensive grab-bag of troubles behind,
So he laid low in a two-bit stinking sauna of a hotel;
Better to sweat here than suffer Bruno’s bloody hell.

Rambling Lucky Willie gambled on his good luck,
It left him, flat busted in Las Vegas, silly schmuck,
It’s a tiny town to hide in when you owe a million,
Miniscule when the family next door is Sicilian.

Poor unfortunate Willie was out of tricks,
Time to bail out, to sh hit the bricks,
When Bosco pounded heavily on his door
Willie bounded lightly off the second floor.

Willie lit out of Vegas that very night,
Walked the back-roads till morning light,
Then it was time to lay down his weary head,
If Bosco caught him up he’d be spittin’ up lead.

A faint trail snaking off into the sand
Offered only the shade of a Yucca stand,
There he stumbled on a long deserted Dodge,
A humble home, even though no Desert Lodge.

And so Lucky Willie slept the day away,
Got out of Dodge at the end of the day,
He limped along ‘neath a ghostly moon
Praying he’d find some hick town soon.

Bruno drove all day in air-conditioned splendor
His eyes peeled for someone crisp and tender,
Squinting in the sun for someone dehydrated,
His aim; to literally leave Willie well ventilated.

Bruno would’ve made the paisan Swiss cheese,
But it seems Willie was gone, like a cool breeze,
The Casino kindly offered his wife their support,
Even helped her file a missing person’s report.

No, the diligent detective’s found no trace of Willie,
Our hot-foot fugitive’s trail turned downright chilly,
Willie, last seen by a road crew outside of Primm,
Since that last sight, no-ones seen a sign of him…

——————————————————————-

Though the Willie trail went cold a few months back
Bosco still thinks of Willie, driving in his Cadillac,
Poor Lucky Willie sure was one unlucky mother-
Finding Nevada Road Fill’s run by Bosco’s brother.

Bruno knows Willies gone but he’s not forgot,
At a certain point, Bosco’s found a soft spot,
That dip on Route 66, down the road apiece-
Lost in time and lime Lucky rests in peace.

Ps; This was ‘inspired’ by driving down a long boring stretch of road alleviated by the random shuffle selecting Jason and the Scorchers version of ‘Lost Highway.’  

©Obbverse

What did you do on Valentine’s Day? Or on Valentine’s night? Flowers just might not cut it or quite do the trick on this occasion.

Be My Valentine.

I have my love and she has mine,
She tells me of her love, deep and true,
How rare ’tis for two hearts to intertwine,
Oh, my sweet love, I give my heart to you.

I brought her red roses on Valentine’s Day,
I thought to lay them on her sweet bed,
Oh, but why is she not at work but at play?
I crushed those roses till my hands ran red.

So, my love, give me back my broken heart,
You took my trust, my love, you lay and lied,
Outside the door I hear the hopeless pleading start,
When you break it down you find we’re all dead inside.

 

PS: The car radio was crassly playing ‘Dear Doctor’- on Valentine’s Day!- and the lines ‘Help me Dear Doctor, I’m damaged, there’s a pain where there once was a heart,’ sounded ghastlily inspirational.

 

©Obbverse

Shlock mock horror! A quick look at an old horror flick. Alien, the concept, the movie, encapsulated.

Alien, The Cliff Notes Cut.

A richly laden space craft returning to far off earth,
A motley crew roused from their deep sleep berth,
Duty bound to wake in the middle of the long haul,
To answer something in the nature of an urgent call.

Touching down on a bleak and windswept planetoid
Crewman Kane makes a contact you’d pray to avoid,
Back on board the crew wonder if he will live or not-
Well, let’s face it, that’s one ugly kisser Kane has got.

Then when that foul face mask falls, all appears hunky-dory-
But Ridley didn’t make this a happy ending story, it gets gory,
After swallowing that alien dish it’s a wonder Kane’s able
To face a Damn thing that disgraces the breakfast table.

Kane discovers his hidden guest
That had snuggled down in his chest
Cause’s heartburn and a cardiac arrest.
(Some find this scene tough to digest.)

After busting Kane’s heart and finding it’s lost face,
That bloody little alien disappeared without a trace,
The crew peer up stairs, down shafts, a long corridor
Only to find the ‘Find The Alien’ plan contains a fatal flaw.

There will be only one winner in this game of hide and seek,
That’s one drooling beast who’ll never lose its nasty streak,
Soon the loyal crew are terminated, all bar a slippery one,
Sadly for Ms. Ripley, a psycho killers work is never done.

Pausing only to toss the ships cat in a carry cage
Ripley decides to pull the pin and leave the stage,
She set a time for the ol’ atomic pile to self-destruct-
Screw Wutani’s Destruction of Property Code of Conduct.

But in the escape pod Ripley found
She was a world away from safe ground,
And as the stowaway alien slowly unwound
Our spunky space-girl made a gibbering sound.

Trapped in the confines of her space-suit cocoon
Her trembling hand chanced upon a handy harpoon,
One second it was looming there before her, salivating,
The next, a harpoon to the chest left it hyperventilating.

From gross green rotten eggs through to face hugger
That nasty bit of work was proving a persistent bugger,
A pest of a problem and a proper nightmare to dispatch,
The only solution was open up the door, down the hatch.

Even out in airless space the beast was not yet spent,
It crawled up, coming to rest up up an air duct (or vent,)
So the sole survivor gave the rocket engine a quick blast
And the alien slipped away aft, toasty and crispy-assed.

She sets her course, sets homing beam,
A sedative courses down bloodstream,
Her eyes close, perchance to dream…
In deep sleep does she silently scream?

 

©Obbverse

Shlock mock horror! That old classic, ‘The Bride of Frankenstein’ re-reviewed. Or: Romance really is dead.

Dr Frankenstein could no longer pretend;
His experiments had come to a dead end,
He railed at the thunderstorm, he cursed his luck
Till came a puff of smoke as a lightning bolt struck.

Slowly from the slab his prized creature rose,
In those coal black eyes something darkly glows,
There’s a sad recognition that he is one butt-ugly soul,
A melange of random bits and pieces making up a whole.

He saw he looked like a reject from the Twilight Zone,
He had no wish to spend his second life all on his own,
He gently sat the the Doc down, told him what was on his mind,
Strongly impressing on him how he felt being but one of a kind.

The monster requested the Doc make him a mate,
Toss in a few X chromosomes into the ol’ template,
Reluctantly, the Doctor took up needle and thread-
His second stitch-up left his first darn effort for dead!

For the good Doctor had learnt a great deal,
Now he could spend time on aesthetic appeal,
That original prototype did look desperately grim,
Rugged and rough-hewn would best describe him.

Working both night and day-
All bloody work and no play-
In a week he’d put her together-
Time to wait- for stormy weather.

Finally came a thunderous storm,
Lightning lit her wondrous form,
Impatiently the monster waited
As his beauty became animated.

The Doc had fashioned her such a pretty face,
The creature felt his second-hand heart race,
And his beastly heart was completely captured,
The Docs fine body of work left him enraptured.

But his bride-to-be was less than impressed,
She saw him and nearly had a cardiac arrest,
From her sweet lips came a long ululating scream;
The Doctor knew they’d never make a dream team.

After hearing her shrill dismissive shriek
The monster flounces off in a fit of pique,
How that poor forsaken brutes broken heart aches,
And all the Doc says is ‘oh well, we all make mistakes.’

 

©Obbverse

Seeing too many old movies means it’s time to have a stab at a gripping old ripping yarn.

Low Ebb.

Back in the bad old days, in Old London Town
A mist sprung up, a heavy fog rolled down,
As the good God-fearing Victorian folk slept
Into seedy Whitechapel that damned fog crept.

At the end of a dark dank Dockside alleyway
A lady of the night decided she’d call it a day,
It had been a profitable night for an enterprising maid;
But there’s no profit being alone in the dark, in her trade.

She headed for home with bone weary tread,
After a night on her back she longed for her bed,
But she was mistaken to think she was all alone,
In the fog muffled footsteps echoed her own.

In the confines of Bucks Close the fog thickened,
As those steps sped up her heart-beat quickened,
From her trembling lips her breath came wreathing,
Then, on her neck she felt a hot and heavy breathing.

For a girl who regularly walked the street
This was no man she had wished to meet,
He seized his lapels, opened his greatcoat wide
And the size of his weapon left her terrified…

No, this was no ordinary flasher,
Yes, this was the Docklands slasher!
In a flash her days (and nights) were done,
Then ’twas the Rippers time to cut and run.

Down towards the Thames he blindly ran,
Washing his hands of the crime being the plan,
But the infernal fog hid the embankment railing
And into the dirty old river the Ripper went sailing.

Weighed down by a voluminous greatcoat
Jack the Dipper struggled vainly to stay afloat,
He and his cries for assistance were lost in the mist,
And so the Ripper himself wound up last on his list.

Though the man(iac) in question has long gone
The myth and mystery of his identity lingers on,
The name of the Ripper no-one can provide
All known remains, lost to time, and to tide.

 

©Obbverse