A Survivors Guide To Night Life.
If you should wake from sleep to the sound of screams
And through the windowpane full moonlight streams,
And the streets below look like a bloody crime scene-
Prowling Zombies, growling werewolves, bloody keen-
And it's nowhere near Halloween?
These horrors are no mere fiction Stephen King wrote?
Then it's time to stifle that shriek that rises in your throat;
A man's home is his castle but to fight would be suicide,
So lock the door, zip your lip, swallow that warriors pride,
The dystopian future is here; so hide.
So it's true the rabid 'Hemlock Grove' mob ain't bit the dust?
Them Walking Dead half-wits not yet done with wanderlust?
Some choice- Death's kiss by a Zombie's cold blood rep lips
Or a barking mad dog's life whenever the blood lust grips?
Every full moon, another bloody apocalypse.
Who's a'tapping at the door, who's a'rattling my chain?
I hope they go away, and I pray they don't call again,
Leave me high up in my dark attic, hid in the pitchest black
Softly bitching 'bout this neighbourhood gone to the pack
Quietly waiting for the dawn to crack.
Sat in the shadows ain't how the hero should behave?
Better perched in the loft than turning in your grave,
My advice is to wait, still, till, in the cold light of day-
We'll deal to Zombie and beast in a most unhuman way
And the Hell with the RSPCA.
(Another in the interminable Shlock mock horror series. One day I’ll kill ’em off.)
As Autumn's leavings disappear
Winter is almost here.
Time is long overdue to replace our heat pump of old,
It's begun to moan and groan, to grumble and wheeze...
As soon as we stepped over 'House Warmers' threshold
The fair Val appeared at our side, as quick as you please.
Full of Christmas-like cheer,
Words warm as Butterbeer.
Her easy manner, knowledge and patience had us sold,
We were both warmed and affected by her rare expertise,
She radiantly smiled while I reached deep in my billfold,
Seems fixing our heating nightmare would be a breeze...
Winter solstice drawing near,
Feel the frosty atmosphere?
'Nother long silent month gone, and has our hot case gone cold?
All calls to Val get left on 'hold', she's giving us the deep freeze,
Conversely Val's name is a constant hot topic in our household,
Faith and hope in fu-flaming Val is cooling, plunging by degrees.
‘And installation as quick as a flash, as fast as lightning.’
Top Blokes: Or So Deserving To Be.
Normally he'd relish seeing his name in the Sun papers heading
But bad news of Hancock's rash cock-up keeps nastily spreading.
Now Matt Hancock is butt the latest on the ever growing list
Of randy big boss men who've indulged in a Secretarial tryst,
Yet another dismaying married man/maid tawdry tacky story,
Another case of rules-for-the-masses don't apply to the Tory.
Now comes the crushing private family conference he's dreading-
Damn those pious words he faithfully trotted out at his wedding!
Boris' limp-wristed attempts at discipline make him easy to mock,
First came Damn Cummings going-ons, now this wanker Hancock,
Another once close bosom buddy resigns, gone off with the hump*
Before Boris, father of all bastards, tells him to take a flying jump.
Those True-Blue Conservative values are sure taking a shredding,
In light of these affairs, p'raps toss the Tories out with the bedding?
Both the country and his wife deserve to feel cheated and betrayed,
But don't forget hewas willingly abetted with an extra-marital Aide,
Just typical two-faced Tory entitlement when we get Right down to it,
And all led by that blond man-child nightmare ex-mayor f#cking idiot.
*1/ Quaint British term for leaving in anger and disappointment .
2/ American uncouth slang for a casual sexual partner. (Use whatever you prefer,
either one works for me...)
Something about the mini guillotine seemed painfully apt.
Letters To The Discredited.
Dear Esteemed Editor:
I'll still enjoy perusing your paper most every day,
I'll still have your old paper delivered in the old way,
I amble down the long driveway, and nine times out of ten
There I'll see todays paper- unless it landed next door again.
Or flung up in the beech tree, or deep in the prickly hedge,
On a chilly winters day his lousy arm puts my teeth on edge,
Still, your paperboy does deliver me bad news, rain snow or hail;
So I won't add a note of complaint to the cheque, that's 'in the mail.'
No, Dear Editor, believe me I'm not one to bitchily gripe,
I'm not one to write in complaint (nor two-fingerdly type)
But today, Dear Editor, your weird way with words enrages-
At least your imbroglio looks most at home in the funny pages.
I rarely miss attempting your ten question word quiz,
But this day, my Dear Editor, my question for you is;
How come there are ten answers but only nine queries?
I've counted, all fingers and thumbs and I'm out of theories.
Me answering ten questions right is too much of an ask!
But keeping it one question short doesn't simplify my task,
So, in the future, Dear Editor, heed your readers suggestions,
If you say you have all the answers, don't forget the questions.
Yours ruefully, SubScriber.
(Another true and unfaked story. It's a sad and puzzling day when the press is short on or lost for words. Someone oughta get their shit quiz together!)
Lessons From Watching 'Scream' Again.
For the fans of the gory horror flick
Sick of the perennial hoary old tropes
'Scream' played out a slick new trick
To raise any Millennial's bloody hopes.
'Scream' kicks off with a sick new twist-
But first I ought to offer a 'Spoiler Alert!'
If you loved Drew in 'Never Been Kissed'
Her getting the kiss-off here is gonna hurt.
See, the pretty blonde nubile teen-
Her part's played by Drew Barrymore,
She's scarcely finished the first scene
When- so suddenly! Drew is no more.
What, the Star gets cut in the first act?
Drew winds up axed before Act Two?
Spoke a few lines, then gets whacked?
So, what advice might've saved Drew?
Don't mention you'll be at home alone
With no one close to share the popcorn,
Drew, definitely do not answer the phone
Drew, if you want to live to see the dawn.
Don't let anyone outside in if they ask,
Or scream when a ghastly face appears,
Who knows who is behind that mask?
Face it Drew, this will all end in tears.
Sad to report, you ain't safe with old friends,
Two once-best buds now ain't right in the head,
Sad, by the time this twisted tale grislily ends
Our cut-in-the-first-act heroine is long dead.
‘Soon, Blondie, just hangin’ on the telephone.’
(Ok, slightly sick humour in the captions but what the hell…)
Love In Vain- Or, Vein.
Mary Shelley, author of Frankenstein
Watched her hubby from the shoreline,
Alas, for the wild and stormy poet of note
'Twas not the time to be paddling a leaky boat.
It devastated his distraught young wife
When Percy Shelley sunk and lost his life,
So before Mary cremated her sweetheart
She took hold, held close that cold cold part.
A little large for a silver locket,
A bit too big for a wee dress pocket,
And far too gross to hold in her hand-
Best placed underneath the nightstand?
She kept his heart in her bedside drawer,
Not for her brief grief, no, it remained raw,
She kept it locked inside a heart-shaped box
Amongst her dainty hankies, smalls and socks.
At first this act of sweet spousal devotion
Seemed an endearingly darkly Romantic notion,
Till for even the hanky-dabbing Widow Mary Shelley
Percy became less lingering memory, more simply smelly.
(I commented on a blog, and that comment twisted its way into this... odd offering.)
'Mericans sure do love their guns,
They're hellbent on law and order,
They think we're the crazy ones,
Completely armless, North of the border.
But most of us simply can't understand
Why they don't practice gun control?
You can have a hot gun in your hand
Even if you're a crazy lyin' criminal asshole.
Concerned about your stint in clink?
Worried about your upcoming arrest?
Thank God only the upstanding NRA think
There's no need for your character test.
A .50 caliber has always appealed?
Go out and and pick one up today!
You needn't keep your Colt concealed,
Just whip it out and blaze away.
But outside 'Merica the Great
Them Rights leave everyone else aghast,
'Merica's Number One, in every dang State-
Yep, in firearm deaths, World unsurpassed.
'Guns are part of our way of life'
Say the NRA, not in ironical jest,
'From the days when crime was rife,
From Tea Party through Wild Wild West.'
'Because it's our Right,' bray the NRA,
'To amass us a private arsenal,'
Just imaginin' being back in the day
Of the rootin' shootin' OK Corral.
400 million guns, the NRA say, all legally sold,
According to the lists they lovingly compiled,
It's peace of mind, to have and to hold-
One apiece for every man, woman and child.
Does the NRA truly think the entire Nation
Need to bear their own personal Kalashnikov?
Why bother US with futile peaceable negotiation?
Most members are rarin' for a Mexican stand-off.
Still the NRA say 'more guns the merrier,'
Its twisted logic, bound only to confound,
To me more guns sounds progressively scarier,
But to the NRA 'Zero Control' holds Holy Ground.
But surely no sane person would let fly
When everyone's armed to the teeth?
Only the crackpot NRA can live with that lie;
Its stone cold comfort to those laid beneath.
In the NRA's strange Land of the Free
They'll snuff out any gun control Bill,
Sovereign citizens, too short-sighted to see
Their sacred Rights lead to gross overkill.
( Inspired by Chel Owens A Mused poetry competition on 'Eccentrics' and the movie 'Shock Corridor.')
An Eccentrics Guide To Lightening Up.
A rare precious few view me as being one of a kind,
Far more as possessed of a most peculiar singular mind,
One gloomy psychiatrist classified me as slightly neurotic,
A better one called me, far more politely, simply quixotic.
Some call me eccentric, but that ain't fair,
I prefer to think I think outside the square,
Others say my view on reality is a tad murky,
They say I'm 'way out there,' I'd say 'quirky.'
The true eccentric is hard to define,
The clued-up eccentric rides a fine line,
You best keep your eccentricities on the down low,
So I tone it down- Bellvue's nowhere I wanna go.
Some admit they think outside the box,
I don't... wish to submit to electric shocks,
So, Doctor, if eccentricity is in the eye of the beholder
Call me quietly eccentric- I don't want to smoulder.
(You wanna gun in Texas ? Write a cheque and it’s yours, no questions asked. You wanna vote? Whoa there- now Governor Abbott wants to cross-check you.)
Texas Hold 'em.
'We don't take kindly to restrictions here, Son,
Soon here in Texas ya'll can carry round a gun,
And then, Son, ya'll won't need no licence or permit,
Son, we cain't wait for Governor Abbott to confirm it.'
'Soon, Son, strapped to your hip-
A Colt for your personal protection
Within it, a lawfully fully loaded clip
Thanks to Governor Abbotts election.'
'Son, the Second 'Mendment is our God given Right,
Us rebels Republicans chafe against restrictive oversight,
Soon, Son ya'll be free to pack a pistol without a Doctors note-
Shoot, Son, in Texas it's easier gettin' a gun than gettin' to vote!'
'Son, once Abbot's doozy legislation's passed
Then he's on to checkin' out Voters Rights Time,
Then, Boy- if ya'll aim to cast your Democrat vote fast
Ya'll be stuck in lines longer than at Disney, Anaheim.'
In Perfect Harmony.
When I was but a little lad
I believed my dear old Dad
Could turn his hand to anything
Except whistle, dance, play or sing.
When I'd been but a babe in arms
Dad had tried music's soothing charms
By crooning out a lullaby,
But all it caused was more hugh and cry.
One thing rang out crystal clear-
Song-wise, Dad could blow it out his rear,
My screaming revealed I was unhappy,
As did my steaming nappy.
Mother upraised me from the cot
Over which I'd done piddly squat,
My debut as Fathers music critic
Was luke-warm and rather acidic.
As a kid, helping out in his workshop
I learned a lot listening to my old Pop,
Father possessed in him, I fear
An adenoidal drawl and a tin ear.
Even in church his hymn-singing
Had the pastor's hands and ears wringing,
And so the pastor had a quiet word
And no more of hymn was heard.
Poor musically maligned Dad-
Being told he's Godawfully bad,
Meanwhile his kids and spouse
Raised the roof on Gods house.
For the choir Dad was not required,
Much less was his grate voice desired,
The choirmaster loved her and her boys,
Sadly Daddy was mere annoying noise.
So Dad would never rock the Hippodrome;
Poor Pa, even in the privacy of his home
If Mom spontaneously burst into song
Dad felt resigned to just hum along.
So Father bit held his tongue
As cheerily his wife and offspring sung,
But Dad continued to stay dumb
For sake of harmony and keeping mum.
At school some new teacher suggested
Music lessons for those so interested,
My brother yearned to play guitar-
Chet favoured Lennon, not Ringo Starr.
He thought we'd start up a band-
But I dismissed guitar out of hand,
I soon settled on a compromise,
The Ukulele was more me, size wise.
Friday Chet hurried down to the music store,
Bought the cheap-assed Yamaha you ever saw,
The clerk took pity on him and poor tag-along me,
Tossed in a Uke for free and a no strings guarantee.
Call it fate, call it coincidence
But when he saw our instruments
We saw Barca-lounger bound Dad sit up,
And the sad eyes he clapped on us lit up.
I soon gave up my lousy practice-
Indolence and bloody fingers two factors,
Chet played blissfully on and on and on
Unaware his accompanist had gone.
But Dad had seen the Light and the Way,
If he couldn't sing, surely he could play?
And so Dad brought home a Banjo Mandolin,
Plucked up courage to release the music within.
We already knew Dad could not sing a note,
As he 'tuned up' a lump rose in my throat,
All through that long atonal afternoon
Dad vainly chased some elusive tune.
Soon my bro was practicing next door,
He, me and Mom knew the score;
If Dad didn't hear Chet fretfully play
The Mandolin might stay tucked away.
Whenever Dad felt his muses call
And reached for that thing strung on the wall
Mom would reach for the gin and lime,
Sup on the porch swing till twilight time.
My brother and I would slink outside,
Hop on the Schwinns, take a long long ride
And not return till silence reigned
With Mom insensible and the Gilbeys drained.
By the time I was set to fly the coop
Chet was off touring with some grungy group,
Dads piss-poor playing had not improved one whit
But Dad had Moms AA sponsor begging him to quit.
On my last night at home I lay, still concerned,
Their soon departing son tossed and turned,
Then, while Dad snored and Mom slept tight
Did anyone hear that bump in the night?
The morning found Dad in despair,
The Mandolin had fallen- into disrepair,
How had the nail on which it hung failed
When Dad hisself had had it six inch nailed?
So this is what the disquieting price of peace is;
The busted Banjo Mandolin, like Dad, lay in pieces,
The worst assault on a blunt instrument I'd ever seen-
Far worse than any Pete Townshend axe wielding scene.
Now I don't regret doing what had to be done,
And, yes, I still consider myself a father loving son,
Yes, Dads busted Banjo came as a hammer blow
With a three pound sledge- believe me, I know.
(If you got this far, there's a couple of song titles hidden in the mess mix.)
(Oh, you want a hint?- ok; one by The Band, one by Shawn Mullins.)