Thursday, March 31, 2005

love in liddle

love in liddl
stoned with marie
i almost went to his till.

i bet he has a big tiddle
i thought that on the day
that i almost found
love in lidl.


i dont want to come
to the toilet
with you camille.

she said that on the day
i piddled on myself.

not on lidl
not on yer waddle
not on the morning shuttle.
tee hee
have you ever met paul buttle
he never shuts up either
there is no liddl
in the lake district
you have to drive
to penrith.
tee ee hee.




you smell like pigeon excrement

you smell like the crusty like the crack of a pigeon's arse. your pockets are as tight as the grumpy birds twitching anal muscles and they creak with misery when you force a smile down your butt cheeks. you cannot palate a smile as it is against your smug constitution.

some admire you. but they are not aware how you hiss misery at withered old ladies in the library. sneaking around the shelves to poke them in the fragile liver until they TIP over their canes and lie fractured. helpless. on their backs like blue-rinsed cockroaches. to you, we are all cockroaches. scrambling around in plastic imitation of your glory. our shiny exoskeletons weak in comparison with your iron breast.

carrying in your pigeon breast pride for your lonesome life, you squint at the world in daylight, wondering how it feels to be inferior. how it feels to cook horrid sludgy meals that pale in comparison with the congratulatory stew you sup on nightly. concocting proud dinners that you spear on golden forks, eating purposefully on benches to hear the winos cry out in pain! the stew! the golden stew that you slobber over your livery lips JUST TO MAKE THEM JEALOUS. letting noodles of brown gravy trail onto the bench. shuddering in horror as they crawl over to lick the cooling gravy from the rotten bench.

you will not feed them. you would not feed them if your stomach was BURSTING with bread. because they can bloody well get their own. and they could if they weren't so stupid and lazy. if they had half of your brains and got up early enough in the morning. they would be well able to strut down the street with their head held high. perhaps not fit to walk in your wake, but then again who is?

tutting around. the pigeons crack we know as your mouth wobbles. proudly you wag your way through the masses. leaving behind the scent of an old dirty bird.


your eyebrows are intruding
they curl like teabag mould
septic algae in my room
waggling like the bottoms
of damsels from the black and white movies

i wish you would comb them
or try a trim.

your eyebrows like to talk
about things that are nimble
they make allusions to minds
and mean something else

your eyebrows want to rub me
this will not happen
sometimes i think that i would rather wallow in
the mud and faeces
of farmer's stalls
and chat to the pigs
about straw-
and the weather,
than let your eyebrows relax on my stomach
stretch their fuzzy legs across my skin
and conjure images
of greasy nuns
and fingered accordians
or furrier pianos

i cannot look your eyebrows in the eye.
when i do, they twitch
they think salaciously of lewd comments
which they hide, like schoolbooks over crotches
and giggle
at me.


Kitchhiking is the new darling of the avant guarde children in northern Dalry. Times have changed, and it is a sport for the demented and fashion crazed youth seeking out kicks above and beyond the usual car smashing, theiving, nutting, smoking escapades. The seemingly innoculous title has allowed the sport to flourish rapidly as an underground movement, with only the cut few in the know realising the true nature of this deadly trend.

Kitchhikers travel in packs. There are only so many streets one can attend to alone when guised in plastic sunglasses and sunflower print handbags. The kitchhikers job must be undertaken swiftly under a distraction created by a further member of the group. Then in the dazed silences which inevitably follow, they flee into the night like 50 neon strip clubs reverberating in the suburban quiet.

The first task of the kitchhiker is to flag down a car. In this day and age car flagging is no longer the simple arm waving tactic it once was, and kitchhikers must daily invent imaginative new forms of carstopping. Exploading manholes are a favourite in Edinburgh, where packs of glitter are lashed to dynamite in a colourful and fatal combination. Sparkles forever implanted behind the retina with the white afterglow is a common driver complaint. But it is difficult to catch a kitchhiker. PVC is slippery.

avante garde children supping on exploding spaghetti.
wanting to taste LIFE.
seeking joyous explosions
in their genitals.
slipping down mucky manholes in pursuit of rock and roll,
all the forbidden sewage of society.

rot your teeth,
ruin your ears,
cut wisdom teeth,
drink frothing beer.

dirty nails and fashion's car-smashing.
past the boundaries.


smashed on fashion
plastic sewage tacked to the slip-slip-
slippery surfaces
of today's designer dream.

jackknifing into satin
the riptop slipped off panties
on the bedroom

of the fashionista avant guarde
coke queen
who chops her lines like hems
blunt and quick
slice through the consciousness
like white thighs
under flashbulbs

it's a long way
if you want to rock

unbruised model eyes just don't cut it
and the heroin chic massive digs those
kitty slash arms

you blink in the daylight.
and excel in the exploading diamond roman candle flashes
burning retina afterimage delight
captured on camera film
like a fish gasping through tightening netting
like epileptic strobes pulsating through the brain
burrough into the eyes
flick switches
twiddle frequencies
teeth grinning white gnashing foaming rapid mouths which spack words like absolutions
you smile

the hair

we're needing a man to live in our hair,
live in our hair,
live in our hair.

he'll sing us songs when we're lying under the stars.
he'll know the capital of Rhodesia when we're at the pub quiz
he'll know just what to say to boys when they break our heart
and make us feel small.

a big need for hair collaboration.

lots of room in the curls for catching sun, smoke, flies and rumours.

some mornings i think i'd even ask the man to help me comb it. like americans rake the fall leaves from their lawns, the man would help rake yesterday's disappointment from my greasy locks. he'd catch witty comments that were about to go over my head.

there is always the danger that the hair will get too hungry. too independent. and start to really rule or lives.

one day i'll shower and try to force a brush through its tangled glory, only to find the hair has left me! crept across my pillow and slipped under the door to freedom.

if hair was free it would float. often single strands manage to escape, but perhaps they need the collective consciousness of a massive hairBALL to really be free. i see single stranded curls clinging to the carpet, my jumper, my cat, my boyfriend's chin (but that's another story).

often they mistake the plughole for the way out. can't see much joy to be had in sewage. my guess is the hair would like to cuddle in the grass. or blow down the sidewalk. or hitch a ride to the woods where it can plant itself in the muck and try to grow a hair tree.

what will become of the man who is renting the room in my hair when the hair leaves town? will he slip away with the hair and lead it to victory? or will he merely leave this brunette outpost for the next hot blow job...

before he had been the hair man it had been a fairly uneventful life. certainly nothing akin to squatting in folic bliss. but that was how these things worked out sometimes. sometimes caught up in breezes of engineering deadlines and the first daffodil flush of summer, you find yourself tangled somewhere quite unexpected.

the first haired encounter had begun rather innoculously. sitting all daisy contended in the park, the man was eating baba ganoush with his fingers. they were sticky with the yoghurty goodness. he licked them, and was glad that he was not hairy. it would not be pleasant, he considered, to have to munch upon your own fur everytime you wanted to clean your fingers.

or your arse.

there were other creatures in the park that daythat did not share his misgivings though. there were ducks who pecked mercilessly into their own fuzzy feathers and flesh, dogs that tongue -massaged their hairy bollocks with all the rigmarole and procession of carrying the olympic flame, even flies rubbing vile mouths over spiky haired black legs. he did not understand the glory of a furry tongue though, and eyed these creatures with a mild contempt. contempt is never a good emotion to aim at mother nature. she is big.

the man's attention was not captured by the licking creatures for long though. it was springtime, and the time of year when the first skirts begin their arduous journey north of the knee. skinny legs giggled round scuffed pavements and bottoms flirted and teased at desperate, panting hems. the man was not thinking about animal hair licks for long. sort of.

the park centred around a large pond. infact, many would argue that it was almost a lake, but that is irrelevant to the here and the now of the story of the man who ended up living in my hair. so; there was a pond, half hidden by algae and the floor dribbling with seaweeds and dodgy fish shapes. but it was still a pond, and the girls who came to the park liked to feel the cool slime of the water flicking against their calves as they splashed each other through inane chatter of boyfriends and essay deadlines. the man who ended up living in my hair liked the bench which faced the pond. it had nostalgic graffhiti scratched into its wooden planks and it afforded a suitable patch to block himself behind the crossword and watch. he learned a great gift with crosswords over the months he spent drooling by the pondside, much of which helped me later when he murmered quiz question answers. but in the long run, these things are irrelevant anyway, and the man was never much taken by the cheap word games of crosswords. crypticism, after a while, stops being the clever and devious concoction and faded into babbling as inane as any the girls came up with. and not nearly so attractive.


Once upon a time, hair floated free.
single strands curled around the collective consciousness
one man tamed the tangles
and held them captive in his tower.

he sung to the hair
about lying under the Rhodesian stars.
he growled at the pub boys
who broke its hairy heart.

He charmed it.
he made us feel small
sequestered in his room of curls,
to catch the sun,
the smoke,
the flies.

One morning as he raked yesterday’s locks.
his brush got tangled in its greasy glory,
he was in over his head.
in danger.
the hair wanted to rule his life.
To creep across his pillow to freedom.
he had hairBALLs striving to be free.
clinging to the carpet lifeboat,
to jumpers,
to cat chins,
hoping for a free ride
to the woods.
where hair might finally take root
to grow a firry tree.

They Stole the Holes

Things go on in golf courses late at night. This rests as undisputed fact. Of course, in the scientific sense, things go in everywhere everytime in a variety of more or less interesting ways, and it would be churlish to single out golf courses for special mention if it were simply the things that happen that were happening. But there was more than that. Terrible deeds going on. Mystery and intrigue after dusk. The humble golf course; transformed, defiled, brought down to the level of a mere lawn. Shameful things this does to the self image of the grass, it loses interest in life, starts wilting in depression and offering itself up in great divots for suicidal golf club flights. It is no longer the fine trimmed special of grand master tournaments, no longer rearranges its blades for easy ball trajectories. They do things to the course at night that makes it no better, no worse, than the urinated undertree shrub grass. They steal the holes.

It had been suspected for many years that they stole the holes. However, inebriation and shoddy weather conditions had always placed the matter as hazy hypothesis at best. In perky summer days the holes were there, bright eyed and gaping for all to enter. They were respected by all for their unending servitude to the grass, willing to open themselves to every soggy whacked ball, so that the lawn may aspire to Masters territory. But at night it was more difficult. Observers of the course could never find the holes. But then, observers of the course could never find much. Balls proved as elusive as upright standing as the sherry flowed through the mis-swung clubs of the golfing classes. Skin and 9-iron made contact to no avail, fingers slippery with spilt gin. Stumbles through the fog guaranteed no certainty in these hole-hunting missions. A decent investigation would have to be initiated, a planned and executed enquiry into the elusive holes. The crack squad were called. Mission commence, for the Bunnygirl Beats.

The Bunnygirl Beats had been on such missions before. Their crimefighting powers were legendary in all fields which involved any daffodil frolicking. They were particularly well equipped for nighttime missions. All those carrots. Good for the dark. However, for a challenge of this magnitude it would be incredibly foolish to attempt it alone. Anyone who would stoop so low as to steal a hole, there is no telling what they could unleash into the pestilent fog, what measures they would take to ensure future holes remained swiped at dusk instead of tucked prettily into their centre-green beds. But the Bunnygirl Beats were not incredibly foolish. They were reasonably foolish, but this was more due to the overabundance of devastating ideas which reverberated in their heads. It is difficult to find room for genius when one’s head is filled with day to day sensibilities. The Bunnygirls had made vital sacrifices, and judged common sense unimportant in the grander schemes. But rest assured they still retained the gumption to arm themselves with a hit team to take to the golf course.

Like squirrels on speed, the Bunnygirl Beats stocked pouches of prep for the trip. Accompanying them would be Captain Timbo, the most reviled pirate in every ocean from the mountains to the shore, who would frolic fearsomely through daffodils, his blonde curls billowing in the wind. Although he did not know it yet, this mission would sully Timbo’s reputation forever. Pirates do not belong in fields of flowers. Six months from now, photographs of his buttocks perkily surveying the teeing off range would find their way into the monthly periodical “Pirates’ Wives” and he would find himself laughed off all seven of the seas. But this was not a present concern. Also, bringing up the rear, The Stupids. The Stupids were not incredibly helpful on missions such as this. They had a penchant for distraction tactics, swiping the balls away from beneath the club swing and inducing some form of hyperactive laughter spasms at the most inopportune times. But all the same, they were necessary for the trip and for the sanities of the Bunnygirls…