What's That Smell?

I have a cat. He's small and thin.
Bright ginger fur covers his skin.
His name is Dillen. He's my pet.
My playful, cheerful friend... and yet...
I fear wherever Dillen goes,
for every man will hold his nose
and all the women go beserk
when they smell Dillen's bottom burp.

Wherever he goes, people yell
at my poor Dillen- 'What's that smell?'
But I am too ashamed to tell
the truth as they shout 'What's that smell?'

At first, your nose he'll gently tease
with just a whiff, like mouldy cheese.
It gets worse than old football boots,
the stench that comes when Dillen toots.
Like bad eggs rubbed in sweaty feet,
sour milk dripped on rotting meat-
you'll hear no sound, the stink grows steadilly.
Dillen's trumps are silent... but deadly

Wherever he goes, people yell
at my poor Dillen- 'What's that smell?'
But I am too ashamed to tell
the truth as they shout 'What's that smell?'

One night, I couldn't sleep. I saw
a rainbow pour beneath my door!
Then in mid-air... saw flowers bloom!
Fireworks burst... in my bedroom!
This was no dream. This was no bluff.
This magic soared from Dillen's guff!
He's been a wizard all along.
Like Harry Potter... but with more pong.

Now Dillen knows many a spell.
Can teleport and fly as well!
Let's tour the world! This show will sell!
A shame he can't dispel the smell...

Now one last truth you might find tragic.
Not all our botty coughs are magic.
In fact, some people act aghast
if you let rip a trouser blast.
I can't believe some folk can't cope
think it's a crime if wind is broke.
It's normal, natural, not obscene.
We've all got gas- even the Queen.

So I'm not shy if people yell
when Dillen's trumping 'What's that smell?'
Magic or not, I'm proud to tell
the truth when they shout 'What's that smell?'

Hero

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j88bmsv8H7E "the handsomest nose in the galaxy..." short film of my WIZARD poem, 'Hero'

Imp or Giant

Sat there alone, I saw this...
In the bar's safe corner where no one else sits,
away from the giants, their laughter like grit,
away from catty dwarves’ cruel chitter-chat-chit,
away from wafer thin willo the wisps
fingering magazines between vodka sips,
I chewed my shaking nails like half eaten bags of crisps
watching this cackling, barefoot Imp.

I watched it. Barefoot. Waving round its shoes.
Acting like it invented feet.
Cackling up to the jukebox din
through the crowd so thick with their talk so thin.
No one even gave it a glance.
Sheltering behind my fat finger mask
I thought, ‘One- two- one- two- one- breathe’,
turned my ears away from its barefoot beat.

Imp flitted forward, cheeks and teeth,
elbows jabbed a staccato jig.
Too wrapped up in its own bare feet,
Accidentally... knocked over
...a Giant's... full
...drink

Smash!

...

Giant's face... engorged.
Cherry red... eyes glaced.
Lager danced down his mountainous shirt,
rumbaed to the valley of his lap.
Giant’s knuckle hair rose like spears.
Imp- bare faced- had no fears.
I thought, ‘One- two- one- two- one- breathe.’
As my fingers hugged my beer I felt myself freeze.

Drenched and deranged, Giant leapt with a roar,
slammed down fists, a fight, or more
and Imp... waltzed away,
oblivious... free.
Seemingly unseen
grinned relentlessly.
The crowd hadn’t flinched, their natter bobbing along.
Giant sat down. The night sailed on.

‘One- two- one- two’ still could see
Giant's massive muscle, Imp's barefoot glee.
In my safe bar corner where no one else breathes
the air got sticky like someone spilled the breeze.
I thought, ‘One- two- one- two-’ to ease
as I bit nails deep, tasted them bleed,
Panic attacked on the count of
‘Three...’

...

I would do anything to be bigger
or smaller
than me.

A new poem looking at Wizard's past, 'Hero'.

A bit of Wizard's back story...


Hero

Once-upon-a-time, a barman worshipped the Sun.
Worked nights so didn’t see much of it
but in his head he’d got stories of
the Fire God supreme
vanquishing monsters who'd eat out your dreams.

He called the Sun ‘Hero’,
believed it had six pairs of arms,
giant wings of flame
and the handsomest nose in the galaxy.
Made moons blush,
giggle their names.

His Sun was a Hero who rescued smiles
and fed them ideas 'til they were fat with luck.
Faster than a speeding comet,
could see around corners, rewrite destiny,
didn’t break promises,
could even rewire a star.
gave songs to orphans, faith to minstrels,
had the kind of hug you couldn’t touch
but kept
safe
underneath your skin.

Barman knew his Sun would come
one day,
teach him the Hero's Way.
He could be the Sun’s wise-cracking side kick.
Might even get his own light saber!
On long, lantern lit night shifts
washing drip trays,
watching drips
getting wasted,
Barman kept faith that Sun would come.

Hurrying home under a bludgeoned moon
he’d hum a tune made from
downing flaggons and flying dragons,
nights filled with what-would-be’s!
Adventures! Dichotomies!
Unlocking his flat’s door

at 4am
he’d get ready for bed,
every time dreaming he’d just stay awake
long enough to see
Sun.

The Elders Song

In this 'Wizard' poem, Wizard gets a letter from the Elders of his world questioning the severity of his mental illness. Wizard has previously been given money to live as he has been considered too ill to work. Now the Elders are reconsidering their decision...

The Elders’ Song

(spoken by THE ELDERS)

“Dear Mister... insert-name-in-this-space.
We are writing to conclude on your case.
You ‘say’ you’re... ill... Your words are misplaced.
Sometimes we all get a little sad.
Yours isn’t the only form we’ve had.

Lose that frown and dressing gown.
Let’s get our statistics down.
Hey, hey, hey! Earn your play!
Live to work another day.

You say you’re too ill to go outside.
We said where therapists were. We tried!
You wouldn’t go! You just stayed inside!
Have you thought we might suspect your sneaking?
Is this just attention seeking?

You said you panic. We heard your call.
With our pills, you’d feel nothing at all.
You wouldn’t take them! Of all the gall!
Have you thought we might suspect your faking
easy way of money making?

Lose that frown and dressing gown.
Let’s get our statistics down.
We’ll clear up all this mess and fuss
though no-one ever says thanks to us."

(spoken by WIZARD)
“I said I would work. I’d work from home.
I’d work quite happily left on my own.”

(spoken by THE ELDERS)
“Well, how could you find work with that tone?
Have you thought about our budget’s cuts?
Now, please, no more ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’,

lose that frown and dressing gown.
Let’s get our statistics down.
Hey, hey, hey! Earn your play!
Live to work another day.

Lose that frown and dressing gown.
Let’s get our statistics down.
We’ll clear up all this mess and fuss
though no-one ever says thanks to us.”

Most recent 'Wizard' poem... GORGONS

Gorgons

“Steel your nerve adventurer,
be dexterous and wise.
Make haste to the Supermarket...
The tea bags are in aisle five.

Watch out! Milk spill, aisle three,
a fat white ocean wide.
Steer your trolley deftly lest
you wake the gremlin inside.

Should your trolley veer harsh left
you’ve just upset its gremlin.
I gift to you one SLEEPWAX spell
to soothe those wheels a-trembling.

Beyond baked bean tin avalanche,
behold- our goal- our tea!
But yet, beware the check out tills,
sat there are sisters three.

Foul Supermarket gorgon hags!
Their hook clawed nails forebode.
Spit fire if you pay with change
or buy food with no bar code.

I swear to you – one look could kill!
O mortal man-hate frown.
So judging should you shop barefoot
or in your dressing gown

whispering ‘Weird!’ and ‘Paranoid!’
with spindly fingery glee.
Can you survive these devil’s crones
to bring back milk and tea?”

Another 'Wizard' poem- this one's called 'Tea'

Brew for me a cuppa tea.
Fill to brim my mug.
Warm our bodies, brains and speech.
Internal, liquid hug.

Every word I form began
an undug thought to free,
each like an acorn in my skull
to feed and wet with tea.

You and me, together,
sharing tea, the world goes mute.
I hear a rumbling in my head,
our tea wet words take root

and grow, a thousand words tower tall
all branching inspiration.
Kettle’s boiled, tend our talk
with tea’s sweet irrigation.

Sheltered by these evergreen boughs
let's make another brew.
My mind’s a forest of great calm chat
with cups of tea and you.

First draft of a new 'Wizard' poem

*Snap* *Click* *Thwack!*
My heart armour... is intact.
Mission target sighted!
There is NO turning back...

It is a quest to retrieve
the most awesome treasure.
Most power-reaping life spark!
-yet most quiescent pleasure.
For its lure, a king could murder,
forsake riches, live in rags!
It's legend is sung in many lands tongue.
The magic of...

TEA BAGS!

Pyramid ones are preferable,
though square or circular's fine.
No nobler elixir flows
within your land or mine.
Without tea, I turn wild as wolf,
tea's name, I howl and bark it.
Tea can save if we can brave
the trials of...
...Supermarket...

O... ...Supermarket
where the happiest heart could crack.
For tea, I don my heart armour,
*Snap* *Click* *Thwack!*

O... ...Supermarket
enslaves her worker’s dreams.
Promised opportunity.
Most will never leave.

Supermarket gives her drones
a few loose pennies to hold
whilst hoarding for herself great piles
of diamonds, rubies, gold.
Supermarket's clones accept,
blind follow their leader's call.
If they didn't take her pennies, well...
they might have nothing at all.

Their withering queen, deflowering thought,
dictates when they should eat,
when they should rest, when they should smile,
free will is obsolete.
This isn't life.
These drones exist in undead misery.
How I fear their zombie touch
when I want to buy tea.

Watch flaking hopes decay,
fall wasted to the floor.
A zombie touch could shrivel your soul.

I can't go there no more.

Their stares en-flare fears I can't share,
shoot shivers through my blood.
One touch could shatter my heart armour,
*slash* *smash* *thud*

Friend, hero, valiant knight,
heart armour firm as metal,
survive these Supermarket ghouls
and I'll put on the kettle.

Wizard

Wizard

There is a wizard downstairs
in the flat below.
He wears a pointy hat
and a dressing gown
and he makes rainbows for me.

He wipes the dust from his spell books
- mixes it with tomato juice,
eye of black bean, crust of tooth paste,
microwaves it in a pudding bowl
and then

...

tells it secrets.

Heating up rainbows,
there is a wizard downstairs
with a bumper-carred grin.
One eye all Ferris wheels,
one eye the underside of a scratched CD.

He can't do hellos or goodbyes
but knows everything in between.

He knows what tea leaves think
after they've been read,
can see the faces talking
in the damp patch in his kitchen
-corrects their algebra
-makes them blush.
Patchworks his bedroom with postcards and photos,
says they switch places when he sleeps.
I believe him.

I think about him when I'm at work
as I type other people's words
on a computer that doesn't even
have a name.

He names everything.

The kettle is called Ursula Pink.
She embodies the ghost
of a menopausal midwife.
Poor Ursula.
Lime scales her children.

Morgan the dish rack wishes
he could swap places with the plates.
"Confounded scoundrels!"
Let them carry him for once.

The toaster is Catherine Taylor-Clarke
(Double-barrel, 'cos she's posh),
will burn your bread if you look at her wrong.
but Wizard says he would never change her,
he likes her as she is,
If she just did what he wanted all the time,
she'd be boring.

When Wizard talks,
words start fire working his lips,
tiny explosions tease on his tongue.
I want to study them,
pick them up when they look cooler,
but I'm scared they'd blow up in my face.

This man is a bonfire of love,
a Hero,
will fly you on a carpet
through a thousand lands
of impossibly beautiful dreams
all inside his flat.

He won't go outside anymore.
Says his magic won't work out there.
It's happening here,
where he makes me rainbows
and I make his tea.