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?'

My Living Document

My Living Document

4am parched,
mine marches on paper legs, tramples detail,
runs over its own mistakes again,
runs in circles, spiralling.
Parasitic bloated hungry,
mine is a vampire cannibal draining its own neck.
Stamping new ideas on top of old,
past thoughts bleed between present ones.
Now feels forever.
Mine jibes sour stories it promises tomorrow will unfold.
I’ve paper-cut eyes and fistfuls of scribble
that can’t punch through even the lightest doubt.
Gasping. Straining its leash.
This brittle cover can’t hold mine down anymore.
It tears ahead of hands, rips through pride and pants.
Its inky print stains you. My mouth says sorry.

Help me keep its wet, jaw pages tight shut.
A black blob butterfly waits inside, cackles all night.
How can I sleep? I’m wide-eyed beside you
wrists clenched, fingers spiralling.

Yours, in a dream-hammock over your head,
returns to your brain as you wake.
I wrestle with mine ‘til it knocks me out cold.

Hero

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

First draft of poem from workshop at Contact

Brain gone tidal.

Ideas rising,
salty memories,
an inspired foaming at the tip.
A brain wave.

Thoughts come crashing down,
prepare for impact,
all hands on deck,
hands ready to write,
hands to document this torrent of inspiration pending.
Get ready!
Thar she blows!

Pause.

Nothing.
No thick burst of ice water,
not even a hint of sea mist,
nothing.
Not even a vacuum or gulf of space,
beyond space,
space imploded,
there is nothing in my head

and its weight is killing me.

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.

Medusa

Medusa's hands have got ingrowing nails.
Sat behind the check-out till she chews at her gnarled fingers.
Customers tut.
Tsk! Tsk!
One day, she stopped painting them,
realised she'd got more nail in her than out,
an inside out pin cushion,
spiky Medusa chewing.

Six minutes past two.
Two hours and fifty four minutes to go.

She loves collections of porcelain shoes,
used to wear bracelets heavy with runes,
never had kids but sponsored a unicorn,
wishes her flat had a fireplace.

One day, woke up with ingrowing hair,
screaming,
hissing migraines and head-full of cobras.
Felt like an atlas had cracked in her skull,
felt like she'd swallowed the weather.
Got two months away from the shop
then Doctor said she was better.
Confided her eyes still twisted of serpents
but Doctor said she was better.

He told her to smile,
take the bandages offered for her internal bleeding.
Cheap incentives.
Counterfeit concern.
Minimum rest keeps her stressed
python knotted shoulders tort,
chest crushed tight.

She wishes
she could turn more than his heart
to stone.

She must
not
sweat,

must
not
blush,

and never
ever

cry

in public
again.

Medusa's face is ingrowing.
Check-out till stranded,
struggling to smile,
hold those bloated eyes in.

"Hold my eyes in, keep my eyes in,
smile and thank who I'm despising.
Venom swills against scraped nerves
until I can’t shake off their words,
words that make my heartbeat flicker
pumping poison through me quicker."

Lumps of fear, chunks of doubt
feed the snakes she can’t carve out.

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.