The Feckers

.

Where did my children go?

They were here just now I know.

Spinning yarns and lacy lies,

on the cusp of starvation

but always catching flies.

.

Who stole my babies?

I’m sure I left them right here.

Muddy trousers, ripped skin

kings of dodgy homework

artful sleepers-in.

.

Why nick my chilluns?

No good to man nor beast.

Odd socks, missing gloves with

jam ridden faces

that only a mother loves.

.

When did they disappear,

those halcyon boys?

I turned for a second

and they were gone again.

Who the fuck took my little ones

and gave me back these hairy men?

.

pee ess - off to Goode Olde London Town in the morning for a few days of literary shenanigans - Bookarazzi shindig in Piccadilly and a performance poet in Brixton - oh, and gin with Debi and Babs - WHOOOOOO HOOOOOOOO!

.

Boxed up

The Carver posted a poem yesterday that made me think (HERE). What kind of things would be in my box after I am gone? What objects sum up the person I am, or the life I have led? Interesting thought and probably one that I shouldn't answer myself, but...

.

Where is Jill?
She's in the box
Where are her toes?
Tucked in her socks.

.

• 15 silver rings
• a celtic bookmark given to me by my mum
• Jill-in-the-box
  
• Big Feckers gall stone (huge)
  
• a pentacle (or three)
• a tin of baby teeth
• glasses case without the glasses
  
• a silver button hook that belonged to my great, great Grandmother
• the small weird thing that hangs above my desk( below) that no one knows what it is.
  I think it would tickle me that people puzzled over it whilst I am enjoying a gin on the other side!

.


This is not a meme, no, no, no - but it would be interesting to see what is in your box!


.

Caption me....

The turkey holiday season is officially over

Bush has pardoned two innocent creatures and the rest are to be roasted today. Happy Thanksgiving, America.


Telling times

Money earned
Fingers burned
Nothing learned
Thank you

System bucked
Weather fucked
Duty shucked
Thank you

Sexless lust
Uncounted cost
Human rust
Thank you

Mother aches
Earth breaks
Eyes wake
Too little, too late?
Maybe

Time will tell.

* * *

News

Leslie Hawes is the first entry for me Fairy Tale Nonsense. Find her poem and beautiful illustration, Capricious Dragon over on Little Minx.

H is a writer and poet from my neck of the Pointy Bit - please go and say hello to his barely hatched blog HERE at The Thinnest Man.



.

Minx takes tea with Mr Pundy (a book review of sorts)

Minx - Ah, Mr Bill, come in, sit down. No not there, that's ....

Pundy - Gosh, there's a lot of pointy things around here.

M - (hmm, and you will have a pointy ear if you sit on my best hat again) Now, Pund, I asked you round to tea...

P - Tea? Is that tea? Are you sure?

M - For the love of the Goddess, Pund, sit down and drink. Green is as good a colour for tea as any. Now, about the book.

P - Err, yes. What did you think?

M - I think I probably hate Nick Dowty and would cheerfully dig out his eyes with blunt spoons and use them as olives in a gin sling.

P- So you didn't like it.

M - The man is awful, unforgivable. He makes having sex with Hannibal Lecter seem like the soft option.

P- Nice boots.

M - Thanks, but don't get me off the subject. What was I saying?

P - How much you don't like my book.

M - But he's ghastly, no redeeming features at all. I found myself shouting at the wall, thumping pillows.

P - No hope then.

M - No, no hope at all. You painted a creature I could happily castrate and feed his balls to the pigs.

P - I couldn't change your mind, I suppose? Money? Gifts of extreme value? A house in Bali?

M - Goddess no! He's a bad un. A horror.

P - Ohhh.

M - Pund? What's the matter? Here have a tissue.

P - (Sniff) You hated the book.

M - What? Did I say that? No, I don't hate the book, far from it. I hate him. Nick Dowty. He must be well written to provoke such a reaction in me - the bastard.

P - You liked it?

M - Of course I did, you silly twat. Good writing, tidy plot, disagreeable characters, nasty little twisty end - what more can I say except to recommend it to others to read? Now dry your eyes and have one of me cakes.

P - Thank you. Mmm, hemlock and pea, my favourite.

M - Err, Pund, just tell me, who exactly did you you base Nick Dowty on?

.
To find out just how obnoxious Nick Dowty really is go HERE and order a copy for yourselves.

.

Pomes

Eighteen months ago, in my blogging childhood, I came across a poet who could light fires in the soul. The clever simplicity of his condensed words were enough to give me hope that traditional poetry was not only still around but was alive and very definitely kicking.

Last January he was, err, 'persuaded' to start a blog and has built up a steady following of readers.
Now, I am delighted to say that this wicked wielder of words, a man with a sharp brain and an even sharper tongue is about to be published.

Soon, very soon, John Ahearn is to be unleashed upon the world.....

.

Published by Derec Jones at Opening Chapter, this book will be an absolute 'must have' for anyone and everyone. I know this for certain because I am having a tiny part in bringing it to fruition - and what a fruit it will be!




.

Creative juice

I really am trying to be a good awfur type. Over the last few weeks I have 'guest spotting' at various writerly things and trying to convince the local population that writing really is a serious business.

The ones I enjoyed most were class-napping two creative writing courses (apart from a recent signing - thank you 'Tranquility').

I looked around the table at both these events and smiled inside. I was sat on the other side a few years ago, listening to the trials and tribulations of a script writer. As I talked to the class I realised that I was now imparting the same doom and gloom that he had - hard, lonely work with about a 1% chance of ever getting published. The pitfalls, the rejections, the fight to keep going, the fight to write anything in the first place, all tripped glibly off my tongue and it seems I failed to put them off at all!

I studied the faces, listened to their voices and answered their questions as best I could. For some it wouldn't matter how thick I spread the jam of doom and for one or two, the creative juice ran deep in their blood. They had fire in their eyes and nothing I could have said would have made them hesitate for a second. They had passion and that all important need to communicate to the world with words.

I think I was the same, that same need to keep bashing my head against the nail infested wall. A mere writer who was telling me that I should celebrate my rejections and embrace the loneliness was never going to stop me doing something that I loved (read obsessed here).

I raise a glass to those who are starting out, drink deep of that creative juice, bitter as it may be at the beginning, the fine wine that awaits is all the sweeter.

pee ess - just had a look in the mirror. I can't see the fire but I suppose it could be hiding behind those two bloodshot eyes.

.

Once Upon a Time...

...there was a small girl who grew up on a diet of fairy tales and fables. It was a happy childhood full of imaginative poisoners, granny gobbling wolves, and stupid princesses who got too close to spinning, pricking things.

As the small girl got older she searched in vain for the pea under the mattress and realised miserably that there was no such thing as gingerbread houses and no point in continuing to kiss frogs.

The small girl grew into a minx and longed for the days when knights in tights saved girls with impossibly long hair who had been locked up in towers by deliciously evil relatives.

So please, end my misery before the season of the red, fat man and ...

WRITE ME A FAIRY TALE

..and restore my belief that there are trolls under the bridge, there are such things as seven little men all living in one house, and that the temptress, Goldiwotsit, was nothing more than a small, blonde, chair-breaking thief!

Contributions of prose (up to 900 words) and poetry, will be posted on my Little Minx blog and will receive a prize of great value (Baba Yaga cut my tongue out for such lies).

You may find me in my turret at - innerminx at googlemail dot com



Oh and just a sweet, gentle reminder.....


GET THE BLAG STUFF IN NOW - YOU LAZY BUNCH!


.

Capture

My clever eye can pick out the finest detail, soak in the glory of a sinking sun, watch the minutes of our short lives tick by, but it can't see the last dying breath of summer.

My hands can touch the beauty of your skin, stroke the head that lays in my lap, but they cannot hold a moment, nor touch the smell of new born baby's head.

My ear can hear music that brings me to my knees, listen to stories that reach into my core, but I cannot hear the hairs that raise in response to poetry that touches my heart.

My mouth can taste the dew on a morning strawberry, hold your salted sweat on the tip of my tongue, but will not let me sample the sweetness of innocent love or the wickedness of arousal.

I can smell the the crush of pine underfoot and hot skin in summer but I cannot smell the perfume (or stench) of humanity.

Thanks then to my soul, a finely woven butterfly net that captures all. If I wield it with thoughtfulness, learn from its lessons and use it wisely, then it will serve me well.

..

It's big and it's pink and I've got one

.



. Seamus has very kindly awarded me a Roar. A powerful Roar, no less, for apparently powerful writing. I now have to think of three things that I deem necessary for powerful writing...

One - Write without fear

Two - Write without fear

Three - Write without fear

A cheat I may be, but I think that too many writers worry about what they write and have forgotten how to confront fear, overcome it and remain true to the people they are. We are trained these days, brainwashed even, to conform to what we think people want to hear. Constrained by the smirking asswipes on high, we have lost the ability to use our powerful words in fear of offending, upsetting, or getting sued by a readership that has been conditioned to accept only a diet of baby pink words.

When a writer can manage to take away the fear, we are treated to a novel, story, or poem that is sharp enough to take the whiskers from your cheek - blade runners, with one hand on the truth and the other waking you up with a sharp slap.
I believe strongly that having an edge is essential for powerful writing and life is never quite so exciting as when you are standing on the edge of that precipice!

So, now, five bloggers must be awarded...

The Power Queen Debi Alper - writer who introduced me to Stapled Stan and writes from a true heart.

Pundy the Powerful - for his brave new novel

Power Pomes from John Ahearn - watch that space

Power Pants - Noosa Lee - be afraid, be very afraid

Power Pack - Loretta Noonan - who recently blew me away with an innovative short story.



And Seamus. That pink is just not easy on the eye - did you never think that lion might look good in purple?


.
.

Sex in a Wrapper

The Cadbury Flake adverts were well known through the 70's and 80's. Who could resist the combination of delicately folded chocolate and the sexual innuendo that seemingly ran through those famous words -
"Only the crumbliest, flakiest chocolate, tastes like chocolate never tasted before"
Go HERE for a retro blast.

So what is it about the seeds of cacoa tree, that when fermented, roasted and ground become the basis of the world's sexiest food.

That's me talking, of course, you may prefer jelly, or peas, but in my book chocolate is where it's at.
.

(a Giant Slab from Hotel Chocolat - HERE - pure sensuality)

I know that when I eat it chocolate the alkaloids theobromine and phenethylamine stroke my seratonin levels inducing a huge but short lived amount of pleasure. I am not really bothered by the sciency bit - I just know it does things.
.

(Booja Booja is HERE)

The earliest records of the use of chocolate was found as residue in early Mayan pottery. Known as xocolatl, the Maya were drinking hot chocolate before bedtime at around 400BC. These clever people associated chocolate with the Xochiquetzal - goddess of fertility (who else?).
.

(modern pre-bed drink from Charbonnel et Walker - heaven!)

I love all forms of chocolate, happiest when involved with sexy little additions of citrus fruits, cherry, mint etc, but I am most easily swayed by the wrapper of a Green and Blacks 'Pure Maya God' or a heavily cocoa-ed up bar of anything.
For Christmas I am thinking of buying myself one of these....

... but I am not sure how much writing I would get done!

.

The Glorious Sisterhood of the Pointy Heel

The Knight of the Besmirched Countenance has laid down his gauntlet (very untidily, I might add) and asked for negotiations with the Sisters of the Pointy Heel.

I imagine that this will be an interesting interlude.

To view the talks you may wish to go here.....

The Sisters of the Pointy Heel

(Please feel free to add your valued comments to the proceedings. Supporters of both sides will be welcomed, and posting will be open to anyone who emails a request to admin. )

Cake Whore

She gave her waist to the man in the chip shop
Freely given from a generous soul
A portion of grease disguised as comfort
Wrapped in newspaper to patch a hole

Pregnancy stole, as often happens
her rights over tits and hips and thighs
Video hell from Fonda and Co was
never going to bring her down to size

She offered herself to the girl in the cake shop
drowning sorrow in lemon meringue pies
hiding the evidence in too tight jeans
fresh cream fancies and fresh cream lies

He amused himself with the woman from the health shop
as she whored herself to the takeaway king
He left her then, his fatted calf
she could have crumbled, but here's the thing
setting a foot on a new kind of path
learning to love oneself before all others
Guarantees a lasting kind of laugh

.