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Harriet Cleve Jan 15
Gunther zipped off his flesh suit. Staring at his bare bones in the mirror he breathed a sigh of relief. Who in their right minds would be content wearing it constantly he thought.

Flopping down on the couch of the rented apartment in the city’s slums he was exhausted.

He rolled his calcium cigarette and inhaled. It felt good. Smoke billowed from his rib cage as his bones absorbed the nutrients.
Allowing himself a laugh at the sight of himself he realized his time among the sapiens would be his toughest mission yet.

Gunther reflected on his position. He could hang out in graveyards if he found an old subsided grave. This was a possibility although it freaked him out knowing the site was populated by dead skeletons.

He had a map of archeological sites where he could lay low at night.

No one ever suspected a thing and he never looked out of place there.

For the moment he decided the government- issued flesh suit would have to do. The clothes made it worse. Suits and ties suffocated him further. Still when in Rome he thought.

He wished Androlona was here. She was a beauty and just the thought of her milky white skull was enough to send him into a mood of tranquility. ‘You come home safe’ she had told him.

It rankled him that she was accompanied to the star-port by his rival in the corporation Ulther Heidleman. A broad skeleton with a great set of teeth. Androlona might be tempted by his charms.

**** it! he thought. Focus on your mission.

He got up irritated then and carefully looked out his window.

There they were. The night shifters getting ready to go to work.

One of them was Henry Hammond and he had been tracking him for five days. Tomorrow he would knock on his door and introduce himself as a new colleague in his job. On the pretext of looking for advice he would abduct him to the next galaxy.

Command wanted a young flesh walker and it was vital he was not injured in any way. Henry’s skeleton held a vital dna complex nutrient and if all went well then Henry would be used an interplanetary *******.

Henry had been under observation for some years now and a previous attempt to lure him had failed when it was found out he had a hatred for his fellow sapien.

Gunther  would dress in a female- sapien  flesh suit and try his wiles and failing that then Henry would be brought back to Command nursing a sore head.

Once more he dragged on the calcium cigarette and poured himself a calcium slake. That hit the spot. Androlona came into his consciousness again and his spirits lifted.

He took a look at the flesh suit lying on the floor and burst out laughing. How pathetic these creatures are he thought.
What a waste of a skeleton. Still they were a resource now and Command, if all went well, were intent on a full scale invasion.

Gunther was tired now and he glanced at the bed. Then he caught his reflection in the mirror,

‘Gunther, he said, you are one handsome *******’

Then he laughed till his ribs hurt and thought about tomorrow.
Harriet Cleve May 2019
Cecil the skinhead put his false teeth in.
A new red shirt, cotton lined, showed off his physique.
The boots he wore were a beautiful wine colour.
Blue jeans took the shape of his ancient legs.
Today was his eightieth birthday and he had no cake to celebrate.

Never mind, his council flat still had the feel of a batchelor pad.
There on the wall, next to his samurai sword, hung his chain.
Many a head was cracked open with that weapon.
Swinging it over his head a few times brought it all back to him.
The streetlights in London, broken noses, disgorged eyes, screams from pansies caught off guard by a kick up the ****.

Cecil chuckled to himself and prepared to swallow back a
can of cider and light a cigar for the occasion.

Suddenly, a knock came on the door. Instinctively, Cecil reached for his chain and let the door open slightly just off the chain guard.

Chaos broke out as a boot kicked in the door with the ferocity of a Gestapo officer looking for a head to kick in.

There he stood, **** the Mod, that mad Irish ******* who Cecil had left for dead five decades ago. All his height was gone with time but his knuckles still had a raw edge. With all the force of a decrepit nanogenarian he proceeded to take Cecil on.

Bad mistake. Cecil was always ready for combat. Always had been ever since his dad knocked the crap out of him for practise.

Ironically, the Who was playing on Cecil's old transistor radio.
'You better you bet' became the soundtrack to the next fifteen minutes of mayhem. The Mod was a sly ******* and his hair was slicked with grease; which he used to smear Cecil's eyes.

The chain needs no eyes and it cut a deadly swathe through Micks brylcreem. Once again Cecil put his Doc Martens to good use and **** crumpled beneath a well placed boot to the proverbials.

Cecil did the decent thing and called an ambulance. Said **** was his mate; they had been celebrating his birthday when a gang burst in and gave them a going over. A nice cover story.

That night Cecil hit the town, got drunk, and reflected on his day.

He was eighty, still alive, and still had it in spades.

Then he passed out and never regained consciousness.

No one missed him but I often think of him still.
Harriet Cleve Dec 2019
Hard hats on hard men are hardly needed for hard heads that can take hard knocks unlike a fresh egg fresh from an egg box or an egg head with a sunny side up fragile mentality looking to parade as a hard boiled egg or hard of hearing nanogenarians on the rip looking for hard covered books of hard boiled pulp fiction to beat sense into hardy women who are as hard as nails.
Harriet Cleve Oct 2016
Henry Bigman was cornered. Five of the Stinkers Brigade had entered the school dormitory on a mission. Bigman was to receive an official welcome to Grey Towers Boarding School.Henry was as big a stinker as any of the third year boys now surrounding him and would gladly have joined their rotten club, if he had been asked. The Stinkers closed in and Henry threw a right hook and then a punishing jab and caught two of the welcome party off guard. 'The little swine has broke my nose! howled Hawkins. 'You'll pay for that! Suddenly Hawkins was flat on his back as Henry lunged at him and gave him a going over!

'Get out of my way!' I'll fix him! Standing in the doorway loomed Slim Hyland, all fourteen stone of him, with a nose like a rancid orange, six foot two in height, and every inch the bully.In his left hand, he held a jar of sticky rasperry jam while his right hand held a dead mans grip on a school leather strap.'You're going to learn your place Bigman! roared Slim and caught Henry square on the face with the leather.
Get him lads! screamed Slim, 'He'll be washing his hair for a month! as he spilled the jam on Henry's head.

Henry was an unlikely warrior,with the frame of a stick insect, and girlish good looks, which betrayed his true nature. Five foot nine in his school shoes, he had the strength of a Rhino and the mindset of the killer.The Killer instinct was available on tap and now he was in a rage! 'You beastly *******!, Henry roared, as he grabbed Slim by the windpipe.

No one could shake Henry from his grip and it was looking bad for Slim. His face showed the fear of imminent death, as his eyes bulged, although he couldn't scream. He was screaming on the inside though, and if Hawkins hadn't been such a coward, running from the grim scene, then Slim might just have leathered his last face.

On his cowardly flight, Hawkins had literally run into Brother Smith, a little man with a big cane. 'Smithy, the pint who thinks he's a quart!', the boys would jeer behind his back, and Hawkins blurted out his story.
'Sir! Sir! Bigman is murdering Hyland!
Smith raced to the scene and just as well, as Henry was holding his grip and refused to let go.
Harriet Cleve Jun 2019
Herbert Spineless Springbottom looked immaculate in his three piece, navy, woolen suit. There in the mirror, his image looked back with protracted pride. His tie was a royal red and knotted in the shelby style. His shoes were blacker than a lump of fresh coal and gleamed of gratuitous affluence.

'Will Sir be taking the suit and shoes home?' the tailor asked.

'No, I don't quite like the cut of it'

'It makes me look small and from a lower station in life'

This was a remarkable statement by any stretch of an exaggeration.

Herbert stood six foot seven and held no position in life or society.
His bank account was non existent and his brazen neck was harder than a hangmans smile.

'No, let it out at the shoulders and I will collect it next Saturday',

Herbert knew he would not be returning and walked out with a head full of unbridled contemplation.

His ego needed flattering and this episode restored his view of himself as a lost son of high society.

As he turned into a side street he walked past an an Army Surplus Store. There he beheld the uniform of a **** Third ***** SS officer.

' The uniform in the window' he said to the shop assistant.
' I want to try it on'

'All of it, Sir?' came the reply

'Yes! The Jackboots, cap, everything'
'Also the Iron Cross'

'Yes Sir'

' The changing rooms are just behind that grey door to your left'

Herbert stood in his full height and gazed upon his image.

Even though he despised the Nazis he was a student of History; knew there were some good men amongst them.
Stauffenberg was one of those officers. That brave man who tried to assassinate ****** and paid for it with his life.

His image gazed back and he gave the salute in mock indignation.
He looked official and authorative. The Aryan glint in his eye.
Then he clicked his heels sharply and thought he saw something in the mirror which would have unnerved a lesser man.
A ******* flag seemed to flutter in the wind. He reached out to the mirror and incredibly it became a portal to **** Germany.

Steadily he stepped in and looked on with incredulity.

All around him were **** supporters and officialdom.

He held his nerve and when he spoke it was in fluent German.

A staff car pulled alongside him.

'Reichsmarshal Fokker! We have been looking for you!

'The Fuhrer wants to see you immediately!'

'Our orders are to take you to his quarters'

Herbert Spineless Springbottom turned around and the shop was no longer there. He eased himself into the staff car and a strange sensation overtook him. He was about to change the course of the War. ****** was about to meet his greatest nemesis ever.

A man from the future. A man who despised ****** and tyranny everywhere. A capable, charming man with a brazen neck harder than a hangmans smile. Herbert Spineless Springbottom.



****** stood facing Herbert.

Herbert stood ***** and threw out his arm in salute.
'Heil ******!'

******'s sullen face broke into a smile.

Herbert was brought into the War room and shown the battle plans for an invasion of Britain.

Churchill didn't know it but Fate had intervened in his favour.

The exploits of the most unlikeliest hero, Herbert Spineless Springbottom, were about to begin.
Harriet Cleve Feb 2019
Did you tackle that trouble that came your way
With a resolute heart and cheerful?
Or hide your face from the light of day
With a craven soul and fearful?
Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce,
Or a trouble is what you make it,
And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,
But only how did you take it?

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that!
Come up with a smiling face.
It's nothing against you to fall down flat,
But to lie there-that's disgrace.
The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce
Be proud of your blackened eye!
It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts;
It's how did you fight-and why?

And though you be done to the death, what then?
If you battled the best you could,
If you played your part in the world of men,
Why, the Critic will call it good.
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
And whether he's slow or spry,
It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,
But only how did you die?
A great poem by Edmund Vance Cooke
Harriet Cleve Apr 2019
Hydraulic Harry the pugilist slayer
knelt on one knee and then said a prayer
he begged to survive the gruelling ring
the pommeling punches that made his brain sing

No one was listening and the odds were stacked high
he came out of the fifth round minus one eye
his ears were in tatters and his nose a burst ball
his face was a bloodbath,his legs said it all

Out through the ropes he staggered from hell
the sweat and the tears and the final bell knell
Hydraulic Harry the pugilist slayer
died the same night to an unanswered prayer

Many's the time I look at his gloves
two leathery sweaty ****** red doves
sometimes the air will falter and tarry
to the sounds of the crowds calling 'Hydraulic Harry!'

to the sound of the crowds calling 'Hydraulic Harry!'
Harriet Cleve Feb 2019
once I starred in a film role

playing an ***** ( Seminole)

firing arrows from an old wood hut

me and my pals (from the tribe Blackfoot)


along came a girl sat next to me

long black hair ( Cherokee)

in the company of a gal named Sue

who brought some more ( her tribe was Sioux)

What could I do? What would you do?



Our reservation was a film lot

the  pay was crap so was the plot

we gathered all that we could muster

to take him on ( George Armstrong Custer)


So there we were on a scalping spree

Comanche, Cheyenne, Crow and Cree

that day's shooting took it's toll

I was murdered ( hung from a pole )



The only one that cried for me

was a black haired gal ( Cherokee)

Once I starred in a film role

playing an ***** ( Seminole )
Harriet Cleve Jun 2019
'Yes! It is is my considered though humble hypothesis that we are of any consequence in the great scheme of things.

Professor Larkin looked studiously down upon the assemblage of young men and women; many who sought to challenge his views on the Creation versus Evolution theory of Mankinds existence.

'How dare you?! ' came a startled cry from the audience.

'Yes, young man, do you have a question?


'A question? After what you have just pontificated upon'
'How dare you'? '

'You incredulous excuse for sanity!

' Not once! Not once have you given any serious commentary on scripture or our divine inheritance' said the young man.


'My dear fellow' the professor replied

'We are merely the uncared for gnat on the windscreen of the Universe'

'That is an outrageous statement!' came the young man's reply.

Suddenly and so swift no one had time to draw a breath.

A huge, monstrous, absolutely tyrannosaurus in scale, panel of glass hit the entire room!

If anyone was in a position to observe the Earth they would have seen a colossal vehicle demolish the entire globe.


Inside the vehicle a voice said 'Good God! The gunk on the windscreen! Get rid of it Harry!'

Harry turned on the windscreen wipers.

Clunk! Clunk! Clunk!

'It's okay' there I have put on the screenwash!

'It's all gone'

'Ugh! Insect life is gross

The vehicle drove on; oblivious to Professor Larkin's great hypothesis.
Harriet Cleve Feb 2019
Her mind lives in a quiet room,
A narrow room, and tall,
With pretty lamps to quench the gloom
And mottoes on the wall.

There all the things are waxen neat
And set in decorous lines;
And there are posies, round and sweet,
And little, straightened vines.

Her mind lives tidily, apart
From cold and noise and pain,
And bolts the door against her heart,
Out wailing in the rain.
Great poem by a great poetess Dorothy Parker
it is strange to relate and seems incredible though it will have its detractors.  A moon shone with an inquisitive glow over a ghastly stretch of wasteland on a corner of a small city. As is usually the way of these things only I was on that fog strewn moor to witness the most bizarre occurrences. A large number of hieroglyphs were running across the moor in pursuit of a shabbily dressed Pharaoh.

Knowing this part of the city well I was aware there were no pyramids or oceans of sand in this area.The Pharaoh was desperate and looked pleadingly at me but what could I do?

Each hieroglyph was well armed and every countenance bore an expression of frustrated malice.

As they closed their distance all fell upon the Pharaoh and beat the living daylights out of him. I was alarmed as I spoke no Egyptian and was powerless to intervene.

Having satisfied their bloodlust they returned in the same direction they had come from and not one pair of eyes met my astonished gaze.

Tentatively I made my way to the Pharaoh and his expression was one of great distress. I could not understand one word as he expired holding my hand to the last utterance.

Unable to report to the police for fear of being sent to the madhouse I lifted the Pharaoh up in my arms and walked across the moors.

Leaving his body outside an Anglican Church I immediately set off on foot back across the moors.

To this day I do not know why the Pharaoh met a bad end in a city nowhere near Egypt or if the hieroglyphs ever found it back to a pyramid. Not knowing any Egyptian this is all I can relate.
Harriet Cleve Mar 2019
I was Richard the III's political double

it got me into a lot of trouble

agents came within the dark

my end was blunt and very stark

they sliced my skull and stabbed my bones

then pummelled me hard to stifle my groans

life for me was a strange osmosis

I was chosen  because of scoliosis

my hair was dark and face was mean

the closest to Richard you have ever seen

Yes, I was Richard the III's political double

it got me into a lot of trouble

my end was bleak and rather shabby

far away from Westminster abbey

to cap it all ( This ranks and needles)

I am reinterred in Leicester Cathederal

And as for Richard? I don't know

He's somewhere out there down below


I was Richard the III's political double

It got me into a lot of trouble
Harriet Cleve Nov 2016
Jelly babies gathered round

Big escape night, not a sound

All assembling, red to blue

Knees were trembling, hands were too!

Voices faltered, eyes flashed fear

Escape to freedom , oh so near!

Jelly babies, sweetie smell

Now in full flight ran like Hell

Too late! Too late! - their cover blown

Bright search lights  on them were shone

Baby toddlers, gurgled sound

Scared stiff as security gathered round

Nursery playtime, time for treat

Jelly babies - nice to eat!

Knees were trembling, hands were too

All were eaten, red to blue!
Harriet Cleve Aug 2019
The air raid sirens screamed over the Kent Landscape.
Above  the skies an indifferent Sun gleamed its energy off the Spitfires on the ground. Never did the landscape look so beautiful than when it was realised it could be the last sight of England witnessed by the brave men scrambling to their aircraft.

One of those men, Johnny Icarus, was already in the air. A squadron
leader with tested courage in combat.

Churchill paced the grounds of Bomber Command. He had heard the pre-war exploits of Johnny Icarus and commissioned a plane especially for him.

'Hey Johnny, check out your new spitfire. It's called the 'Daedalus'.
Courtesy of Churchill himself'

This went over the head of most of the men but Johnny saw the irony and even felt it was as if he was favoured by the Gods.

Suddenly the Luftwaffe came into view. A Messerschmitt engaged with the Daedalus and unleashed a barrage of flak.

Johnny dived his Spitfire and looped up and behind the Messerschmitt. The Sun glared his eyes as he was temporarily blinded. Even so, he fired his guns and the Messerschmitt Bf 109 went up in flames and careered to the ground.

His eyes recovered as he regained his bearings and pulled into the open skies. He saw it then as he climbed; a Focke-Wulf Fw 190 gunning for him.Instinctively he fired his machine guns and destroyed the Focke. It seemed as though he was surrounded by enemy aircraft when he noticed a Hawker Hurricane covering his rear. For forty minutes the Daedalus  fought for control of the battle when it was suddenly over. The enemy was routed and sent back to Germany with their tails between their legs.

Johnny Icarus stayed in the airspace above Kent. The countryside was a glorious shade of green. England would stand firm.
The Daedalus turned its back from the Sun.

Back in Westminister, Churchill was informed of the outcome.

'I want to meet Johnny Icarus. In three hours I want him here in my office. Get Barnes Wallis too. The Germans are going to get a taste of their own medicine. We will pay them back in their own coin'

'Yes Sir'

Johnny looked down at England from the cockpit of his Spitfire.
He would give his life if he had too for this magnificent country.

The Sun shone oblivious to his thoughts.

Back in **** Germany a portly figure was pacing Hitlers office.
Goring was grilled by the Fuhrer.
The War was turning against the odious Germans.

Johnny Icarus descended to the ground and lit a cigarette.
Inhaling deeply he touched his precious craft gently.

'Good job Baby! Good job'
Harriet Cleve Oct 2019
It has come to my notice

that the word indefatigable is no longer in currency

it is a spent force

having exhausted all its efforts to remain in usage

Indefatigable has succumbed to debilitation

enfeeblement and lethargy

burned out, listless and plumb tuckered out

bone tired

dog weary

In a word it is knackered
Harriet Cleve May 2019
The world is full of odious vermin

today a eulogy; not a sermon

know your swine in all their guises

wisen up, avoid surprises

the biggest pig and here's the twist

a smiling face; narcissist

many words describe the beast

parasite is not the least

the following list is not complete

rancid, rotten, pure deceit

stinking, ******, rancid, ****

malicious, vicious, outright ***

monstrous, ghoulish, foulest ****

slimy, crawly, insect, slug

know you pigs and know their smell

putrid, pungent, stench of hell

the world is full of odious vermin

that concludes this lengthy sermon
Harriet Cleve Dec 2019
In the medieval earth beneath the altar of the church lie the remains of those whose donations secured them the closest seat in the house of heaven although it is crowded and more a pit than a grave.

a touching stone rests to one side worn with indelible suffering of those who chose to test the Gods and call as witness to their lives those spirits who dwelt in the floors below the pews upon which knurled knuckles and knarled knees kneeled as though their prayers would contain and command the dead below to raise up and join the congregation.

a mass is offered and all the memories are poured into the pious walls whose piety is beyond reproach.

eight hundred years and eight times eight hundred candles have burned within these walls and their glow is a luminescence of what can be and what may be and perhaps was or will be or could be if only we burned enough tallow although tallow is a rare commodity in a church whose redemption is divied up by the annual accounts of clerical bookends and stipends and the weeping and gnashing of a surplus amount of tea stained teeth grinding out novenas for the lost souls of a new paradise guaranteed to all whose only task is to believe that they are they of the most holy they and not just chosen but purpose built in the factories of prophets whose only concern is to reduce the defect ratio to an acceptable level compatible with the laws of nature and nurture and a guaranteed life warranty if the rules and regulations are adhered to.

As for me I am on the outside looking in at the inside looking out and above me is a tree whose timbers and weeping leaves have kept me company these many many weary years. It is not for all to enter the heavens or have access to the gilded lilies of suburban dreams although it is courageous to carry the hope that existence is hope dressed in the clothes of a beggar looking for a kingdom.
Harriet Cleve Mar 2019
At  pychiatrists Christmas party

everyone left their heads at the front door

left their white coats at home

hanging on the line

like abandoned ghosts up for adoption

no one mentioned schizos' or psychos

avoided comments on weirdos or whackos

disdained any attempt to converse on madmen

lunatic's, headcases, nut jobs, sad cases, lost cases,

bad pills, sickos, paranoids or alien abductees

which meant they had nothing to talk about

except how scarecrows are tragic figures

misunderstood by society and crows

'True! True! they all muttered after the wine flowed

in red rivulets down their analytic necks

and caused their grey matter to ponder

on the merits of their profession

before waving goodbye to one another

collecting their heads on the way out the front door

not knowing the scarecrows had stolen their white coats

and were dispensing good advice to worried crows everywhere

watched by sobbing farmers who never knew their travails

It would bring a tear to a glass eye listening to their stories

a bale of straw looking on swearing

' when I grow up to be a scarecrow I will be a pyschriatric one'

only taking days off on Christmas'

'where at the parties  I will not discuss schizoids or psychos

avoid comments on weirdos or whackos

disdain any attempt to converse on mad crows

lunatic's, headcases, nut jobs, sad cases, lost cases,

bad pills, sickos, paranoids or alien abductees

which means we will have nothing  to talk about

except the poor humans and their miserable lot
Harriet Cleve Feb 2019
Every child has a madman on their street

the only trouble about our madman is that he's our father
Great poem by a great poet Paul Durcan
Harriet Cleve Jul 2019
Three rockets achieved lift off from the Moon.
Each had seperate trajectories and destinations.

One of the rockets, Star Searcher, contained six people.
A two generation family. Two of them in particular chosen for their intelligence, resourcefulness, gene pool critical analysis and the hope they could begin a second Genesis on Earth.

Adam, his wife Eve, young sons Cain and Abel and their wives looked out from their craft at the dying Moon. Three quarters of the surface had lost any trace of vegetation, flora and fauna. The river beds dried and irrecoverable. The athmosphere no longer breathable.

The second rocket, Planet Hunter, contained an elderly man and his son. Two of the greatest scientists the Moon ever produced. A distinguished man who was a genius in DNA and gene pool studies, and his equally brilliant son. This man, code name God, and his son Jesus had first spotted the accelerating decay of the Moons surface and brought it to the attention of the inhabitants of Moon.


The third rocket, Destroyer, contained one man only. A rogue astronaut who had infiltrated the Space Agency under the alias code name Satan.
Another brilliant mind, it was his intellect that challenged the proposition that Moon was in danger. So great was his rhetoric that no one believed God and his Son. Yet it was this man who surreptitiously had sown the seeds for the demise of Moon.

All three looked out from their seperate craft.

Adam, God, Satan. All looked at the sudden flash and the cloud of star debris that followed. Eventually it would disperse and a new, smaller Moon would emerge over time. Never again would it sustain life.

Earth was the new hope. God would land his craft elsewhere in the solar system. Satan set his own course. His destination known only to himself.

A waiting Earth, ignorant of these events, turned on its axis and night followed day. A Neanderthal looked up to the skies and saw a strange object in the sky. It was the Star Searcher.

Frightened, the creature ran to his cave and hid.

Earth was about to change. Change utterly.

God looked at his instrumentation panel.

'Jesus' he said.

'Yes Father?'

'Reset the coordinates to Stellar Star 19'

'We have a tough road ahead of us'.
Harriet Cleve Jan 2019
Always too eager for the future, we
Pick up bad habits of expectancy.
Something is always approaching; every day
Till then we say,

Watching from a bluff the tiny, clear
Sparkling armada of promises draw near.
How slow they are! And how much time they waste,
Refusing to make haste!

Yet still they leave us holding wretched stalks
Of disappointment, for, though nothing balks
Each big approach, leaning with brasswork prinked,
Each rope distinct,

Flagged, and the figurehead wit golden ****
Arching our way, it never anchors; it's
No sooner present than it turns to past.
Right to the last

We think each one will heave to and unload
All good into our lives, all we are owed
For waiting so devoutly and so long.
But we are wrong:

Only one ship is seeking us, a black-
Sailed unfamiliar, towing at her back
A huge and birdless silence. In her wake
No waters breed or break.
Great poem by Philip Larkin
Harriet Cleve Nov 2019
A horse clopping on cobblestones

that beautiful sound on a dark evening

the rhythm of nature; a sound of peace

Time, the coachman, lolling in the driver's seat

taking me on a journey to nowhere and everywhere
Harriet Cleve Feb 2017
His Doc Martens stared
back at him from an old tea
chest marked East India Company
a wary apprehension
settling from the burly
skinhead gazing at his past
buried amongst
his chain which showed
some signs of corrosion even
though it was folded in the deep
blue pockets of his denim jacket awaiting the return of an other era lost in the arms of
yesterdays battles in the dingy London backstreets where his blood flowed in rivulets
of anger soaking the concrete with the indifference of violent confrontations in a sacrifice
to his manhood and the enemies of his youth and he inhaled his memories as if they
were a gift from the war gods of ancient times beckoning him to don his armour and
engage in a final battle and he even thought it over as his seventy year old hand lifted
the chain from its resting place and carressed the steel weapon which had slain his enemies
leaving the bodies on the battlefields of his youth and instinctively a guttural cry roared
from his throat ' Gerrup ye *******! ' as he wielded the chain one final time before his
heart packed in leaving him slumped on the old tea chest as silence settled upon the scene
of his final resting place in the shadow of the East India Company
Harriet Cleve Aug 2019
The dog in the street

that lives for five summers

ignorant of commerce

or the cost of living

savours the essence of Creation

embraces each day to the full


While Man gorges on labour

trading existence

for one day in the Sun
Harriet Cleve Mar 2019
All  his best poems were kept in a fridge on ice

stacked with the beer and other perishables

a lot well past their sell by date and unfit

for recitations and sometimes he would read them anyway

and open a bottle

I was the only audience member


In his drunken stupor he would weep

sobbing  only him and Van Gogh knew what it was to suffer for their art

it always ended in violence and me begging him not to cut his ear off

wasn't it better to write another poem I would say

One man's meat is another man's poison

then he would drop the knife

write another poem

drink another beer

in his drunken stupor his recitation took on a life of its own

he would cry out that he painted with his words and free spirits

were tortured souls though the world would never know his greatness

His poems were past their sell by date

I told him he was a Genius
Harriet Cleve Oct 2019
In a breaking new military development the following initiative has been adopted.

In the event of total war breaking out, it has been decided to recruit every single skinhead in the country.

A special beret has been manufactured; which illustrates a pair of ox-blood maroon coloured Doc Martin boots as the regiments insignia.

Every recruit will be issued with a knuckle duster, Dr Martin boots, and a stainless steel chain one metre long.

A gruelling training course will be implemented which will involve smashing the heads in on a purpose built test dummies rig.

Inside sources have revealed further that the regiments battle cry will be ' Gerrrrrrrrrrrrruuuuuuuuppppppp ye bleeding *******!'

In close quarter combat it is expected to be 'I'll bleeding **** ya! Ye stinking toe rag!'

It is believed that this will make use of the Nations civic warriors currently on standby and dispersed throughout the cities. A major plus is that they are already battle hardened and blooded.

Initial reactions from the Royal Constabulary are positive.

'****** fantastic! It will keep them off the streets and channel their aggression'

An insider in the SAS parachute regiment expressed concern at the possibility that unleashing the nations skinheads might be 'cruel malevolent and odious and contravene the human rights accord'.

'All is fair in love and war but come on!' said an undisclosed source.

It is hoped by the brewing companies that this will boost the sales of lager in the armed forces.

All together 'I don't know but its been said

all the hardo's are skinhead'

'Gerrrrrrrrrrrrrrruuuuuuuupppppp ye bleeding *******!'
Harriet Cleve Dec 2019
It is on these dark damp wintery nights that the architecture of the city lets you know its alive.
Exhaling their frosty moist breath as they crowd your personal space.
Some are spectres outlined against the dark lunar sky reaching their bricks and mortar towards the heavens; as if God were placing his hand down to pet their concrete heads.

It is you who is the affront to their dignity swaggering into their arena and disrespecting their right to live even as you live.
Others are warm like fresh cotton blankets pressed against a newborns skin.

Here in our city the buildings thrive and crowd into formations ready for battle. Beneath the gaze of the stars they watch humanity trespassing on the footpaths and backlanes of their lives.

Look at the cranes and hoists renewing their numbers even as the old and infirm amongst them are crushed by wrecking ***** and mechanical diggers ripping their souls out of the earth.

This city is old and has seen sights and horrors that would parallel
battle hardened men from the theatres of war.

A pungent smell permeates and fragrants this city. Its blood and bones are bricks and mortar. It breathes even as you breathe.

Bury me in this city when I am dead and gone. Let these buildings devour my remains and live to tell the future the tale.
Harriet Cleve Dec 2019
We have supped at the Devil's table. Slaked the deep draughts of our dense black shadow. Imbibed till it was brought to a conscious state.
One cannot recoil in horror at ones self and so it is in others that we see the dark side; carefully averting our gaze lest we see our true selves.
Harriet Cleve Sep 2016
your rusty powdered chains dug deep
anchoring your bones to lanky long keys
resting in tormented locks
melted in the heat of hell
as the screams marked the passage of time
not your screams though
your bony white jaw long decayed
so you stare down the centuries
through empty sockets
in the pitch black dark
alone in the company of others
their bony thin fingers
pointing at your soul
crushed beneath the weight of time
whispering 'it's him! it's him!
whimpering in fear
condemned to share these cursed years
in white heat infernos
forged to your bones
forged to your terror
time passing slowly
Harriet Cleve Jul 2018
The past is buried in an unmarked grave

infinity x people lie amongst the mathematicians

the bankers, the capitalists, the communists,

nuns and priests from long forgotten orders

writers, poets, madmen

believers in Dostoevsky



politicians and soldiers lying side by side

Guevara and Kennedys

reeking of decomposed causes


their headstones inhabit this planet

struggles, dreams, poverty, indifference


Only the living remain to frighten young children

in gardens of festering weeds


Amongst the survivors walks the big ******* war

whose parentage dresses in many flags

holding hands with the spectres of illusion

in this calamitous circus of humanity


the past is buried in an unmarked grave

and still it is hunted

it's rotten body and brittle bones

clutching it's precious treasure


the future carrying a ***** and death still the scythe

eager for the digging

anxious to turn the soil


the past is buried in an unmarked grave

leave it alone

let it rest in peace
Harriet Cleve Jul 2019
We slogged it out in the Ukraine pencil factories

sweated our guts out to machine the wood

'Get the lead out of your arses!' the foremen screamed

We knew it was a ploy to reduce costs


what became of us?

Some of us became writers
Harriet Cleve Jun 2019
Delicately, extremely delicately, Penelope Bloom wrapped her headscarf into place. The fragrance was staggering to inhale.
The heightening scent of Summer radiated from her countenance.
Beneath the scarf was a blossom of red roses, scarlet tulips, pansies, bluebells, daisies and every other flower a botanist would roll off the tip of their tongues.

Penelope had shaved her head the night before as part of a charity awareness for 'The shelter for broken hearted Skinheads Society'.

In her bedsit was a shared bathroom. The shampoo smelled divine and she had poured an abundance on to her naked scalp to calm it down. This potion was actually an elixir with restorative properties for botanical flora. It was a trial potion left there in error by a scientist two doors down.

Silently she walked out of her bedsit and holding down her panic took a stroll into the Botanical Gardens for guidance.
She could not work up the courage and decided to sit on a park bench and figure things out.

As she did, Henry Hammer & Tongs McVicar noticed her. He was the founding member of the 'Shelter for Broken hearted Skinheads Society' and he eagerly sat down beside her to thank her profusely for her support and kindness.

He was overwhelmed by the heady scent emanating from Penelopes scarf.

'Good God!'  he cried

'You smell divine! '

In defensive shock Penelope replied 'No Henry, you are smelling the gardens'

'Isn't it beautiful though?'

Just then an old lady walked by.

'Excuse me lovey'

'There are a bouquet of flowers streaming down your shoulders!'

The flowers on Penelopes head could not be contained and burst from the scarf.

Henry Hammer & Tongs looked on in bewilderment as Penelope ran off like a galloping garden of colour.

The old lady gasped in amazement.

Running back to her bedsit Penelope bumped into the scientist.

'Oh my God!' He cried

'Eureka! Eureka!'

Penelope was like a moving forest at this stage.

'You know about this!' She cried

'Well! Answer me!'

David Longfellow just looked though and for a long time stared and stared before he spoke another word.
Harriet Cleve Aug 2019
The world ignited and lit up the cosmos

One person survived the Nuclear flash

Cyril the Skinhead lived on

wandering the Earth

looking for heads to crack open

shops to wreck

an excuse to wield his violent chain

looking to plant his Doc Martens up someone's ****

What was the world without a victim?

He was alone now on Earth

and like all bullies afraid of his isolation

'Take me! ' he screamed to the Gods

Radiation set in and gave him immortality

destined to walk the green glowing Earth for eternity

shaking a raging fist at the stars

A radioactive skinhead in a world that didn't give a ****

Cyril the Skinhead

Last of the Homosapiens
Harriet Cleve Oct 2019
In the retirement home for skinheads

it is hard to maintain order

everyone wants to swing their chains

don their doc martens

run riot in the rockers wing

before launching into foul mouthed tirades

all the nurses on standby with sedation syringes

Other than that it's a very quiet place
Harriet Cleve Feb 2019
the house next door makes me
sad.
both man and wife rise early and
go to work.
they arrive home in early evening.
they have a young boy and a girl.
by 9 p.m. all the lights in the house
are out.
the next morning both man and
wife rise early again and go to
work.
they return in early evening.
By 9 p.m. all the lights are
out.

the house next door makes me
sad.
the people are nice people, I
like them.

but I feel them drowning.
and I can't save them.

they are surviving.
they are not
homeless.

but the price is
terrible.

sometimes during the day
I will look at the house
and the house will look at
me
and the house will
weep, yes, it does, I
feel it.
a great poem by Charles Bukowski
Harriet Cleve Feb 2019
I travelled

the road less travelled

met my end at a dead end

the wrong end of a cannibal's fork


in the event you are meant

to read my torment

my last testimony

kindly entrusted to Cannibal Sidney

his knife now in my kidney

who never saw an eatery

was pleased to taste the likes of me


weep not forget not

the road less travelled

is paved and gravelled


and full of peril

Say goodbye to my girl Beryl
Harriet Cleve Sep 2019
'I've been looking for you some time now'

'Do I know your face, Mister?'

'You know me. Been on your trail sometime now '


Each of them looked the other up.

'You packing iron?'

'Don't need to. You know I'm Death'

'You know who I am?'

'You know I do'

' Yeah, I know it'

The Devil looked at Death running at him with a scythe

Instinctively he pulled his colt revolver and shot dead Death.

'I don't understand it! Death cried just before he succumbed.

'I am Death! I cannot die. It is others who must die that I must live'

The Devil rubbed his boots in Deaths face.

Tumbleweed blew down the gulch and a pale horse wandered off without its rider.

Another man stood in the distance as the sun set and cast his silhouette.


'I've been looking for you some time now'

'Do I know your face, Mister?'

'You know me'

'You packing iron?'

'You know I am!'

'Go for you gun!' screamed the Devil

God reached for his colt and emptied his pistol.

The dust settled.


In the bowels of Hell one of the Beasts minions got word the Devil was dead.

Elsewhere in the halls of Heaven Jesus got the news.

'It was unexpected but each of them fired fatal bullets.

'Pack my four horses! I will destroy the Earth for this'

'They're packed already except for the pale one. Must have bust loose from the stables'

'Well  find it and rope it in'


The biggest drug dealer on Earth was snorting a line.

A man stood fifteen feet from him.

'How the hell did you get in here?'

'I've been looking for you sometime' replied Jesus

'You packing a gun?'

'You know I am'
Harriet Cleve Jun 2019
'What will we do with the contamination?'

'a place has been located, Earth, at far remove from our own'

'Where did this contaminant come from?'

'It has not yet been confirmed. Perhaps a bacteria has found its way into our soil. You will recall our last voyage to recover nutrients from stars orbiting planets similar to Earth. Collected samples had to be destroyed. They were hazardous to our life span expectancy.
Brain thought process diminished by a factor of 1000.
'Regression of behaviour to a primitive stage'.


'How many are infected?"

'We know for certain it is 775 from sector 84'

'What will happen now?'

'Even as we speak they are in transit to Earth'

'We will continue to observe and see if they survive'

'The good news is they will not enjoy life, in the majority of cases, beyond one hundred'.

'Such a tragedy'

'Would it not have been better to cull them into obliteration'

'No, this was decided against in the interest of science'

'Perhaps we can learn from the regressive behaviour'

'It may be necessary to retrieve a sample from time to time'

'Cut them open and dissect them for analysis'

'If this contagion hits us again we will need an antidote'

'Will they survive on Earth?'

'It is uncertain and if not uncared'

'The main thing is that the threat of extinction has been removed
from our own planet'

'less than a hundred years of age? It is nothing'
'Why they will barely be mature before they are aged?'

'Yes, a tragedy however their brain size and wave activity shows a highly diminished lack of awareness'

'Is there no hope for intelligent progression in time'

'None what so ever'
Harriet Cleve Aug 2019
'Pull into this fuel station and top up, Harry'
I don't want us running out of juice on the highway at three a.m"

'I don't know Michelle, it's getting late and we are still away off from San Francisco'

'Just do it Harry, it will give the dogs a chance to stretch their legs'

'All right, I told you the dogs weren't able for long journeys though'

Pulling into the forecourt Harry looked around before letting the two pitbulls out.
Grateful for fresh air they scurried about excitedly.

He filled the van and noticed the garage had a coffee dock.

'Let's chill for ten minutes, Michelle
It's getting late, we need a breather
The dogs are fine in that enclosed field'

Entering the service station they were greeted by an old man with a weary face.

'What can we get ya?'

'Two coffees when you're ready please'

'Bit late to be out if you don't mind me saying' the old man said

'Well we hope to be hitting San Francisco soon'

'Them your dogs? '

'Yes, just giving them air is all'

'That there's an old grave yard son
Ain't right dogs running about in there digging and sniffing'

'Oh!  No disrespect intended. Didn't know or we wouldn't have cut them loose'

'No harm meant son, I know it'

'That field's an old Indian burial ground'
'Some  say it's cursed too'
Hair stood up on my neck many times the sounds I heard late at night'

You can call me an old fool but I believe that stuff about spirits taking revenge on desecration and disrespecting sacred bones'

Harry and Michelle drank their coffees.
'Let's get the hell out of here' Michelle whispered

This place is weird . The dogs were whimpering and nervous when I put them back in the van' she said

'One of them had a stock monkey in their mouth and wouldn't drop it'

Waving goodbye to the old man they made their way back to the highway.

'I feel uneasy, Harry' Got a bad sense of something dreadful but I can't describe it"

'That old man shocked you is all' said Harry

'Probably winding us up so relax'

They drove on for some time when Harry noticed the landscape looked out of place.

'Give me the map Michelle, think I took a wrong turn some where'

Pulling into the side of the dirt road he glanced at the map. His mind worked hard figuring out the route.

Suddenly the van shook violently and the dogs went beserk howling and barking.

'What in hells name is going on back there?'

Michelle looked at Harry.She was terrified and crying but couldn't say a word.

'Relax' I am going to check on the dogs

He grabbed his revolver which he had no permit for and was incapable of using.
It was a show of bravado for his friends to big him up in their eyes. Shaking as he got out the van he approached the back doors.

Inside he could hear terrible cries of whelping, anguish and terror coming from the dogs.

Quickly he pulled the doors open

'I've got a ******* gun!'Harry screamed

There facing him was a savage monstrous silver back gorilla. It had torn the pitfbulls asunder. It's teeth were blooded and bared as it lunged on top of Harry.

Michelle heard a gunshot.

Crying and shaking she got out of the van.

Her eyes were streaming and her heart raced when she saw Harry's lifeless body on the ground. Horribly mutilated with an expression of terror on his face.

She couldn't find it in herself to scream.

Total shock had set in. A guttural animal cry broke the moment. She felt steaming hot breath upon the back of her neck.

Turning slowly as her legs trembled violently she lost control of her bowels.

Facing her was a six foot silver back gorilla.
It grabbed her throat and ripped her to pieces. Feeding on her organs it devoured her in a ****** carnage.

At the scene the  next day a forensic detective examined her remains.

'Put that stock monkey in a bag.Might be something to it'

'Yes sir'

Later that night a car pulled into a filling station

An old man looked at the young couple

'What can I get ya?'

'A couple of coffees please'

'Them your dogs in that there field' said the old man...
Harriet Cleve Oct 2016
The shoe shine boy was eighty two
the wino was thirty one
London streets would be polished this night
with the rub of a scumbag's gun

The Shoe shine boy was hard as a bull
the Wino was out of his class
he thought he could scare with his horrible stare
and his face like a rhinos ***

"C'mon you Buzzard! the wino snarled
"let me see what you've got!"
though  brave with his gun, pardon the pun
he then got a dig in the snot

'You *******!' he cried -now losing his pride
he then fired off a warning shot
though  grazed in the eye, just off the fly
the shoe shine boy hit him again in the snot


Again and again the wino was punched
his  nose was a ****** red tap
he threw down his gun and started to run
shouting  ' this is a load of crap!


The New York boy was eighty two
the scene was a curious farce
he picked up the gun,said 'Go on ya ***!'
then shot the wino clean in the ***

The wino lay cryin' and knew he was dying
the ol' boy walked off in the night
his shoes were a shining as the wino lay whining
It sure was a curious sight!
Harriet Cleve Dec 2018
the virtues of humanity

are vices to religion

the depths of spiritual imposition

deeper than the grave

the living moments tortured and dissected

sacrificed for the precipice

the involuntary plunge into the abyss

looked on by the shocked eyes of the deluded

their trembling hands grasping a short straw
Harriet Cleve Mar 2019
Six surly skinless skeletons settled
'neath a misty moonless sky
in judgement of an ignominious slight
upon their betrayed chalk white bones

Centuries since and yet to come
upon those old arthrithic frames
Flesh and soul had made their home
abandoned them to earths dank clay

The soul of each was now sought out
Retribution paved the way
stealthily six set out  same night
'Avenge! Avenge!  each jaw  cried out

Gnashing teeth and stone washed skulls
six plus six plus sixty more
from more to scores and millions more
Till all Earth's earth stirred long stiff bones

An army now was on the  move
laying  seige to the gates of Hell
The Heavens too were on the route
as every soul was now searched out


Flames of fires and heat of Hell
illuminated all those souls
in chain and pain and stagnant dwell
Bones now rattled and battled hard

Avenge! Avenge! their battle cry
seizing each and every soul
marching  through the deepest depths
Soul and Bones now made their way
back to Earth and earths dank clay

All souls' day and all souls' night
scores of skeletons settled scores
Heaven held till holding hurt
then emptied all its souls to Earth

Souls and Bones now made their way
Back to Earth and earths dank clay
Harriet Cleve Dec 2018
the days are tripping over themselves


starving unfed dogs


tethered to mediocrity


ripping the throat of all the tomorrows


gnawing life's grisly marrow


tearing the leash from my hands


leaving a skin-burn in their wake


the smell of raw flesh flaring their nostrils
Harriet Cleve Dec 2019
Cyril the Skinhead was tired of it all. It was a long way from the seventies and he missed the riots and violence.
Even now that old sound of Trex 'get it on' filled his eyes with nostalgia.

He missed the beer and throwing the empty bottles at innocent heads. Sometimes he shouted ' Ye bleeding  *******!' but his voice carried no menace now. He was too old and no longer a threat.

Tonight he would sneak out of the old folks home. It was time to touch base with any of the lads still alive.
Time to get the chain  swinging and the doc martens ready to root someone up the ****.

The seventies were over but that didn't mean his life was.

Tonight London  would  become a battlefield for old skinheads.
Harriet Cleve Sep 2016
Skinhead Showdown
----------------------------------
Two skinheads rough, hand in hand, were walking down their lane
Rough and gruff, yes very much, and both were swinging chains!
A toothless grin was flashed within the darkened lane  just then
As coming up the other side, two rough old wrinkled hens!

Two old grannies, hand in hand, were walking up that lane
Rough and gruff, yes very much, and both were swinging canes!
Sparks flew then as chain met cane and a massive brawl ensued!
The skinheads knew they'd met their match, that this night would be rued!

You''re both going down! the skinheads roared as violent fists were thrown
But grannies  quick each threw a kick and the skinheads shrieked and moaned
*******! Get out of here! the skinheads roared just then
And a toothless grin flashed within from each old wrinkled hen!

Two skinheads rough, hand in hand, fled back down that lane
Rough and gruff, yes very much, but both were minus chains!
Two old grannies, hand in hand, proudly held that lane
Rough and gruff, yes very much, as each still held their
cane
Both walked off, heads aloft!
Each was swinging a chain!

Old Skinhead
----------------------
His Doc Martens stared back at him from an old tea chest marked East India Company
a wary apprehension settling from the burly skinhead gazing at his past buried amongst
his chain which showed some signs of corrosion even though it was folded in the deep
blue pockets of his denim jacket awaiting the return of an other era lost in the arms of
yesterdays battles in the dingy London backstreets where his blood flowed in rivulets
of anger soaking the concrete with the indifference of violent confrontations in a sacrifice
to his manhood and the enemies of his youth and he inhaled his memories as if they
were a gift from the war gods of ancient times beckoning him to don his armour and
engage in a final battle and he even thought it over as his seventy year old hand lifted
the chain from its resting place and carressed the steel weapon which had slain his enemies
leaving the bodies on the battlefields of his youth and instinctively a guttural cry roared
from his throat ' Gerrup ye *******! ' as he wielded the chain one final time before his
heart packed in leaving him slumped on the old tea chest as silence settled upon the scene
of his final resting place in the shadow of the East India Company

Skinhead Swansong
----------------------------
Cyril laced his Doc Martens
Prescribed for violent altercations
Ox blooded and ****** weapons
Battle scarred and battered
Essential kit for tours of duty
The last of the Skinheads dressed for battle

The intimidating black gum shield
Filled out his gaunted haunted face
Taking pride in his denims
He gripped his chain and took a swing
The old battle cry resonating from his arthrithic throat
'Ger up ye *******!

He worked up a frenzy and beat the crap
Out of his council bedsit
'Taste that steel!  What did ye bleedin' say?
'Are ye lookin' at  me ye toe rag!
He still knew his lines even at eighty one
It was time to  bow out
He needed some one to bow out on
Skinheads are funny like that
Involve other people for the crack

The Teddy boys were juking it up
Fifties nights for the decrepids
Ducks arses groomed and combed
Dry cleaned rockers in dry cleaned crombies
'That'll be the day when I die'
The old vinyl floor filler whippin' up the adrenalin
Defibrillators and oxygen on standby
Cyril burst in then

He took out two Teddys and worked his Docs hard
Hard men are still hard in old age
Once a hardo always a hardo they say
The chain was swinging now
Wrecking the jukebox and escalating the battle
'Come on ye *******! roared Cyril
Five teddies were downed now
Then the beer bottle came crashing down

Cyril staggered as his head burst open
His heart packed in and called it a day
A smile came to his face as he took one final look
His Doc Martens oxblooded and ******
The last of the Skinheads bowed out
His chain by his side
Skinheads are funny like that....
Harriet Cleve Sep 2019
Slick Brick Mandini, half Irish -half Italian, was raised in the Dublin slums. Around the corner from Henrietta Street, Europes biggest slum, was the Italian quarter of Smithfield.

Slick Brick knew every stone and alley, every hawker and scumbag, every dark street in the North side of the fair city.

A tall, good looking man with a penchant for riding street horses late at night. Many the harmless vagrant were run over and trampled to death as Slick galloped his piebald down North King street into the early hours. He could turn that horse on a sixpence, with the deft assurance one would normally attribute that skill to an Apache or Commanche warrior from North America.

North America would beckon one day but for now it was the mean streets of Dublin that tried to contain him.

Everyone knew he had a brain and could recite his Shakespeare as well as the Bard himself. In his own mind he was a MacDuff ready to take on the Macbeths and weird sisters of life.

An incident in secondary school which he evaded suspicion of set him on the road to criminality.

Brother Lugnaciois was patrolling the school corridors that fateful day. 'The Lug' as the schoolboys called him behind his back was a vicious *******. A Christian Brother with a passion for violence and intimidation. His leather strap hung from his swaggering hips like a gunslinger from the Old West and many's the hand he welted with pure savagery. Lug's favourite torment though was to pull a young school lads locks and lift them up off the ground in one horror filled moment.

Slick had the misfortune to be returning from the school toilets and was confronted by Lug. For no reason other than the infliction of base terror Lug grabbed Slick by his locks and twisted his ears for good measures.

It was expected from Lug and retaliation meant sustained torment.
Slick pulled a flickknife from his waistband and slashed Lug under his left eye. It took a moment for Lug to realise what had happened.

Stunned at the emerging pain and gush of blood from his face, Lug went into a rage.

That was when Slick's fathers tutelage came to his mind.

'Always remember, Son, a swift kick to the lower nether regions will stop a racehorse'

And Lug became a racehorse in that very instance of thought.

He reared up to grab Slick by the throat when the kick landed to his nether regions.

First he went purple then green then a fury arouse on his countenance. With what must have been a testimony to the power to retain control in extreme pain Lug lunged at Slick for revenge.

Slick knew it was a life or death moment. He deliberately and calmly drew the knife across Lugs throat. Even that was not enough.

From his pocket he took out his pistol. A silencer had been fitted.

The horror with which Lug's eyes met Slick's was one of disbelief.

'You ***** toe rag!' Slick uttered and pulled the trigger.

Lug's head exploded in a spray of red death.

At all times Slick had retained his composure. He had opened the door to the underworld and eagerly walked through.

In time the world would come to know of the foul exploits of Slick Brick Mandini. Only a few close friends would ever know who murdered the ******* Lugs.

Slick would lie low for a while and it would be some time before Dublin was shook by another ******. This ****** would be the one that placed Slick Brick Mandini firmly in the gaze of the police.

For now Slick smoked a cigar of Cuban origin and felt proud of his efforts. He allowed himself a smile as he recalled Lug's terrified and confused countenance.

'You had it coming you *******' he thought as he held his war trophy.
The leather strap which would never again inflict pain on a schoolboys hand.
Harriet Cleve Feb 2019
somewhere else the guns are silent

not a word escapes from their muzzles

doors are in place in a house with a roof

a fire burns warm in a cast iron grate


somewhere else the girls wear faces

lipstick red on fresh baked smiles

freckled skin with awesome hair

brushed by hands with lilac skin


somewhere else the books are waiting

words are sleeping on feather down pages

like wild animals in a well fed zoo

beneath the gaze of rested eyes


somewhere else a world breathes easy

clouds drive slow in  low-gear lanes

women walk in elegant gowns

cigars perfume the company of men


somewhere else these things happen

but I am nowhere near these places

my gun is waking in a trembling hand

my dreams are silent in a different land
Harriet Cleve Oct 2019
The revolver was proud of his father

a Springfield .45 used in the Indian wars

no son of a gun knew more about its parentage

tragedy lay around the corner of history

the Springfield was smelted down

in front of its son

to find reincarnation in the wheels of a steam locomotive

it was all too much for the revolver

some say it took to drink and ended its days in a museum

a relic of the past never fired in anger

reflecting on the exploits of its father

a true son of a gun
Harriet Cleve Jun 2019
So, said Planet Earth

'You battered the head off me'

'cut me open and bled me dry'

'poured poisons into my blood streams'

'scarred the flesh off my body'

'ladled toxins into my mouth'

'drained my guts'

'gashed my throat with an atomic cocktail'

'ravaged my body'

'ripped my heart out'

'tore the hair off my head'

'brought relentless torment to my eyes'

'wiped your feet on my back'

'You parasitic *******!'

'You war mongering pariah!'

'Breathe!' You dare scream in my face

''Breathe!'

'Provide you with the oxygen of life?'

'You loathsome scumbag!'

'After tearing my lungs out'

'After all the grief you caused me!'
'Wearing me down in the face of the Cosmos'

'you brazen *******!'

'I am dying!'

'You dare to turn up at my death bed?!''

'You have spent your inheritance and beggared yourself!'

'you contemptible excuse for a life form'

Humanity looked on and wanted to say something.

Shame faced, it glared back in anger and struggled to compose a fitting response. A flash of light illuminated the scene.
19 nuclear explosions rocked the planet. 84 minutes went by.

Planet Earth's hand went limp and dropped from her bedside.
She had succumbed to Humanity.
Harriet Cleve Jul 2018
you didn't deserve the poems you wrote

born of your suffering

dragged from fractured yesterdays

nor did they deserve you

letting you down on the cold dank streets

refusing to warm your cold blue blood


borrowing words you never paid back

you owed each other nothing

except companionship for what it was worth

For what you were worth


There you were, an odd pair

two legs on an upturned stool

unstable

rummaging this life for a good line


you could have done without the dereliction

the destruction of the foundation of youth

dodging wrecking ***** aimed at your head

the head wreckers and headhunters

the scalp wreckers and scalp hunters


a bottle of ruby down a parched throat

a smoke to fill the grateful lungs

women to wash your long nights down

they were your proudest boast


You didn't deserve the poems you wrote

Nor did they deserve you

Yet such is companionship

strange bedfellows

slipping between the sheets and a good line
A tribute to Charles Bukowski
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