Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
there's a vibe in the joint, something is going down
there's a vibe in the joint, something is going down
the ringmaster marshals his mates, one senses the current
the ringmaster marshals his mates, one senses the current
something is going down, the ringmaster marshals his mates
there's a vibe in the joint, one senses the current

a head on a plate is sought, when will the strike come
a head on a plate is sought, when will the strike come
the reckoner does his sums, he's staying ever ready
the reckoner does his sums, he's staying ever ready
he's staying ever ready, a head on a plate is sought
when will the strike come, the reckoner does his sums

of a foot fleet the target is, dancing at all times
of a foot fleet the target is, dancing at all times
reel by reel the action plays, tis most eventful
reel by reel the action plays, tis most eventful
reel by reel the action plays, dancing at all times
of a foot fleet the target is, tis most eventful

when will the strike come, there's a vibe in the joint
the ringmaster marshals his mates, one senses a current
of a foot fleet the target is, tis most eventful
the reckoner does his sums, a head on a plate is sought
something is going down, reel by reel the action plays
he's staying ever ready, dancing at all times
Duncan Brown Aug 2018
Archie was smart; at least he reckoned he was, because he had what he considered to be the good things in life: dosh in his wallet, a Cat in the garage, and a detach. in the green belt; all of which he had worked hard to acquire. Worked, is not exactly the word for it. Archie did deals. He reckoned he could always turn a fiver into a tenner an’ a tenner into a pony; a pony into a ton and a ton to a grand. He was one of the cash economy’s natural alchemists.  The folding stuff was the measure of a person, he reckoned. Archie never thought about anything; he reckoned everything, and nothing on God’s good earth was beyond reckoning, he reckoned. An ever-ready reckoner; that was Archie, and he loved himself for it. Only John Wayne did more reckoning than Archie, his old dad, bless him, used to say, thought Archie. In Archie’s world a grand was currency; less than that was just spare change. He reckoned he gave superior meaning to the expression ‘it’s a grand life’. The only blemish on Archie’s horizon as far as he could see was the lack of a class bird, or ‘ream sort’, as he preferred to say; hence this evening’s extravaganza at a posh French restaurant in the company of a beautiful lady. Archie only had two serious weaknesses in his existence: a fondness for the last word in a dispute about anything you care to mention, and his infatuation with his dining companion, the beautiful Carmela.


Carmela shared a common background with Archie. They grew up on the same council estate in the inner city. They were aware of each other’s existence as kids and teenagers, but they didn’t really know each other. Carmela was a quiet child and very singular; even in company she could be by herself. None but she was wise to her sense of solitude. She had three passions in life: knitting, sewing and weaving; the blessed trinity of her existence. Carmela interpreted the world by these three gifts. Here she was, she thought, weaving her way through an evening, in the company of three strangers. One she knew, herself, another she didn’t know at all, despite proximity and semi-shared origins. Then there was the complete stranger to the trinity: the waiter in his new and very polished shiny black shoes, “You can tell a lot about a person by their shoes”, Carmela’s mum used to say, she was thinking about that as the waiter appeared to almost pirouette into vision.


The waiter was a patient soul, it goes with the territory. The waiting game wasn’t something you should rush in to, he often told himself, in one of his more existentialist moments. He appreciated the irony of the comment in a Sartresque kind of fashion. He was from a steel town in the Rhonda Valley of South Wales. Iron was in his veins if not his appearance. A creature of paradoxes, that’s what he told himself he was. He liked that assessment of himself. It complimented his passion for all things French: French food, French wine, French philosophy, literature and art. He was learning the language at night school. Alas, his accent was as lyrically refined as the landscape that bred him He shovelled the words onto a conveyor belt of sound and meaning as best he could in the general direction of the person he was talking to, more in hope than in faith that they understood what was being said .The other passion in his life was tap dancing, and as luck would have it he could wear the same outfit for work and leisure, hence the very shiny shoes which allowed him to dance around the tables of the restaurant, practising his language skills on the clientele, His life work and leisure dovetailed with his ambition and he was pleased to wake up in the morning and set about the mortal trespass with a skip in his step. The waiter imagined himself to be a cosmopolitan and enlightened soul, in a very Fred Astaire kind of way, and life was a flight of stairs which he could ascend and descend in a Morse code type of style, just like Mr Bojangles.


The fare was fine. the wine was rare, but the conversation was spare until the cheese board arrived.” Good grub”, said Archie to the waiter. “We don’t do grub, sir, we only serve the finest Gallic cuisine in this establishment,” replied the waiter, in his usual mangled French, whilst smiling that smile that only waiters can manage when registering disapproval. Archie looked blank. It was Carmela who spoke: “C’était magnifique! Mes compliments au chef.” “Streuth! You speak better French than Marcel Proust here” said Archie.” I studied Fashion and Design in Paris for five years “replied Carmela.” “An’ I joined the Common Market many moons ago. It’s good for business” said Archie. The waiter was impressed: “Food, fashion, wine, Proust and Paris. This must be Nirvana” he said. “Great band, but a very dubious heaven.” replied Carmela, knitting together the threads whilst changing the pattern of the conversation in a very subtle fashion that was more to her liking.” “It’s only rock ’n’ roll” said Archie, an’ if you’ve ever heard French rock ’n’ roll it’s enough to make you believe in Foucault” “Foucault, my hero!” said the waiter, “a philosophical genius”. “According to Foucault, a knitting pattern is the hieroglyphic of a consumerist and decadent capitalist society.” intoned Carmela.” “And ‘A recipe is a critique of a cake’, said the great Structuralist philosopher,” interjected Archie, so if you serve the gateaux we may effect the collapse of western civilisation as we all know and love it”. “Allors, Let them eat cake” said the waiter, and everybody smiled at the irony of the comment.

The waiter bojangled his way into the night, tapping and clicking the pavement as he went.  Carmela and Archie got into a black cab. “That was a night to remember,” said Carmela, “very Proustian”. “A la recherche du temps perdu”, replied Archie, pleased as punch to have the last word. Carmela just smiled as she looked at Archie’s shoes.
Max Neumann  May 2020
Reckoner
Max Neumann May 2020
fireworks at blank shores
revenge of the innocent

the victims are to blame for
who are the culprits?
i don't know if you know
my brothers and my sisters

burning sandstorms
playful twisters

stroke me gently baby
no one is to blame for
milk my brain and try to feel
milk my eyes and try to be

reckoner
in memoriam, friend
Today is a good day.
G Foe Dec 2019
I am the reckoner.
Split wood under soft feet.
Serrated chips between gapped teeth.
Fresh paper against finger tips.
I am the reckoner.
I end stories before they begin.
I count to nine and never ten.
Rub fists against brick walls.
And this writing, this abomination, this guilty little ode
will never be finished nor would it ever make sense because that is the moral
of my story.
Mike Bergeron Sep 2012
The night falls swiftly,
And yellow flashes
Of northeastern
Fireflies mark
The edges
Of the
Hedge-lined path,
And gnats
Hang in the air
Like suspended gravel
While my flats
Slap the pavement
Like a ****** rap gavel,
In repetition so
Soothing I forget
My sentence
And all that I'm losing,
And everything makes sense,
I feel connected
To the heron
Gliding above
The river
Like messenger
Pigeons follow
The street grid,
Or like a charge down
The neural pathway
That makes me grin
When I realize
I'm not defined
By what's within,
No more
And no less
Than the wilderness
Can be constrained
To the way the wind
Sings its wearisome
Twilight refrain
As the air moves
And spins
Through the spaces
Between the wooden
Masses atop
Parnassus,
I feel the humidity
Flee,
And my breath quickens
As Corycian nymphs
And the nine
Sacred women
Of creation
By man's mind
Surround me and drive
Me to place one
Ancient foot
In front of its partner,
The images they conjure
Like a Reckoner diamond
Encasing me
In a cage of
Liquid iron
While beckoning
Me forward
With 72 hymens,
But I know it's a lie,
I know why
Men fight and die,
And it's not for any
Contrived diatribe
Promoting an
Unattainable
Ultimate prize,
It's to give rise
To the feeling
Of being alive,
That's all we want,
That's all we strive
To find,
And that's why
I'm approaching
Mile five,
And breathing
The life
Inherent in night
With the scent
Of the soundscape
Still burned in
My sight.
Max Neumann  Sep 2020
GOLEMLAND
Max Neumann Sep 2020
3600 seconds, golden rich kids among bottle
scavengers, everybody hustlin', revenge?
the lights of society don't shine bright on them
collected bottles for a meal, irrelevant sunsets

the beauty of life decreased, dependency diaries
let lights loosely shine on these teenage giants
memories are opening up like red clouds, floating
in a time lapse, they will remember, in pride

honor and dignity, the one who splits the ocean
creates a shelter for the brothers and sisters
reckoner: burnings sandstorms, playful twisters
the one who smoothens a path to golem land

honey, milk and fruits, get rid of urban metal
come to us, be with us and stay with us
infinite loopholes, adults, kids and groups
the holy swoosh of a curl, your healing, stay

as you are walking through the ocean
as your brothers and sisters are with you
whiteblue words, you catch sentences like air
as you become a part of golem land

of us
Golemland for everybody; for a better way of life.
Lorraine  Sep 2017
Inspiration
Lorraine Sep 2017
Where does inspiration come from?
A bubble waiting to burst,
thirsting for a host,
making the most of this splendor,
turning one thought into many...
creating something worth sharing.
Do we allow these thoughts to come to us only when we're ready?
What if they never come?
It's been a dry spell.
When will it rain again?
Again,
Again,
Again...
Is it a crime to be this happy?
Something is bound to go wrong.
Where does inspiration come from?
Despair.
It's been a dry spell.
Somewhere deep inside I want a storm.
Is it a crime to be this happy?
The self-indulgent reckoner in my mind,
give me chaos.  
You want the perfect dream...
But you could never possibly imagine,
or believe that everyday is already the perfect dream.
Give me chaos over a happy ending,
again, again, again...
Dylan  Dec 2020
Keep the tally
Dylan Dec 2020
I can hear the muses calling
'Though my hands are tied with work
And ghandarvas sing through cracks
Beyond the off-white office walls.
I know I should be free with them.
But instead:
Sign here,
Date there,
Keep the tally,
O reckoner of warehouse sheets!
The condition of modern slavery
Of entire paydays spent at once
While knowing that a human life
Is more precious than the profit line.

— The End —