Despite repeatedly shaking her pincer... much as a sprightly pensioner might brandish a furled umbrella at a grappling contestant, currently being boo'd at in the red corner... the baby crab stamped her foot in annoyance as she glowered at every passing wave that rolled along the shoreline.  In absolving herself of any guilt she may have felt over her prolonged excursion, she had become, even further marooned by a failure to catch a succession of tides back home, an oversight she later confessed, to observe local tide-tables in 'Old More's Almanac...' on sale in all discerning book shops and selected High Street newsagents, priced 10/6d... for unless fluent in the Russian vernacular, it was just about as articulate to the little crab as a map of the Moscow Metro during a blackout, only to have the Rouble finally drop with a throat gagging 'Gaaargh...' clunk, that you were currently standing on the down-line platform, when you should've been stood on the up... as the last train lurched unsteadily out of the station whistling a jubilant entente cordiale... 'wish me luck as you wave me dasvidaniya'.

     Still stamping her foot, only now in strict rotation with the other seven, the baby crustacean peered out from beneath the shade of the large pebble, rearing its bulk out of the rockpool like a lollypop-lady's 'STOP'!!! sign, her beady eyes twitching independently, first this way, then the other, cut withering swathes through every cardinal point of the compass that didn't duck quite fast enough, was rapidly coming to the conclusion that the rock-pool in which she found herself tapping her foot in today, would be no less aquatic as any other rockpool that she may find herself still tapping a foot in tomorrow and that the best course of action was simply to stay-put and take the matter up with the local town council, then petition for additional fare-stages to be implemented... and with the cost of shoe leather at current prices... well, with eight legs to consider it would make savings that weren't to be sneezed at.  

     It wasn't everyday of the week that a young and upwardly mobile baby crustacean had occasion to move both up-market and down the beach, all in the same mouthful... and into what could only be regarded as a desirable, detached beachfront property, a rock-pool of distinction with all available mod-cons.  She felt relieved that apart from the occasional day-tripper, who invariably dropped litter wherever they went, that a baby crab of distinction such as herself, was certain to be accepted socially and hob-*** with a new and discerning circle of acquaintances... you only had to take that nice lady earlier in the week, they both seemed to have so much in common... then she would roll up her sleeves and really show the neighbourhood what knitting was all about...  

     With as much enthusiasm as that of a three year old screaming for an ice-cream in the middle of an heat-wave, Red marched up the beach and as far from his wife's waspish tongue as a lame excuse would carry him, heading back towards the growing crush of holidaymaking fathers who were only there presumably, for the sake of their own children, laying siege to the mobile vendor... only this time, having already stood in the same queue ten minutes earlier, now had a sufficiency of funds to purchase that which he'd unsuccessfully queued for the first time.

      After an unspecified time which by his wife's reckoning was grounds for divorce... Red, now laden down with the iced confectionary picked his way through the same throng of fathers who moments earlier had been happily chatting in the queue together, were now enjoying the same berating as the one Red was looking forward to as he made his way back towards the rock pool, juggling more ice-cream than two manly hands could intelligently control... while in a bid for freedom, the rapidly thawing confectionary were hatching plans of their own, ones quite independent from those intended as they embarked upon their meandering exodus, known only to iced creamy desserts on hot sunny days... and into the unknown, roaming across Red's hands and trusting their fate to a far higher authority.

     "Did I mention that I was on a diet" snapped his significant other, as she sat licking pistachios from the melting cornet... "don't you ever listen," secretly smiling to herself... "and you did remember to bring Sockeye's water this morning.. didn't you..!" she continued "someone with half as much sense would've stood it in the rockpool to keep cool, I'm sure the little crab wouldn't have objected..!"   At the mention of his name, Sockeye with ears far too free-lance to ever consider gainful employment of their own, needed no further persuasion and charged straight through the rock-pool to his mistress's side, walloping the thermos flask for a tail whopping six... bringing his personal batting average so far this holiday to a self congratulatory forty not out... and found the baby crab spluttering flat on her back and having second thoughts on any immediate savings in shoe leather were she to stay. 

     Generous to a fault, Sockeye now thought to shower everyone's ice cream with liberal helpings of the seashore as several parasitic irritations had Sockeye hard at work serving eviction notices on some of the more exotic zoology that only a patent Bob Martin's would dare to muscle up to... the local wildlife, by the look on his face were having the time of their lives bivouacked behind his left ear, throwing wild parties and disturbing the peace.  Cross-eyed, it was only while launching a double pronged assault on the latest settlement of interlopers that Sockeye finally succumbed to his injuries and surrendered to a neighbouring sandcastle... it really didn't do to mention a certain name too loudly at times like these, especially when you just happened to be on the receiving end.

     For some strange reason he was undoubtedly in the dog house... they'd shouted at him, which made him sad, all except his little master who had pushed him away... which left him bereft.  Sockeye sat down on dads beach-towel and had a long, thoughtful scratch... where had all the fuss gone? he searched for appreciation their faces... his tail gave one disheartened thump before it stopped... and all those little pieces of ice-cream dipped wafer, which up until now had always appeared as if by magic.  

     Catching sight of one such treat, undoubtedly forgotten by the rock pool, a marauding seagull pulled out of a rolling dive and swooped, at the same instant as two gaping jaws launched themselves skywards... canine jowls quivering bravely in the light sea airs... and not too dissimilar to a heat seeking missile, rose gracefully from the ground to meet it... 'well intercepted..!' as both ears applauded in mid-air... no aerial freeloader was about to skip town with Sockeye's ice cream wafer without paying... leaving one solitary wing flapping its willingness to pay up.

     At least it kept her husband in useful employment Tina decided... and mercifully out from under her feet, as she brushed a fragment of affectionate pistachio from her bikini top... she'd have to  make sure he went for the ices in future... and without the means to pay for them... a mischievous smile turned the corners of her mouth as she leant towards the beach-bag and invested herself with several more juicy grapes... that everyone who fell within her sphere of influence had been warned well away from... under threat of dire consequence... and it would take a brave man indeed, or a very foolish one... she gave her husband who was sitting well within arms reach a caustic glance... and Tina's particular variety of justice had a very long arm indeed.

                                                        ­           ...   ...   ...**

a work in progress.                                                        ­                                                                 ­  1297

Wake up my light
O' mighty god light my morning
Like you light up my packs like the impoverished morning
In the cool cool

Of evenings, let's fly out
Too short of words, o'er is he becoming him
Her becoming his or was she becoming her edict of nights brighter
Stars lighter up mulled

The wine I can try freely ransack and robed freeloaders get me
Blues on her bag, speak of cusp
It's almost time, to leave your satchel
That will carry my words, too soon

Long hair, unemployed freeloader,
Click that button there and reply the saddest song you know,
Pity yourself to no end, cry yourself to sleep,
Wake up and realize you lost them all,
Incompetence, maybe.. Feel the rage build,
But Hide it for tomorrow.
Play the anger to there stereotype, have another cigarette,
Why not..
Try to repose your mind, only temporary.

WARNING:  Horror*...Readers might find this poem offensive or distressing.
_____________­_


1)
I know
once I was just like you
I was young and furious too
the world was too much
everyone made you feel
so hopeless, you think you could ****
I know exactly
how you feel

Like the time
my parents kept on and on
about responsibility
I had to look after my things,
that made me mad

And then I decided
I must assure them
I would grow up to be responsible
make them feel confident
I must put them at ease
so I did

And the police asked me
if I knew where they'd gone
and I showed the cops my perplexity:
“They were always 
responsible
in everything -
 how could they
just go away 
and leave me like this?”

The police and lawyers searched the house
and they found the will -
my parents had left everything to me
and had put my siblings
neat in order
stretched out on the dining table
in the basement kitchen


2
Like the time
then at work
the colleagues went on
about responsibility
and they conspired:
I was irresponsible;
they were conscientious;
I was a freeloader
Ah, the judges in one's world

the judges of one's soul

and one day
they found a worker in a bad state
dead and lying naked in the clichéd
pool of blood –
in the toilet, of all places -
with the words: *“How irresponsible”
on the floor

Everyone was in a state -
I moved inter-state
I was going places


3)
Dear, oh dear

don't cry

Darling, oh darl

don't bleed

There was a time when I married
(everyone finds it's a mistake;
they either **** their partner
or, to continue living,
they **** their own spirit)
but I was determined to grow
my body and spirit -
can we not get conventional? -
so I had minced pie for a time
and no one could bring
my wife back home
you see
wifey got
too comfy
and see she had this thing
(after respectability)
about responsibility
the role of husband and father and
parent and homeowner, mow the lawn
service the loan
and all that crap –
I quite believe she was going mad;
maybe she walked away into the woods
Was that responsible of her?

Dear, oh dear

don't cry

Darling, oh darl

don't bleed


4)
I moved into the woods
built a little cabin, below the rocks
and covered by the trees;
yet I had visitors
who had come astray into the wilderness

Someone wanting space for the night:
“Is there enough room in your cabin?”
“Why,” I said, “there’s plenty all round”
I was vegetarian
but the destitute offered themselves to me -
the religious might say:
God fed me 
even in the wilderness! Ha!

A wandering woman one evening,
she offered love in return
for shelter that night
She let me lick, taste her flesh
“Bite me,” she said
offering a foretaste in our foreplay
Why would they not leave me? –
these wanderers, the intruding world

No, I had not come in like Thoreau
or the Unabomber – but maybe
like the misanthrope Timon of Athens...
afraid of my own hate; but the innocent
seemed to be drawn in as to a...an...abattoir



5)
And now here we are -
I have come into your space, your cell;
gates and doors
yield to my fingers, if you must know
(always good with my hands,
good with my teeth)

And we are here
each against one's wall -
and each wants to know
who is responsible
for this mess
Who made all this?
Who was insane to give us all this?
It was a mad God

or a meaningless universe – 

either way, there is no responsibility
You and I are agreed

Here we are
each against one's wall
considering who will eat who...
*Make your move; I am famished

we could do anything
so we became *** addict junkies
college flunkies
working dead end jobs to survive
partying drinking always craving to be high

with sobriety comes anxiety
fear of failing
constantly called a freeloader of society
wasting away fighting to change
buried six feet deep in debts coffin
while starving on minimum wage

unable to find hope in the sky
depression strikes as the stars fall from the night sky
jaded

jaded feeling as the end of it all is nigh
blind masquerading bubble **** praising
mumble rap hailing
feeling trapped like mice about to die

members of a generation of wasted potential are you and I  
fighting to arise building battles cries only to die when the bills arrive

They buried our Heroes

This piece comes from a bad place the shooting of the congress woman in Tucson but I will not let black hearted soulless creatures
Win so I choose to saddle up and ride into yesteryear a mask man rides a white stallion with the William Tell overture playing in this
Mans portrayal of this western hero we learned and knew what it meant to stand as an individual and that alone we could fight and
Win you’re not always able to be surrounded by friends and family battles some time require we strip down carry only bare essentials
This was the requirements of the real Texas rangers that Clayton Moore portrayed they were sent out alone with only a horse and a gun
And hardship was their constant companions they were asked to do extraordinary feats as we ourselves are now being called to do
Civilians at nine eleven were the first Americans to hear and answer the call we all have been served our fighting papers from just a
Fictional character we were trained in childhood to now be ready as adults to face an altered world where madness can pop up at
Anytime they buried Clayton in the attire he wore so well a true hero who in my thinking laid out a picture perfect formula we are
A free proud people our roots run deep in independence walk tall speak softly but be ready at any moment to rush into the breach
To fight and even die for freedom we are well represented and rounded it isn’t all about being austere we can enjoy life and have
Laughs along the way the next hero when buried had a multiple burial known as the clown prince Red Skelton went to the grave with
San Fernando Red, Cauliflower McPugg", a punchdrunk boxer, Clem Kadiddlehopper, a hick who was identified in at least one sketch
As being from Cornpone County, Tennessee, and "Freddie the Freeloader even speaking of him brings a smile but he was not just a
Funny face he was a principled man he didn’t have to do shock comedy he had talent that kept you laughing and coming back for more
This is part of our armor laughter is like a medicine sometimes the hurts linger and make a waste of a life you have to fight back
You have to defeat the negative in us all that will accept this kind of prison we must mourn and know sorrow but not as a steady diet
Can’t leave Red without telling one funny story the holidays were approaching Red was scheduled for an operation he was sedated
Wheeled into the operating room the surgeon probably almost dropped his scalpel he took the sheet down and found a note that said
Don’t open until Christmas thanks for all the laughs now for a local hero well two a father and daughter well daughters and wife but here
Just one at first Jack Jeffrey is a hero if you knew him it is evident with or without a fez he has a bearing and honorable sureness that
Commanded respect in life and carries on into death I am about to do a total selfish act in my mind since I don’t know where the car
Is or if it even exist anymore don’t get down on me for this act as I played this first in my head before coming over here to write it I paid with
Hard tears and pain maybe that still doesn’t give me the right to intrude but I came back to this country a whipped disabled defeated
Person and then Queen Donna lifted her scepter over my life by speaking of this hero I was able to find my writing voice and live once
again so any way there is something about a man and a car and a manly drive I would get into this car lovingly put my fingers on the
Stirring wheel where his used to be put his put the radio on his favorite station look at the passenger’s seat see this beautiful daughter smiling
As they slowly cruise quiet by ways they have known two minds and hearts bonded at the deepest level by love scenes flow by the
Windows old realities revisited the car filled with a mixture of vibrant memories then and now textures that only a father and daughter
Can know and share by the way I got out back a ways this is their new year’s ride together Happy new year Donna

So if you want to know upfront,
Then, you should know
That a reasoned selection process was used,
The music was cherry-picked,
Three perfect compact discs,
Hanging there from the branch,
(Actually CD stack storage)
And me, with a sativa buzz,
Working nicely, grazie mille.
I sit down to write another one of my “fakakta” poems.
The music?
Three crystal gems
Liquid pearls, all of great price.
To wit: (1) “The Best of Joe Cocker,”
(Joe died last year, and
Don’t we/Shouldn’t we
Consider him a close associate,
A kid we grew up with?)
(2) “A Twist of Marley,”
A “Verve Music” product,
Brilliant conception!
Montego Bay gone South Chicago,
A sweet instrumental miscegenation--
A potent, wicked fusion of reggae & jazz--
Manifested by Dave Grusin,
Gerald Albright, Lee Ritenour, & Others.
And last, but not even close to being least,
(3) “MILES DAVIS Kind of Blue.”
Lest we forget Norman Jewison’s
Homage to Mambo Brooklyn Italiano
Cher & her wacky greaseball family:
The Castorinis.
The Cammareri.
The Cappomaggios.
Did I hear someone say “*** Stereotype?”
Bam! A double “Moonstruck” slap,
Just to remind you:
“I’m talkin’ here.”

Lest we forget:
Coltrane blew tenor sax
Both March & April 1959 sessions,
Columbia 30th Street Studio,
New York City.
And if you've heard
"Freddie Freeloader," a
Sizzler solid 9 minutes & 49 seconds,
I think it’s probably a good time
To go check to see if you
Left the garden hose on.
BAM!
Now do I have your attention?

We pensive Boomers--
We take stock.
We ponder the clock, a
Vexatious tick-tock
Arctic soundtrack,
Music in the key of winter of
Our discontent/content.
YOU MUST CHOOSE ONE!
Time to script your buggering off,
Time to settle in
On an exit strategy.
“Yes, hurry up, it's time.” screams T.S. Eliot,
From an English major’s
Vast wasteland archive.
The scoreboard reads 4th Quarter now.
We ruminant Boomers,
Facing up to it at last, are we?
To be or not: a serene letting go, or
“Rage against the dying of the light?”
Dylan chimes in:
Thomas, meet Thomas.
Oprah, Uma.

So you should know upfront,
I got a great buzz on.
The music is groovy.
This poem ends here.

2
I know
once I was just like you
I was young and furious too
the world was too much
everyone made you feel
so hopeless, you think you could ****
I know exactly
how you feel

Like the time
then at work
the colleagues went on
about responsibility
and they conspired:
I was irresponsible;
they were conscientious;
I was a freeloader
Ah, the judges in one's world
the judges of one's soul

and one day
they found a worker in a bad state
dead and lying naked in the clichéd
pool of blood –
in the toilet, of all places -
with the words: “How irresponsible”
on the floor

Everyone was in a state -
I moved inter-state
I was going places

I must of bled the sledge dry;
gripped it too hard then let my creaks fly.
It used to save my life when the time was right,
but now the night haunts me like I've gone and died.
"Pick up your chin, kid. The plume ain't too bright."
I might but the particles feel like pesticides against my hide.
Too pessimistic to bleed, I picked up the scissors
and flea'd the **** out like I was dodging God's triggers.
Paradise sounds more like a synonym for prison
and I've surpassed being baptized by the right side.
So no thank you, but I will take an extra large fry.
A step away from vampire, so what if I live to dine.
I'll dine 'til I die and I don't give a **** if I'm crucified.

which period shall I resound the four
verses one, the rhyme?  shall I use parentheses
or just write free, might I space
or italicize or leave this un-glamorized?

I walk down the long six-story concrete steps
a step at a time divining
the barren apartment
the govt spends
its money on above hovering

You think I want to live here
in this danger rat infestation
its free but that don't make me happy
I have a baby
and the world calls me a freeloader

obviously, I have decided to
write this in stanzas
it doesn't flow like the steps
this woman walks down daily
I do my best

sometimes I sleep with men when the cupboards bare
I decided to break the flow up

for why
I don't know

I have gone two weeks without diapers before and my baby
I would do anything for her so don't judge me. I
am not a *****.

I am trying to survive.  

Again I interrupt her story to inject-
poetry has to make a difference, it often doesn't rhyme, it
isn't made to be  syllables and meters.
It is to make a difference. Let me shut up.
let her speak.

I didn't mean to bring a child into this hell. But I gave in
to one night of weakness, Now I am stuck  on the sixth floor here in this bleak *** building with no hope no
idea how I might make her life better.
I have tried god.

All I have now are the streets.

The streets are brutal.

I am a freeloader
I am a sack of meat
I am a paper cut
I am a lonely fish
I am a scratch-less compact disc
I am a broken ****
I am a string-less guitar
I am discovering
I am jealousy and rage
I am wrapping paper
I am a toilet bowl
I am a little black book
I am a ****** band
I am unenthused
I am not you
I am a heart on a stick
I am ten toes and a back ache
I am a **** tattoo
I am a bottle of glue
I am so bored
I am not worthy
I am so long and good night