She drives me crazy!
That little care-free Jalfrezi.
You see where I’m going with the curry?
‘Course you don’t, you’re ******* vindaloo!
Who the **** are you?
And as for Tarka Daal and Argy Bargy?
If they ever get off the carzy we might be able to talk.
So are you ******* listening?
She drives me crazy!
Both of you are too stupidily lazy,
Nor are you like Jalfrezi.
Re-arrange; re-word the last two lines?
Yeah right, I’m Mr Lazy.

You. You engulfe me. Over and over and over.

Relentless. Little weapon. Poxy.

Maureen of Blackpool. Readers' Wife of the Year 1988. Wife of the Year. 100% correct.

Goodbye sweet princess. The 4 in 1 will no longer taste of pure Korma. But

Jalfrezi

i'll be the one fattening the nationalists like
they're worthy to inherit the swine skidding
kinds of talk of the famous winged Hussar toppling
mountain in stone as in grain of sand: avalanche -
and akin to a crows' kraken bellowing: gluttonous kra!
und tod! schatten överskuggar död:
and what yearn be dripped in acknowledged European -
loftier thought than done, kindred of what's called
the civilised / colonial world - toward the auburn horizontal -
and in due bereaving: left undone, and unduly asked for:
to be grasped as worshipped, quasi Lutheran,
mingling Calvinist and Catholic... but never the love affair
of Henry VIII. so much of modern English
history is bound to Las Vegas, and so much to the Hajj toward
Jerusalem no one cares about... then so few to mind
the invasion of the Polish-Lithuanian
Commonwealth by the Swedes... because this is England,
and Cockney speaks, usurper of the royal tongue, due to pride,
due to the elephant man, due to jack the ripper and
harry the stinker... and the joyous rhapsody coming
from the lonely mile in Irish slang; or said: Mamelukes -
because the Mongols were at one point defeated -
and thus grieved the Baghdad skull with tinges of Hamlet -
oh the grand  library, what was left of it, could remain
enshrined in Texan avoidance - not to be:
Chilcot Coke - Cooled Coca and later Koala - Bruise and White -
thugs' select - later respect'ah - bony g and later bonbon
and much later bony m - and much much
later Alfonso Jalfrezi - alias gaga: and all the culinary sagas,
the Forsytes of Malta... or the Forsytes of Málaga?
i'm sure that question is all about:
                   wherever the peppercorn blows
        and wherever the sneeze deposits a hunch
toward an itchy cartilage - from an itch and a scratch:
                            a butterfly! well, isn't this
the most beautiful of all possible worlds...
sorta makes you want to get up in the morning
and say good-morning to someone.

i find it scary that i found proving god
was easier than proving
someone to share a life with -
that i found a deity's imperfections
more justifiable than the imperfections
of mortal beings....
i really appear as a cold-heartless
selfish swine / solipsist -
                                                yes,
that's how it is...
                               i found it easier to prove
god with everyone jumping the bandwagon
of circus acrobats and hospital surgeons,
and disk jockeys never playing in extremo
or die krupps -
because it was easier to argue the non-existence
of such a being, with colonially ardent dismissals,
because like Lethal Weapon II and the apartheid
master race choke-joke... sing me a king crimson song
you ****!                 oh right,
                                  no Pirates of the Caribbean then,
               fair enough.
                                            but we're
all up for cheese, when reconnaissance
just means: otherwise Renaissance.
                                                 bridal chambers
lefty, and if it was a hoarded arrangement...
then the curry house did
tailor the bridal dress, to avert ivory white
and instead lace the cotton with white boys'
turmeric coloured dentures worthy of
that bridal pattern that would sooner bed
a widow than a ******, if as suggested,
                     then i'm your man;
or the random **** and jalfrezi of the alcoholic's
twitchy hand...
                          oh sure,
alcoholism is a bit like exploring the Amazonian
****- / acid-forest, 'cos' we all care about the globalisation
of our private parts having established the whereabouts
of our petted dogs in the publishing industry
as: well, doing quiet well; never thought
that a woof would be so hard to find as an echo...
apparently a woof was hard to find, which is why
dogs recieved publishing contracts. also:
                             funny how i'm half ashamed and
half of anything that comes when providing a compilation
of shame cut in half with something engaging
                                        some sort of arousal
to make an arsenal out of and later simply shoot
blanks.

before doing the chores of cleaning
the house,
and happy having cooked a jalfrezi
curry the previous day
because the bonsai ginger punk
maine **** wanted to eat raw chicken,
i ground coffee beans with cinnamon
and later read about david bowie's stay
in berlin with all those fabled tales
of drinking debauchery, akin my own:
since i really really find strangers
being concerned about my health
with that drink-marathon soberness
and dry january odd and worthy of
your typical suspicion with paranoia...
they make me feel like i'm not supposed
to own my own body,
and not be able to be irresponsible with it,
somehow channel all my living parameters
into being sober, eating loads of sugar
and turning into a television zombie,
in a small part of the world, worried about
the world due to polarised media coverage
feeding me pointless opinions i don't
want to have because i simply can't enter
a dialectical conversation with them.

Oh, isn't this a sorry state ?
We must no longer salivate,
For food that's deemed unfit to eat,
Like burgers, pizzas, and red meat.
Throw all your frying pans away
But don't forget your five a day
Forget about pate de fois
Just eat mange tout and petit  pois
Without it Chinese food's not great
That mono-sodium glutinate
Remember if you feel forlorn
There are those strips of tasteless quorn.
Don’t be a meat barbarian
Become a vegetarian.
From early childhood, through my teens,
I gagged on all those ghastly greens.
And when I close my eyes I see
Those parboiled spears of broccoli.
How could I possibly forget
Stuffed aubergine and baked courgette?
I am and will be evermore
An unrepentant carnivore.
Con carne with rice? now, don’t be silly
You need a plate of three bean chilli.
I must confess, it’s not long since
I ate a bowl of proper mince.
O, what is life so full of care,
When we can only stand and stare
At treacle sponge and drizzle cake
And ice cream with a chocolate flake.
Next, will the nation’s favourite dish
Of greasy chips and battered fish
With mushy peas on top be banned
In England’s green and pleasant land?
And in the village bakery
Can we still buy cream cakes for tea?

No butter on my toast or muffin?
No crackling, no more sausage stuffing?
As each day passes how I dream
Of scones with jam and clotted cream.
Should I eat fries and a Big Mac?
Will that bring on a heart attack?
Shall I really come to grief
From Yorkshire pudding and roast beef?
Is it true that I might die
From eating steak and kidney pie?
Has it really come to this?
So many things to give a miss.
It’s time for take-away again
A spicy Singapore chow mien
I'm hungry, I could eat a horse
with chips and sweet and sour sauce
So many choices drive me crazy
Now I'm thinking beef jalfrezi
With pilau rice and nan bread,too
Or, maybe a chicken vindaloo.
Then to finish with, I think,
Some ice cream and a fizzy drink.
Then maybe later, if you please,
Some biscuits with some stinky cheese.
Then, though I really I didn’t ought
I’ll wash it down with vintage port.
People like me are branded fools,
Who never did obey the rules.
Am I so foolish? Pray, do tell
I’m nearly eighty, and quite well.
Maybe I eat foods I should not
But am I bothered?,not a lot.
“Eat and enjoy” is what I say
And live to eat another day.
Today I have no time for sorrow,
True, I might not wake tomorrow.
If I do then I will treasure
All the things that give me pleasure
I never could get sentimental
For breakfast a la continental
I'll get up slowly,take my ease.
And breakfast?  Cooked, full English, please.

Copyright @ W. F. Randle May 2020