A sportin' death! My word it was!
An' taken in a sportin' way.
Mind you, I wasn't there to see;
I only tell you what they say.

They found that day at Shillinglee,
An' ran 'im down to Chillinghurst;
The fox was goin' straight an' free
For ninety minutes at a burst.

They 'ad a check at Ebernoe
An' made a cast across the Down,
Until they got a view 'ullo
An' chased i'm up to Kirdford town.

From Kirdford 'e run Bramber way,
An' took 'em over 'alf the Weald.
If you 'ave tried the Sussex clay,
You'll guess it weeded out the field.

Until at last I don't suppose
As 'arf a dozen, at the most,
Came safe to where the grassland goes
Switchbackin' southwards to the coast.

Young Captain 'Eadley, 'e was there,
And Jim the whip an' Percy Day;
The Purcells an' Sir Charles Adair,
An' this 'ere gent from London way.

For 'e 'ad gone amazin' fine,
Two 'undred pounds between 'is knees;
Eight stone he was, an' rode at nine,
As light an' limber as you please.

'E was a stranger to the 'Unt,
There weren't a person as 'e knew there;
But 'e could ride, that London gent--
'E sat 'is mare as if 'e grew there.

They seed the 'ounds upon the scent,
But found a fence across their track,
And 'ad to fly it; else it meant
A turnin' and a 'arkin' back.

'E was the foremost at the fence,
And as 'is mare just cleared the rail
He turned to them that rode be'ind,
For three was at 'is very tail.

'Ware 'oles!' says 'e, an' with the word,
Still sittin' easy on his mare,
Down, down 'e went, an' down an' down,
Into the quarry yawnin' there.

Some say it was two 'undred foot;
The bottom lay as black as ink.
I guess they 'ad some ugly dreams,
Who reined their 'orses on the brink.

'E'd only time for that one cry;
''Ware 'oles!' says 'e, an' saves all three.
There may be better deaths to die,
But that one's good enough for me.

For mind you, 'twas a sportin' end,
Upon a right good sportin' day;
They think a deal of 'im down 'ere,
That gent what came from London way.

From grey plaster dwellin’s they come to us
fer enough sun t’ melt their lollies but
after sun-burnt migrations, some remain
as they can choose our shacks fer their castles
and their spawn breaks the spines on each weaver
and fer their red-faced fuss ‘e is broken.

The ‘ermit crab too takes ‘is leave broken.
The ‘ome ‘e made now closed to all of us
Not passed by ta’ooed ‘ands o' net weavers.
The painted shells still litter these streets but
suited slugs paint gray on our small castles
till only mockin’ shades of age remain.

“Shave off, *******’ll pick till none o’ yer remain”
screamed mad John as relaters “fixed ‘im” broken
into some plastic ‘ouse from ‘is castle.
‘ow ‘e used t’ tell those old tales to us
'o the deep places and the things there but
they ‘ad ‘im by the gills, poor old weaver.

Spines down, in nets made by ‘is own weavin.
we did it to ourselves, we can’t remain
Wi’ nets o’ money, o’ *****, o’ smokes, but
black flags still fly, bein’ bent never broken.
Cross-bone attractions will be left as us
‘eld by those who took away our castles

Stormin’ beaches to kick down our castles
the sandy ‘oles and ‘ides of those weavers.
Sellin’ our anger like lug, dear to us
cast from the sea of us that will remain
‘ook lipped, ring-eared, ink-stained and not broken
nothin’ t’ be fixed and no-one changed but

In come those nets, I ‘aint been caught yet but
that gray, that London gray sweeps my castle
away where the concrete can’t be broken
t’ reach lug beneath dried surface weavers
as gulls break beaks t’ peck at the remains.
yes, we’ll eat each-other if they take us.

Take enough of us, and leave shell castles
no ‘ands to ‘old jolly Rodgers and sing
‘appily swear, or dance on tables but
**** that.

We're stood on a blacked out highway going to who knows where. A floodlight shines on a group of workmen in road, slow. A passive aggressive sign says "Slow, My Daddy works in here". Gaz, Frank and Jim are gathered under the floodlight.

"That ****** lads dad never worked ere! That's bosses lad!"

"Mmmm..."

"Anyway, what's this hole for do you reckon? Gas? Telephone? Electric? Dead bodies? Haha!"

"Hope not"

"Hopeless more like! Why ARE we digging it anyway?"

"We? I'm digging! You're just talking ****!"

"******* Frank! What about owd Jim over there? Old ****** never does owt!"

"Grunt"

"Leave Jim alone! He's seen it all and done it all a million times! Poor guy must be knackered! If I still have to work at his age I'll ope you young uns gi mi some ****** respect!"

"Respect?! *******! Who's getting respect ere?! Not me! I'm in the middle of nowhere at night digging an ole in a highway for god knows what reason!"

"Look, Gaz, 'oles need to be dug. It's not our job to fill em. We just dig em up!"

"Yeah, but don't you wonder why? Like, we seem to be diggin up constantly! Same ****** area of the same ****** highway! Dunt anyone plan it oot so thi can do it all in one go?! Water, cables, all of it?! Its like we're makin work for t sake on it!"

"At least you've got ****** work! There used to be 20 odd of us on this stretch o road. Are you gonna dig or what?"

"Keep yer air on frank! I'll ****** dig, but I'm only doin it for you!"

"Well ****** me! I'm honoured! Shut up n dig will ya?"

Scrape, heave, scrape, heave

Sigh

Scrape, heave, scrape...

"Yer know what else...?"

"Oh, for ***** sake!! What?!?"

"These shovels are ****!"

"You're ****!"

"Nah mate! Look, handles are loose and shovel bit's weak as ****! If you lift too much thi just bend! It's like thi want us to ave to work twice as ard for t same bleeding job!"

"Well there's no worry o that wi you is there?! You lift ****** all!"

"Whatever..."

Heave, scrape, heave, scrape, heave ... crack!!!

"Told you!"

"Shut up smart ****!"

"Don't ya get it though?! We're nowt t them lot! Thi just use us n **** on us! Wi dunt even kno' where this place is do we? We just get a lamp post number and go! Where does this ****** highway go?!"

"Look, I don't give a ****! I just want to dig this 'ole then go ome and watch some TV and maybe get a **** before bed! There's a ****** sign over there anyway..."

Sign reads "He..."
The rest of the sign is broken away, probably hit by a car.

"Jim. Jim?! Jim!! ******* I think Jim's dea..."

"Consarnid!! Thundering eejit!! I int banna be deed, tha ****** loony! I wor banna geet some shuteye! Tha lod banging on abaat ****** why thar ****** shovlin *****?! Carnt tha led an owd bloke sleep?!!!"

"Sorry Jim. Just worried mi for a minute there. Are ta alreet?"

"Nah am nod! I wo avin a reet dree-um befoore tha wakened us! Megan ****** Fox wor sat o mi fay-us!"

In unison - "Hahaha! Tha owd dog Jim!!"

"Sorry Jim, It's Gaz, e's got more questions than a ****** 3 year owd!"

"Shut up ya miserable get!
Why do you reckon we're diggin this ole Jim? You've been doin it a long time."

"Aye... I wor yer wen thi started fixint roo-uds. It wo differnt then. Thi gi'd us reet too-uls n ad t reet ideas. Thi jus wanid us to dig reet. Bud thi dint like us knowin moo-ur than them lod! S thi gid us ****** all n wi started wokin unner leets i t deark. Nah ****** con see us then. Thas askin t rong quetsion lad! Ids nod why aar wi diggin t oil! It's why aar wi doin id int deark?!"

"Why are wi Jim?"

"Because we're expe...."

Beeeeeeeeeeeeep!!!!
Thud!!!
Vrooooommm!!!

"Oy!!!! ******!!!!"

"Es dead Frank! What the ****, What the ****, What the ****?!"

"What?!? Jim?!! Did tha get 'is number?"

"What the ****, What the ****, What the ****?!"

"Gaz!!"

"What the ****, What the ****, What the ****?!"

"**** Gaz, yer reet! ****** this **** I'm not diggin any more! I'm off ome!"

"F..f...fr.... FranFrank?"

"What Gaz? That were ****** up Gaz!! Jims dead!"

"B..b....bu... bury J..J..J..Jim"

"Gaz, tha'll ave t do it tharself, I can't dig anymore. Sorry. Im calling t ambulance n goin ome. You should too! Bye Gaz. Good luck."

"B..b....by... bye J..J..J..Jim..."

Scrape, heave, scrape, heave, scrape, heave

Slow. My Daddy works in he...

Los frescos pintados en la pared
transforman el "Salón Reservado"
en una "Plaza de Toros", donde el suelo
tiene la consistencia y el color de la "arena":
gracias a que todas las noches
se riega la tierra con jerez.

Jinetes en sillas esqueletosas,
tufos planchados con saliva,
una estrella clavada en la corbata,
otra en el dedo meñique,
los tertulianos exigen que el "cantaor"
lamente el retardo de las mujeres
con ¡aves! que lo retuercen
en calambres de indigestión.

De pronto,
en un sobresalto de pavor,
la cortina deja pasar seis senos
que aportan tres "mamás".

Los párpados como dos castañuelas,
las pupilas como dos cajas de betún,
***** el pelo,
negras las pestañas
y las extremidades de las uñas,
las siguen cuatro "niñas", que al entrar,
provocan una descarga de ¡oles!
que desmaya a las ratas que transitan el corredor.

La servilleta a guisa de "capote",
el camarero lidia el humo de los cigarros
y la voracidad de la clientela,
con "pases" y chuletas "al natural",
o "entra" a "colocar" el sacacorchos
como "pone" su vara un picador.

Abroqueladas en armaduras medioevales,
en el casco flamea la bandera de España,
las botellas de manzanilla
se agotan al combatir a los chorizos
que mugen en los estómagos,
o sangran en los platos
como toros lidiados.

Previa autorización de las "mamás",
las "niñas" van a sentarse
sobre las rodillas de los hombres,
para cambiar un beso por un duro,
mientras el "cantaor",
muslos de rana
embutidos en fundas de paraguas,
tartamudea una copla
que lo desinfla nueve kilos.

Los brazos en alto,
desnudas las axilas,
así dan un pregusto de sus intimidades,
las "niñas" menean, luego, las caderas
como si alguien se las hiciera dar vueltas por adentro,
y en húmedas sonrisas de extenuación,
describen con sus pupilas
las parabólicas trayectorias de un espasmo,
que hace gruñir de deseo
hasta a los espectadores pintados en la pared.

Después de semejante simulacro
ya nadie tiene fuerza ni para hacer rodar
las bolitas de pan, ensombrecidas,
entre las yemas de los dedos.

Poco a poco, la luz aséptica de la mañana
agrava los ayes del "cantaor"
hasta identificar
la palidez trasnochada de los rostros
con la angustiosa resignación
de una clientela de dentista.

Se oye el "klaxon" que el sueño hace sonar
en las jetas de las "mamás",
los suspiros del "cantaor"
que abraza en la guitarra
una nostalgia de mujer,
los cachetazos con que las "niñas"
persuaden a los machos
que no hay nada que hacer
sino dejarlas en su casa,
y sepultarse en la abstinencia
de las camas heladas.

1** special bond, 2 in love
2 souls entwined, 2 blazing hearts
2 poles,6 months to attract
3 sweet words, 2 lips waiting
slightly opened, patiently waiting
3 powerful arguments, 6 minutes to say
took him long to tell them straight
4 strong arms, 2 bodies embracing
never want to lose grip
3 daughters, 10 years, a decade —
proves it right; it takes only two to fill
one orbital — both opposite,
one home.

me inner voice talks ter me
like ted rogers reelin off da clues
dats why am livin in a dusty bin
wid big ******* oles in me roof
I avent gorra *** ta **** in
burra still wudn **** on you
fer lookn down on me
fukkn frownin at me
like am da **** on ya ****** rich ***** shoes

Dear gawd my gawd
because my bestowed station
ventures to or from site of oles
I'm deemed beneath breath

Dear gawd my gawd
Aside alls lured dawn
My motionless dream of need
explaining why my constant
scream can't breathe

message ye
forbade evil in labor
good at work
do ye lil lark
perhaps of oles destiny
oversee fated rook
ye all's move in time
hence ruse past behind
time of metaphoric piece
whense good riddance
epiphany breach rook site
over straight and narrow knyte

ink link ye exist from nor through
hence being ink linked ye became
script wrote, site unseen, path forbidden
cause oles ink link venture apart ye of sigil lore

Gather worries of one's word
Bewarned much like life of oles
Pay to attend
Participate to win
Inevitably get played
Though ye win nerves
Hopefully ye try again
To die harder