Not long after the beginning, and a bit before the end, the Almighty said to Noah: “Is that your real name?” “Yeah”, said Noah: “you gave it to me, your ever generousness. I was hoping for something a bit more romantic, maybe even an extra syllable or two, or become all psychedelic and have a hyphen and a double barrel, but Noah is functional. I’m not complaining, a lot. After all what’s in a name? Wouldn’t a cactus be just as uninteresting if it was called something else? Why am I and my not very exciting name so humbly in your almighty and quite tedious presence?” asked Noah. “I’ve had a great idea”, said God: “and I want you with the very boring name to be the first to hear it.” “Can’t wait to hear it your Denseness, even if it is only half as brilliant as the square wheeled chariot and deep-fried ice cube you nearly invented for us last week; and as for the three-armed jacket, well what can I say? Jacob wears his every day and I won’t tell you what he does with it at night, as it involves folk music. And didn’t the Paisley patterned boulder illuminate the landscape?” said Noah “Oh good”, said God: “I do so enjoy it when the minions are attentive to my every word and trembling syllable, What’s the point of being an Almighty if you can’t Almighty it over the lower orders from time to time?” “I couldn’t agree more, your Bampotness. Even if you do appear to be a few slices short of a full loaf on occasions. So, what’s this big idea you’ve had?” said Noah. “I want you to build a boat, the biggest and bestest boat there’s ever been” said God. “Why”, said Noah, “we live in a desert, we don’t do boats; never have done, don’t get a lot of call for them in these parts, your Obliqueness. Ordinarily you’re every utterance is a symphony of sound and beauty to the sticky out bits on the abstract countenance you have so generously created for me, O Guano features. Couldn’t you do another plague of frogs and locusts? We loved those. Your subjects haven’t eaten so well since. Very tasty they were indeed, and so much more nourishing than the daily fare of cactus bark and centipede you dish up to us as we go about our increasingly diminishing mortal trespass. I hope you weren’t baffled by the paradoxical construction of that sentence. One Almighty’s punishment is another lowly minion’s business opportunity. I was running a fast food joint while it lasted. Made a change from the normal feast, where you have to catch your dinner before it catches you. Eat before your eaten that’s the Law ‘round here. It makes you feel more like a recipe than a person on occasions, your Compostness.” “Be that as it may, said God: “I’ve got some drawings which Eve helped me to make” “Eve?”  said Noah: “did you say Eve?” “Yes” said God: “Eve”, that’s what I said, she likes me more than all the rest of you put together and that’s why she’s my favourite” “This will be good” said Noah: “let’s be having it. Let’s see the cosmic blueprint of a less than useless boat that Eve devised” “I helped to devise it as well”, said God: “In fact I done all the pencil sharpening, and here it is.” Noah sniggered and said: “That’s not a boat it’s a camel!” “Brilliant, isn’t it?”, said God: “you’ve got to hand it to Eve; she’s a genius at this kind of stuff, and she says it will make me look jolly clever as well. And that will stop all you ungrateful and wretched minions from smirking and sniggering every time I have a wonderful idea.” “This is even better than the ten commandments, three dos six don’ts and a maybe” said Noah. “My Ten commandments were wonderful” said God: “even Moses said so.” “The only reason you have ten commandments”, said Noah: “is because you have ten fingers. If you had seventeen fingers we would have seventeen commandments; one for each digit. People who use their toes to count their fingers should avoid life’s mathematical complexities. And as for Moses ‘The Born Leader’ he’s a party hack. He’ll agree with anything you say as long as he gets his name on the tablet. He’s publicity mad. When he grows up he wants to chisel the definitive text on cactus attraction, for the benefit of future desert wanderers. Eve says he a bit of a Freudian fruitcake on the quiet, whatever that is. She also says, his mother told him he was adopted, and he’s never quite got over it.” “Why would Moses want to get over a cactus, seems jolly silly to me” said God: “He’s a complete basket case, according to the local grapevine. Never mind all that, let’s see the blueprint.” said Noah: “A wooden camel, only a cosmic idiot could imagine it. If it was a wooden horse it could have been sold to the Trojans, or a wooden cat to the Pharoahs, and I’m told the antipodeans go a bundle on timber budgies, but camels; nobody wants one, not even other camels. How did someone as colossally dense and as infinitely thick as your self acquire the surreallness of thought to imagine it in the first place?” said Noah. “You’re a bright little chappie for a minion”, said God: “Eve told me about the Greeks and their wooden gee-gee and I suggested a boat, then Eve pointed out that this was a desert, and consequently we need a desert boat. ‘One that floats on sand’, I said. ‘Not quite El Plonkero’ she said. Then Eve said we have to adopt and then apply some lateral thinking to the problem. She pointed out that we live in a desert and that we need a boat that sails in the desert. And then I had the mostest cleverest thought I’ve had in ages. We need a ‘desert boat’ I exclaimed. And Eve said I was a true plankton eater. She says the nicest things to me. A ‘ship of the desert,’ she says, ‘and what’s a ship of the desert?’  Quick as a flasher in the rush hour, I said ‘a camel’, and Eve replied that I was quite bright for a log, and that camel plus ship equalled wooden camel to sail away from here to some other paradise she called Hollywood, ‘Land of heavenly bodies and the drop dead gorgeous Brad Pitt.’” “And you believed her?” said Noah. “Of course I believed her”, said God: “she’s Eve and if you can’t believe in Eve what else is there to believe in?” “There’s an answer to that”, said Noah: “but you’d toast me like a heretic on the happy juice if I repeated it, your Doorknobness.”

When I was eighteen I worked for a company called GLENCOM. You probably haven't heard of them, you're not supposed to.
They're the invisible middleman.
What happens is, when a company wants to set up a call centre but doesn't have the space or the manpower to do it themselves, they call Glencom.
Glencom then puts together a team of people in Swindon,
teaches them the bare minimum about the product they need to sell and sticks them around a table with headphones on,
completely cut off from the people around them being force-fed phone numbers for eight straight hours a day.

They do this for dozens of companies. And there are dozens of companies just like it.
Producing nothing, just doing other peoples ***** work.
The jobs they don't want to do themselves.
Like Telemarketing. Cold-Calling.
You know when you've just got into the bath,
or you're sitting down to dinner and the phone rings and you think
'I don't want to answer that but it might be important'
and when you answer it it's someone you've never met desperately trying to sell you something you don't want?
And no matter what you say they don't seem to listen, or care,
they just keep reading standard procedure from a script until you can't take it any more and you just hang up?
Chances are, that person is a Glencom specialist telephone agent.

I loved that job, I really did.
You probably think I'm crazy for it, it's the kind of job that middle class kids do for a little extra cash while they're at university,
until they get sick of the soul-crushing routine of getting yelled at and hung up on, yelled at and hung up on and they stop showing up after six weeks.
Year after year, cold-calling is rated in the top ten things people hate about the modern world.
I was part of the problem.
And I loved it.

You see, when you get one of these phone calls, you don't realise that it's a real person on the other end of the phone.
Of course, you do know that it must be a person, that's common sense.
It's just not in your nature to think of that disembodied voice as having a face and a mind
and a favourite food .
and a family
and a history
and a home that they go to every night at seven thirty.
They're a spirit.
One-dimensional.
So you don't treat them like a real person,
and that's OK, really it is, we're used to it.
As far as you're concerned, whoever you're talking to is just a faceless corporation,
so you yell, and you swear,
way more than you would if you were face to face with someone, say, at your bank or in a shop.
Every little thing that has ****** you off that day gets unloaded onto that person because,
for those five minutes,
with your bath getting cold,
or your dinner getting overcooked and blackened,
they are everything that's wrong with society.

So by the time you finally slam the receiver down, and return to whatever it was you were doing,
you're face red, out of breath, can't remember the last time you were that angry
they've ruined your evening.
You swear you're going to complain,
but you know that if you do that you'll just get caught up in their red tape and rhetoric all over again.
There's nothing to do but let it go.
So you do, and with it, something strange happens.
All that anger and tension that you've been carrying around all day just leaves your body slowly.

The traffic that morning;
your workload at the office;
that cold you just cant shake;
the barista who got your coffee order wrong, but your were running late so didn't have time to complain and get a new one;

All those little things that you can't control,
it doesn't seem worth worrying about them now.
You think of how angry you were at that little voice coming out of the telephone speaker and you feel sort of proud,
like it makes up for bending over and taking **** from your Boss all those years.
from your bank all those years
from the gas and electric companies
and your phone company and internet service provider all those years
from your politicians all those years
all that doesn't sting so much any more.

Because you just stuck it to the man.
You stood up to the big corporations and you got the upper hand.
You start to see the funny side,
you'll tell everyone at work about this.

That's the thing about telemarketers: They're one of those little annoyances that people love so much,
like the weather or queue-jumpers.
Something we all hate, but can all relate to,
a lynch-pin of small-talk,
that inoffensive comedian you like so much was talking about it on tv the other night.

But this time you get a chance to stri ke back.
It's not like getting a parking ticket,
or stubbing your toe,
you get to yell at this inconvenience, tell it exactly how you feel without any fear of repercussions.

Without you realising it, that telemarketer has just done you a valuable service.
You've just saved yourself an hour in front of a punch-bag,
or a session with your therapist or *****.
Without knowing it you are in a better mood than you've been all week,
so you don't smack your kids when they spill paint on the carpet.
And you don't yell at your wife when she forgot to pay the electric bill.
You float on a cloud of air until bed time, and probably make love to your partner for the first time in weeks.
You sleep a healthy eight hours and wake up to breakfast  and coffee and drive to work feeling like you did when you first started there,
when you could still see a bright future ahead of you.
All thanks to that soulless,
faceless,
nameless
disembodied voice on the other end of the phone.
All thanks to me.

I worked out that in any given day,
I got yelled at or told to ******* or otherwise unnecessarily lashed out at maybe thirty out of every hundred calls.
That was thirty families who were going to have a nice dinner,
without the usual arguments for once.
Maybe a few times a week I could prevent an abusive husband from having that one whiskey too many and bashing his wife from room to room.
If you believe in a butterfly flapping it's wings in Tokyo, and all that,
then maybe I, without ever leaving my desk, could stop a ****** from happening, perhaps once a year.
I was making a difference and all I had to do was let my computer dial a random phone number and to introduce myself as
'whoever calling from wherever to let you know about a valuable promotion...'

When I realised all this I decided I would work harder to up my productivity.
A hundred and fifty calls a day,
two hundred.

And I had to provoke more anger.
Subtly of course, I would try to be more obnoxious and inept.
I got peoples names wrong;
I talked over people.
Soon I was getting fifty hang-ups a day.
So I, like a good employee, constantly tried to better myself.
I sniggered at peoples names;
I requested needlessly extensive and intrusive personal information;
asked to speak to 'the man of the house'.
I was getting balled out with every other call.
Seventy, eighty, ninety times a day.
Every time I was called a nuisance I gave myself a pat on the back.
Every time someone said they wanted to speak with my supervisor, I just said they weren't in and then rewarded myself with a cookie at break time.
I got more competitive with myself.
I considered it a personal gift when I got someone with an Indian name,
or a speech impediment.
Gay couples were a Godsend.
I corrected peoples grammar;
I cursed;
I slurred;
I made thinly veiled ****** references.

I was thorn in the side of everyone just trying to enjoy a quiet Sunday afternoon.
I was the itch that no-one could reach.
I invited venom, longed for hatred.
Because if it was aimed at me, it may as well have been aimed at the moon.
I was a necessary evil.
I was the common enemy of the whole country.  
I can't say how many relationships I must have saved,
how many lives I touched.
Suicides prevented? You never know.
I was making the world a better place, one botched customer service attempt at a time.
I was saving people without them even knowing my name.
The anonymous benefactor,
the masked hero.
I was Zorro, I was Batman.
And I loved it.
I thrived on it.
I had found something I was good at.
I could have stayed there, soaking up insults, absorbing peoples troubles, lightening their burdens, forever.

Until three months ago when my manager saw my sales reports.
He, of course, didn't understand why we were really there.
He thought it was about money, about generating figures for whatever company we were hired by that month.
He threw buzz-words and management speak at me.
Improving Revenue.
Optimising Productivity.
Promoting Synergy.
Utilising Opportunity.
Sentence fragments that wouldn't make sense if he meant them.
Nonsensical ramblings littered with capital letters.
By Glencom's standards, rather than my own, I was the worst specialist telephone agent that he had ever seen.
I didn't bother trying to explain.
He wouldn't have understood,
I wanted something real.
Glencom could have been the first call centre to truly,
what's the phrase he would have used? Attain it's Potential.
We could have been pioneers in the business world, providing a service that the public really needs.
But there was no point, he had listened to recordings of my calls and had no choice but to fire me on the spot.

That job was the only thing I had loved for a long, long time. T
he only thing that gave me purpose,
my reason for getting out of bed,
for putting on trousers and shoes.
It was all I had and I lost it,
blacklisted by the employment agency that placed me there.
For a while I tried calling people at random from the phone book but it didn't work out.
You have no idea how much it costs to make a hundred phone calls a day on a pay as you go mobile.
Ten pence a minute
times by sixty minutes an hour
times by eight hours a day  
minus a half hour for lunch equals more than jobseeker's allowance is willing to provide.
I switched to contract but these days everyone has phone number recognition,
so everyone can see that you're calling from a personal phone rather than a business one.

Eventually I started getting phone calls from the phone company explaining that I'd be cut off
and fined if I was using a personal phone for random telemarketing without a license.

The operator was clear, polite and ultimately very helpful.

******' Amateur.

In the German town of Shtuping
Something clearly was amiss:
Town name signs were disappearing,
The good townsfolk were nonplussed!
“For years tourists have sniggered
At our name when driving by
As its Yiddish for activity
A girl does with a guy”.

Some people want to keep the name
That makes the tourists come.
Others are ashamed to say
That Shtuping’s where they’re from.

When the townsfolk vote to change the name
It will cost a pretty penny
To change the signs from "Shtuping"
To the new: "Notgettingany".

He gave a picture exhibition,
Hiring a little empty shop.
Above its window: FREE ADMISSION
Cajoled the passers-by to stop;
Just to admire - no need to purchase,
Although his price might have been low:
But no proud artist ever urges
Potential buyers at his show.

Of course he badly needed money,
But more he needed moral aid.
Some people thought his pictures funny,
Too ultra-modern, I'm afraid.
His painting was experimental,
Which no poor artist can afford-
That is, if he would pay the rental
And guarantee his roof and board.

And so some came and saw and sniggered,
And some a puzzled brow would crease;
And some objected: "Well, I'm jiggered!"
What price Picasso and Matisse?
The artist sensitively quivered,
And stifled many a bitter sigh,
But day by day his hopes were shivered
For no one ever sought to buy.

And then he had a brilliant notion:
Half of his daubs he labeled: SOLD.
And lo! he viewed with queer emotion
A public keen and far from cold.
Then (strange it is beyond the telling),
He saw the people round him press:
His paintings went - they still are selling...
Well, nothing succeeds like success.

My thoughts were upon one moment
When above my head a lonely moth
Did fly. I walked in a line a zig zag
But he still did follow above my
Brow little wings did flutter about.

I stopped for a moment to my amazement
Where there was but one now two did
Drift within the air. Hello little ones I did
Ask what does bring you upon this hour
Floating above my head over my hair.

I walked a while pretending that the
Flickers were imagination not really there.
But where two once were now three glided,
Fluttered above I felt the cooling air.
Why follow me wee ones why do you care.

Little ones who fly with me, I ponder in
Thought yet you effortlessly spiral above
My figure. Can I ask why you do this, could
You cease this. Would you possibly reconsider
As interrupting my remarkable endeavour.

But on I walked where so few had once been
More did collect above my feature, I shooed
Them my arms did wave above my head.
People walking past looked and sniggered,
Great now I look crazy as you do flutter.

I carried on my thoughts still bright, even
Though these above my head you think
It would dim get gradually dimmer. But
A light had gone off and would not flicker.

Then I realised what had caused this action
The thought so bright it was a metaphorical
Light upon my feature. So bright the idea
Did they see, so hovering on the gleam.

I sat upon a bench and out came paper and
Pen, my thoughts now concentrated from
Thought to matter. With that the little
Reflection now emptied scribbled on paper.

Where many had floated above all now
Were dispensing as the light had slowly
Grows significantly dimmer. But one did
Stay it saw potential of brighter, bigger.

So if a moth on a dark night decides to
Hover and you just had a thought.
Realize that these little ones can see
The light and the ideas that flicker.

Cross my path with silver,
cackled the aged crone,
She sniggered,
and the girlie,
she just walked past,
Grinning, saying confidentially,
"What you know you silly old hag",
The hag she shouted in her face,
Girlie,"I can bless you,
or equally, can curse you",
The years did pass,
The crone, kept girl's sarcasm in her heart,
The girl she wanted an honest child,
for she had grown older,
somewhat bolder,
And she tried to conceive,
a baby of love,
a gift from above,
she had lots of expensive investigations,
but she just couldn't fall,
The crone she passed in the hallway,
Smiled all knowingly,
she whispered at the sweet chick,
"if you'd crossed my palm with silver, all those years ago,
you would have had a baby,
But you will never know,
She sat and she thought, and she smiled to herself,
For she never believed in that gypsy's curse.
Two years have passed since that day,
her bonny baby, she doth play,
realised the gypsy curse was *******.
(C) Livvi

"Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked him in the park.
"I do" he replied as they built a castle out of sticks.
They were both pretty young, and hadn't a clue.

"Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked him on her way to school.
"I think you're nice" he replied as they climbed over the gate.
They were both just kids, and didn't have a clue.

"Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked him on the way to calculus class.
"I think you're pretty...
ugly,
fat and
slutty" he replied as his friends sniggered.
They were both growing up.

"Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked the ***** mirror in the girl's bathroom that same day.
"I think you're pretty worthless" her reflection replied as she short herself in the head.

The big kid stood
by the garden shed
with others kids and you
the horticultural teacher

was down by the beds
with some other kids
whom he was showing
how to dig

and the big kid said
I had her
back there
up in those woods

at the end
of the playing field
the other kids
moved in closer

to get a better grip
on the tale told
you stood on
the perimeter

of the crowd
one eye
on the big kid
the other on the teacher

bent over a kid
showing him how
to hold a *****
and you know what?

the big kid said
she was some goer
the other kids
looked at him

then at each other
some plump kid
with spots laughed
you looked over

towards the woods
by the playing field
a quaint woodland
over by the fence

and near the road
and you know
what it’s like? Huh?
the big kid said  

the kids nodded
you noticed
their eyes large
and their tongues

at the corner
of mouths
it was like slipping  
into a warm bed

the big kid said
on a cold night
the teacher made
his way towards

you and the kids
by the shed
the big kid
made gestures

with his hand
and the boys sniggered
half catching on
to the gesture’s tale

the big kid’s hands
went into pockets
out of sight
the other kids

moved towards
the teacher’s
calling voice
you followed

unwillingly
having little choice.

He always thought
hers was a peasant's body
not as a critique
but by something

about the simplicity
of the way she walked
or stood or the way
she lay on the double bed

one hand resting
on her naked abdomen
her brown haired head
on a pillow at rest

the way one leg
was raised
one flat down
on the bed

the small area
of ***** hairs
he was by the window
of his bedroom

looking at the garden below
then up along the road
the afternoon sun
settling on the trees

aren't you coming
back to bed?
she said
still not satiated ?

he said smiling
sensing his pecker move
not of you
she said

or of Percy
if he's willing
he sniggered
at her nickname

for his pecker
the green bus went by
along the road
good God

he said
that's her bus
whose?
she said

my mother's bus
she’ll be here
in a few minutes  
she lay there

open mouthed
uncertain of what
to say or do
you'll have to get up

and we'll go
before she wonders
what we were doing
up here

he said
she moved from the bed
as if in a daze
her nakedness complete

her ******* bobbing
her hands searching
around for her clothes
he moved faster

hurrying his dressing
taking quick glimpses
through the window
his mother was not

in view
he took a glance
at his lover
semi dressed

hair in a mess
her naked buttocks
disappearing
into cloth

he loved that final glimpse
of nakedness
that final sight
of bare flesh

his mother was in sight
along the road
quick
he said

downstairs
and she grabbed
her stockings
and shoes

and followed him
down the stairs
two at a time
her bare feet

sensing the cold floor
through the kitchen
and out the back door
along the brick pathway

he closed the door
and locked
and put the key
back under the mat

and speedily
followed his lover
into the woods
the ground prickling

beneath his feet
and she smiling
out of breath
hiding behind

the old shed
putting on her stockings
and he wondering
how it may have been

if his mother
had caught them
making love
and their nakedness seen.

The way
Miss Manners

sat
on the school desk

when the teacher
was out

of the room
or before

he came in
hands on each side

of her thighs
flat

on the desk top
her white socks

hugging her carves  
and black shoes

toe touching
and the knees rubbing

each on each
and Boxy said

nudging you
giving her

the eye
wouldn’t mind being

her bicycle seat
and the sunlight

lit up her hair
angel like

sitting there you thought
the hands small

palms down
the fingers

slightly spread
the nails

pinkie white
unchewed

and Boxy whispered
bet she’s *******

his breath
easing out

sweetness
of bubblegum

wouldn’t mind
kissing her ***

he sniggered
there was

where the sunlight
caught her profile

that contrast
of light and shade

the nose
the lips

slight spread
and where

the sun lit her
a halo shone

around her
****** head.

Narrator 1: Sweet children of pure honesty, Hansel and Gretel
Narrator 2: Really aren’t nice ones, they’re weeds like stinging nettles
Narrator 1: And that evil little missus
Cooked that poor witch, and that does not distress us
Narrator 2: So here is our story
And perhaps, purposefully, it’s a little bit gory
Both: Of Hansel and Gretel,
The annoying children like stinging nettles…

Narrator 1: There was a family of four
Who lived in a house with a rotting floor
In the middle of the woods,
With no money for basic goods
Narrator 2: A little boy lived there, his name
was Hansel
He was always forcing his father to cancel
His trips to the village in effort of food
Which did no good
Narrator 1: Then there was his sister, her name was Gretel
Always mistaken for being gentle
Rather, though, she was a spoilt brat
Always scoffing any food and becoming fat
Narrator 2: Their father, desperately weak,
Told by his children he was a freak
Narrator 1: Married a woman, perfectly strict,
Who had perfect legs for a mean kick
Both: You must remember now, these children are brats,
And need to have their heads chopped off with an axe
Narrator 1: Of course as you would expect,
Their step-mother wanted their severed necks
She taught them well, and she tried hard,
But their minds always seemed afar
Narrator 2: One day, she had had enough
Sent them off into the woods, she felt rough
But she told herself, you to me
This had to be done to the banshees
Narrator 1: The children, chubby and rude
Were sent off into the wood
Narrator 2:After a while, Gretel moaned
Gretel: ‘Where is all the food?’
Narrator 2: she groaned
Narrator 1: Of course you see she was greedy
So didn’t care about the needy
Both: And…...****! Just like that
A gingerbread house appeared with a snap
Narrator 1: Gretel always wanted to boast
And she felt she was the foodie host
Narrator 2: Hansel ran forward, teeth sunk into the ginger
No idea of the injure
He was causing to the house
And the occupant; a little mouse
Narrator 1: The mouse came out, shaking with fear
And said to the boy
Mouse: “Now look ‘ere!
You have no right to come bargin’ in
I just finished decoratin’!”
Narrator 1: Gretel sniggered, and winked at her brother
Narrator 2: Something that would’ve scared off their mother
Both: The turned their bottoms to the mouse
And let rip a **** that blew her back to the house!
Now these atrocious children
Needed to learn a very good lesson
Narrator 1: The mouse scampered away and awoke the witch
Who for some strange reason loved to stitch
Narrator 2:The witch was kind, her name was Brooke,
As you can see she loved to cook
Narrator 1: She loved gingerbread, for her village was made of it
If anyone ate her houses then she would throw a fit
Both: These children were no exception,
And Brooke was a witch of deception
Narrator 1:She lay on the floor in a fit of temper
The mouse feared she could not help her
Narrator 2: Brooke got up and slowly grinned
Witch: ‘I’ve a plan, it’ll make them run out of wind!’
Narrator 2: She whispered carefully to the mouse
Witch: ‘Bring them in the house,
I’ll give them lots of food,
And teach those brats for being rude!’
Narrator 1: The two children continued to munch,
The mouse came out and said
Mouse: ‘Come in! Have some sweets for lunch!’
Narrator 2: As soon as they were in, the trap fell
Trapping young Hansel, but it was too small for Gretel
Witch: Nevermind,
We’ll make a maid out of the girl with a big behind!
Narrator 1: Gretel slaved around, but slowly began to eat the walls
The mouse knew this but only said,
Mouse: ‘The fools!’
Narrator 2: After a while Hansel also got big,
He, like Gretel, was such a pig
Both: The children simply got fatter and fatter
Whilst the witch continued making her batter
Narrator 1: One day Gretel awoke to the smell of delicious food,
And rolled over to find she couldn’t move!
Narrator 2: Hansel was in a similar position
But still the witch hadn’t completed her mission
Both: She brought the greedy children more food so sweet
Which Hansel and Gretel couldn’t help but eat
Narrator 1: The witch wandered down the steps and whispered to the mouse
Witch: ‘Quick! Evacuate the house!’
Narrator 1: The witch and the mouse ran far away,
knowing about the end of the children’s days
Narrator 2: The children munched on and on
But at one point on the beds where they lay upon,
Narrator 1: Gretel moaned,
Gretel: I’m so full I could pop!
Narrator 1: And pop she did! There was no stop
Narrator 2: Hansel followed not long after
Both: And that is their Happy Ever After
That is the true story of Hansel and Gretel
The incredibly annoying and greedy children like stinging nettles.

Woolgar peered
through the wire mesh
at the girl’s playground
can see that girl you like

down there
he said
you walked
to the wire mesh

and stared through
see her?
he said
no can’t see her

there over by
that fat girl
with the blue
ribboned hair

you stared harder
they keep moving about
you said
she’s there

he said
poking his finger
through mesh
her with the dark hair

you peered
at where his finger poked
Jane was by the fence
playing jump rope

with two other girls
yes I see her now
you said
what’s she like?

Woolgar said
like?
you said
what do you mean like?

Woolgar sniggered
and gazed stupidly
through the mesh
you know

does she kiss
and such
and what’s it like?
that’s for me to know

and you to guess
you said
some say
girl’s lips

are like peaches
Woolgar said
or that they kiss
all wet and warm

you watched Jane
move the rope
around and around
with some other girl

while one other
jump high and laughed
does she have *******?
Woolgar asked

peering like
some peeping Tom
or is she flat as board?
Or don’t you know?

he asked
looking round at you
his eyes brown
and round

and aping dung
what’s it to you Woolgar?
you still ****
your mother’s dugs

or so I’ve heard
you said
seeing Jane
play skip rope

once again
you leave my mother
out of this
he said

rubbing his fingers
going red
walking off
muttering

and moaning
turning round
and *******
you turned

to gaze at Jane
once more
but the skipping girls
had gone away

to some other place
to skip and play.

Milka waited by the gate
of the farmhouse
for him to arrive

her brothers waited also
for he was their friend first
even if she had
drawn in him

with her emotional tide
I showed him how
to drive a car

one said
and I showed him
how to ride a motorcycle
said the other

in a field
Milka said
just in a ******

farm field
they sniggered
what have you shown him?
the oldest brother asked

yes what fine skills
have you taught him?
the other said laughing

wouldn't you like to know
she said stormily
folding her arms
and avoiding their stares

they guffawed
in the background
then proceeded

to practice their judo
until he arrived
she turned
and glimpsed them

now and then
but all she wanted
was for him to arrive

just a quick word
and maybe kiss
before her brothers
collared him

for the judo practice
the last time he came
and practiced

he had them both down
on the ground in minutes
and she stood
and clapped and cheered

what had she shown him?
that was between
she and him

not for her snooping
brothers to know
she looked up
the narrow road

that led to the farmhouse
but he wasn't in sight
just a car

then a tractor
slowly moving along
whose driver waved
(and she embarrassed

waved back)
one of her brothers
was on the ground

the other stood triumphantly
hands in the air
she looked away
she caught

the summery air
the sight of birds
in flight

but not him
and she'd put on
her new jeans
and top( too tight

her mother said)
with a flowery pattern
then he was coming

over the hill
riding his bike
and the ******
of excitement

ran through her being
and she stood expectantly
by the gate

trying to appear casual
unconcerned
and he dismounted his bike
and came over

his Elvis style quiff
his jeans and shirt
and despite herself

she stood there on tiptoes
her body tingling
and he smiled
and shyly kissed

her cheek
and touched her hand
then walked to her brothers

and they came at him
with their judo moves
and taunts and laughter
and she stood there

watching
sensing the kiss
on her cheek

burn into her skin
and light a fire
of passion within
waiting and watching

feeling his touch
on her hand
(not to be washed off)

and she rubbed
her finger along
where he had laid
his touch

and inwardly
she mused
and thought

o God
o too much.

And then there was evening.

The edge of our estate, a wire fence.  
We ducked under it, Cole's fat neck scraped,
he squealed.  
Older boys sniggered.  

Once buildings grew here,  
it now sprouted vegetation.  
We picked our way through.  
Here we built the world: a haven of ***** mattresses and wooden boards  
holding shaped rocks and bones found somewhere,  
that hint of death.  

Cain was bigger than the rest.  
He liked fire,  
pushed at the mattresses, unsettling dust.  
He picked up a stick and beat down the walls,  
eyes filled with that blaze.

Suddenly sticks flew,  
we thrashed with fury and rage and everything,
at our creation.
Soon our jigsaw walls were waste upon the ground.  
Then there was light.  
Cain's father, passed out, drunk,  
missed the silver lighter his son produced.  
Roaring flame which singed our nostril hairs,  
smelling bonfire for a week after.  

Cain's eyes saw everything.
We stood, in his image,
chests heaving, we looked at what was done.  

I was scolded when I returned home late with sooty skin,
and went to bed  
with tear tracks on red scrubbed cheeks.  

And there was morning.

Carmody said
what did you get
your old man
for his birthday?

well
you said
my sister and I
saved up

what money we could
siphoned off
some of our pocket money
took back

the empty beer bottles
to the off licence
did extra chores
for our mother

and went bought him
some cigarettes
and gave them to him
what did he say?

Carmody asked
said he didn’t smoke
that kind
said they made

his throat sore
that was what he said?
yes and my sister
was upset of course

and went off
to her room to cry
but I just said
but it’s the thought

that counts
and we just thought
you’d smoke the cigarettes
look ok thanks

for the thought
the old man said
and took the packet
and stuffed them

in his pocket
and read
the birthday card
we’d both written him

and put it on the table
and said
how much did you get
on the empty bottles?

so I told him
and he said
they were my bottles
I ought to

have had the money
for them kid
you have
I told him

In the form
of the cigarettes
what did he say
about that?

Carmody asked
he just stared
and took the cigarettes
out and opened them up

and lit one
and inhaled
and coughed
and I thought

good job too
and walked away
and Carmody
nodded his head

and sniggered
and you went off
with him to kick
around the ball

in the playground
at school
and said nothing
much more at all.

He first notice Elaine
as she waited
for the school bus
standing there

in the pouring rain
with her younger sister
and other kids
from the village

he noticed
how drowned she looked
her spectacles so wet
she couldn’t see out

her dark hair
hanging limp
about her face
and she looked down

not up
as she climbed
aboard the bus
making her way

down the aisle
of the bus
like some female Crucified
and sat in the seat

by the window
and peered out
her sister sat
next to her

equally as wet
yet unperturbed
laughing at another
who jested

at her state
but Elaine's
was a separate state
a lesser one's fate

knowing other eyes
gazed and sniggered
and whispered
into their hands

but not John
he saw her through  
his own eyes
pushed away

the sneers
and sighs
and sniggering japes
and saw a deeper soul

within peering out
through the window glass
that showed
the falling rain

he looked away
taking note of her hair
and eyes
and glasses smeared

and how she pushed
her wet hands
between the caresses
of her knees

and dampened skirt
how by the look
of her face
revealed

her inner hurt
and as the bus
moved off and on
the radio blaring

some Mike Sarne song
the voices of children
competing for the space
and John half listening

to Trevor talk
some such of fishing
with a friend
at pond or river

he did not discern
or Trevor’s sister
across the aisle
chatting of some dress

her mother bought
not the fashion
she complained
but John held close

the image of the girl
who sat behind
across the aisle
whose dampened

state of dress
and soul
had moved his mind
and touched his heart

but said nothing
to either Trevor
with talk of fish
and rod

or Monica's dress
or clothes whatever
it had been
unfashionable or such

as undesired
he looked out
at the passing scene
as the bus raced by

thinking of Elaine
sitting a little way
behind
wiping the raindrops

from glasses
so she could see
and not be
half blind.

slang..
updogged = when you chip in to keep a conversation trend going
fit = gorgeous
buje = unexplainable glamor
football minute = a minute, that with time-outs, lasts a half an hour.
crute = cute but cringy
women's-rights = a really funny joke

In the subscribed course of science - and eventually medicine - night hours seem multiplied by the rough enforcement of study, but this tale is not about that, fair reader.

It’s about a reception, last Friday night. It hardly matters what it was for, there are so many. This one was first class - so please, have some decorum ladies. Our cast is Lisa, Leong, Sunny and I (4 roommates). We stay clumped together, on nights out, like conjoined quadruplets because there’s safety in numbers.

There were about sixty people there, mostly students. Lisa and I had gotten invitations, Leong and Sunny are our plus-ones. After making the rounds, doing our meeting and greeting due diligence, we’d captured one corner of a long table and began enjoying some actual drink-drinks. We’re usually studying, trying to prove ourselves like rats in a maze, so we go a little crazy when they let us out and about.

Is it me, or are free drinks just better than other flavors? There was a long line of ‘Tom Collins-ses,’ on the bar which one could freely walk up and take. I think they’re made with lemon juice, sprite, gin and the tears of fallen angels.

These were quite good, each featuring both a lemon slice AND a cherry. Like I said, first class. We were taking turns getting them, two of us going up, each returning with 2 drinks. That way we didn’t look like 4 hookers hanging on the bar like horses at a trough (decorum).

Socials, receptions, fundraisers - whatever - can be social minefields. Even in how you greet people. Do you shake hands? I’d heard that shakes were out due to COVID, but if so, they’re back now. Some people were even huggers - your professor initiates a hug and you just want to avoid head-butting him. Monday morning though, you better hand in that paper, girlie.

At one point (I was mothering my third Collins), Sunny said, “Meeting people is awkward,”
“Being out in the world is awkward,” I updogged.
“Not for Lisa,” Leong said, and everyone sniggered.
“Why not ME?” Lisa said, looking up from her phone.
“Because you’re fit,” Sunny said, “everywhere you go, it’s like ‘Goodfellas,’” she mimics various, waving people, “Hi Lisa, or Hey Lisa," and “Yo Lisa!” with the point & nod.
We all chuckled again, but Lisa said, “It’s not true.”

Alas, it is true. I’ve come to rely on Lisa’s buje. Places seem livelier, less daunting and more welcoming when she’s there. She draws all the attention - I might as well be her beaded handbag and I’m fine with that. In unfamiliar situations, she’s a shield, handling the initial introductions and handing people off to me, like a track-and-field sprinter passing the baton. Without Lisa, in new situations I’m quiet. Quiet doesn’t mean shy - that’s a false assumption, I’m a natural watcher.

I’m skipping the mingling and speechifying - the boring stuff. Apparently, it’s all about us, we need to make a plan and do more, about everything. Interestingly, of the 8 organizers (the adults) five had literary first names. There was a Jude, a Tess, an Ophelia, a Clarissa and a Cordelia. Granted, they’re all fictional characters, but why name a kid after a protagonist who came to a tragic end - to seem well read?

As Leong and Sunny returned with our fifth round, Sunny pronounced “Tom Collins for President!” and we all raised our glasses. Just then Leong’s phone whooped with a text. It took her football minute to fish the contraption out of her itty-bitty disco-clutch, and then she fumbled it to the floor like an oiled baby.

It was a crute moment that, at first, struck us like women's-rights - but it had a sobering effect too. We agreed, in the silence of exchanged glances, that perhaps we were having too much fun, and we soon made our usual quiet and dignified exit.

You meant it as a mere joke
Something I should laugh at
But those words stuck
And I felt a putrid, vile taste in my mouth
As you said it
I thought it was a night of love
I was wrong
I was so wrong
For you chuckled
And laughed at it
And you sniggered
And said ever so hauntingly...
"It was the night you lost your innocence."

And you continued to laugh
As my heart sank
And my pure heart was
Drenched
In black oil
Staining my heart

Never to be pure again.

My blood is not red anymore
It is not even rufous
It is achromatic
I’ve seen it go to a watery grave
with moonshine

It drowned
for a foolish fluid  
one so dimwitted
it forgot the word “No”
could be spoken
to bring their negligent ears
into *******

(And not me)

My blood rushed out
In it’s gloom
I wanted to emulate it
and exit my body
just as they entered

What a theft
What a “five-finger discount”
Literally

It was a perfect portrait
A gun kissing the crown of my head
and my indifference
towards the money in the cash register
that I called my soul-case
If I’d even had any left

My lips moldered shut
They don’t like parting anymore
Two buds charred sorely
as a pen
that speaks only in black ink


I searched every crevice of that washroom
for a noose
I found my reflection
and thought that close enough

So there I hovered
hung up on my mirror image
suspended by two claws
honed with dejection

My eyes slammed taut  
My pulse ******* bones in my face
and gnawing itself
with prowling fluorescents

I grazed the scuffs on my thighs
I hadn’t put there
for once

Then I remembered the nausea  
snarled up in their cheeks
Their words like spiders
I don’t know where they’ve gone
and I don’t want to

“Is it that time of the month?’
said the shorter, more truculent boy
and he sniggered

I stood submerged
in hard edged a laugh
that liked to wrench my ears
and make rounds
on nights hot and heavy
with languor

and perhaps,
had I not been so small
or weak of muscle
had I worn a different dress
or forgotten to coat my lashes
had I sipped on tea
instead of *****
I could’ve flagrantly pushed them away
Darted not with my eyes,
but my legs
I could’ve screamed “Get off me you scumbags!”
until my throat shriveled up
into a dried cranberry

But I didn’t

Instead I’m screaming
on a piece of paper

Because the worst that happens here
is a paper cut.

She had to lie she couldn't
tell the truth,It was to embarrassing
but he laughed as soon
people would guess, and
just for a second visualise
what happened to you. With
that she did blush and her eye
watered more.

He giggled every time he
saw, he couldn't help it, even
though she told him it was
really sore. That eye was blood
red, she had washed it out but
her eyes just watered more.

She had to go out but she wasn't
very sure, then some friends
popped over, do you think
they'll guess, he sniggered as
he opened the door.

Hi how are you as they came
through the door, as her friend
looked on sheepishly O MY
GOD they said in unison, he shot
in your eye, it was ****** soar.

The lads burst in to laughter
and the ladies they did scorn,
well you asked us to pull out
and it did the long shot 50 points
for the eye, and then every one
laughed as the girls grabbed there
eyes, which were still *** shot soar.

CRAZY CANARY YELLOW
(In Memory Of My Mother Ita Dempsey)


Bright skin tight
a crazy canary yellow

jeans
my pride & joy

(my first Versace)  

took a lot
of *****

to wear ‘em
but then

I got
‘em!

My mother hated
(with a vengeance)   them

(hated to pieces)  
them

until one morning early
up with the crow of the ****

I cut them
myself to pieces

“Snick snack! ” sniggered
the scissors

(good for a laugh)  

threw the shreds of the threads
up upon the roof

let an hour or so
pass

and then discovering
my own(the devil’s)   handiwork

accused her
of the dastardly deed.

Who else(I said)  
wanted the jeans dead?

Who hated them
with such a passion

to do such...such
a thing.

Maybe she thought...
“I did it in my(God forgive)   sleep.”

“Although I know
I didn’t do it

it’s what I would have wanted done.”

After hours
struggling like a worm

I let her off the hook
confess it was I

that done them
(the jeans)    in.

She annoyed at the spoof
that took her in

but delighted at the demise
of those **** things.

The hearty laugh of then
the feeble smile of now

as she(here is this hospital)  
tries not to die.

There’s no sympathy for single mothers
she said.
He sniggered.
Social services:
what do you expect?
I left me ‘usband when ‘e beat me up.
They’d ‘ave been ‘appier to spend
the public funds
on a grave.
No gravestone.
Just a plot to mark the spot
and two tiny tots
clutching a bunch of weeds from the
roadside.
And no place to put ‘em.

On a whim one day we took the car
And drove for miles and miles, quite far
To visit a place, a sanctuary
For cats and dogs and all things hairy

All three of us without a plan
Had never been best friend as man only can
We had no clue when disembarking of all the curs
Alone there skulking and marking

The couple who had come on holiday
Decided to stay when confronted by strays
And in their house they were inundated
With bowls and beds and little bodies mutilated

In one cage a ball of fur hid and retreated
Into the shadows and disappeared
I failed to notice this little hound
Instead shed tears for all around

With anxious steps from Helena and Remy  
We were led to a cage much bigger and roomy
Where inside seemed to hide a huge Bear
Who smiled and sniggered and appeared not to care

This one we took out for a walk
But before that we asked who could not talk
And from the cage the most pitiful thing
With one broken leg and fear heartbreaking

We bundled them both out that day
And bathed and fed and loved them forever
And still today

I'll tell you a story
Of Two men
Who were best friends
One who had a predisposition to feeling nothing
The other who had a predisposition to sadness, suffering, and helping the people whom he loved
Their names were pity and melancholy
Respectively
One day pity said:"I want to be sad Mel. I want to feel sad. I wonder what being sad feels like?"
"Rather terrible I'd assume Pit." replied Melancholy
"Well I guess I'll never know." Said Pity and with that the two friends went their seperate ways
Melancholy was conflicted because he wanted to give Pity everything. Including sadness.
So he sat down and started planning. He thought of sadness and raindrops and death and tears and scars and pain and cruelty and anger and many sad things about the human race.
He drew things. Things that created tears in his eyes. Things that caused the void in his chest to deepen.
Then he was ready
He gathered all of his pencils and pictures and paints and brushes and palettes
And he set out to paint the streets with sorrow
He painted raindrops on the walls
And death on the floor
And cruelty on the lampposts
And suffering on the windows
He painted and painted
He painted a man's tears raining down from the walls
To drown the men on the floor
As the demons sniggered in delight from their lampposts
And their victims of torture hung fromm the windows
Melancholy painted.
He turned the river of tears into a river of blood
And when he ran out of red paint
He slit his wrists and used his own blood
Pouring his life into his sadness
Pouring his life into his river
And then it was finished
His masterpiece of sadness was complete
"Maybe Pit will feel sadness." he thought as he lay in the wet paint and blood with a small smile on his face
Pity walked around the corner and saw the tears and the demons and the corpses and he was scared
He followed the ominous river and at the end he found an extremely well painted corpse
It looked just like his friend Melancholy
He picked up the painting and as he watched the life abandon his sad friend's eyes he felt it
The pit
The void growing in his chest
Painful as if it were an acid that burnt up into his throat
As he watched the life abandon melancholy's life he cried
Because his friend was dead
And he was sad

CRAZY CANARY YELLOW
(In Memory Of My Mother Ita Dempsey)

Bright skin tight
a crazy canary yellow

jeans
my pride & joy

(my first Versace)  

took a lot
of *****

to wear ‘em
but then

I got
‘em!

My mother hated
(with a vengeance)   them

(hated to pieces)  
them

until one morning early
up with the crow of the ****

I cut them
myself to pieces

“Snick snack! ” sniggered
the scissors

(good for a laugh)  

threw the shreds of the threads
up upon the roof

let an hour or so
pass

and then discovering
my own(the devil’s)   handiwork

accused her
of the dastardly deed.

Who else(I said)  
wanted the jeans dead?

Who hated them
with such a passion

to do such...such
a thing.

Maybe she thought...
“I did it in my(God forgive)   sleep.”

“Although I know
I didn’t do it

it’s what I would have wanted done.”

After hours
struggling like a worm

I let her off the hook
confess it was I

that done them
(the jeans)    in.

She annoyed at the spoof
that took her in

but delighted at the demise
of those **** things.

The hearty laugh of then
the feeble smile of now

as she(here is this hospital)  
tries not to die.

The bounders are saying that noon is coming early today,
And that we should retire before the sun is at her highest.
They tell us to lock our doors tight, and to throw away
Any desire to open them again, at least until
The bounders’ wives come knocking early the next day.
Strangely, they warn against closing our windows
Instead they state that they ought to be kept feebly ajar.

But I can’t sleep with an open window anymore.
The village doctor, who dresses in suit and tie
But likes to lie and speak rather astue, says it’s due
To some scar I acquired fighting the morally confused.

Every Wednesday, when I go to meet the ‘doc’, he
Assures me that he has some kind of qualification and
Always says not to worry about the specifics (or
His motives) as they would probably go over my head.
He starts our hour asking about the terror in the air
And the echoes of shriek-filled nights, and whether
They still remind me of that summer on the front line,
Without fail, and without remorse I always reply;

“Lovers sleep because we (the
Buoyant folk) gave our souls,
Our limbs and our speech, and
Now we live with these deep
Aches and fake laughs. These
Are what we gladly deserve”.

The words leave my mouth at a crawl, and
Take a miserable five minutes to complete.
The rest of my time at the quackery (this is what
The wife use to call it) is spent ironing
Over my other, less obvious, flaws. The doc
Says they are from much more recent wars,
And that I ought to use his miracle stock
To see if that succeeds in finding the cure.

The wife use to chuckle when I told her of my time
With the quacking man;

“More like barking mad!” she would exclaim,
Always through a snide but warm grin.

Those words always come quickly to mind
When I visit the doc, I shan’t tell him or he’d
Probably prescribe some strange empty remedy.
You see, the wife died a few years ago, not long
After my hate for open windows began. The doc
Thinks i’m over my wife’s permanent leave and
He even believes that i’ve started courting again.
I even told him once of a woman named ‘Claire’
Who would regularly visit my home to cut my hair,
And that on such an occasion we had started an affair.
The doc readily consumed this lie (reminding me
Of why the wife called him a fraud), and I sniggered
Into my elbow crease so he wouldn’t catch on.

The wife sits on the mantelpiece now, watching
Me from above the evening embers that light up
The eerie and solemn nights. I often converse
With myself, pretending the wife still listens but
I know her role was revoked from the world.
Alas, I am forced to play her part but I am afraid
There are few words left now, only mocking
Phrases for the quacking man and the barking mad.