The murmering bartender

“Order the Guinness FIRST!”

“Ask people what they want BEFORE you start ordering a round.”

“I am merely operating a machine, IF I could make it faster, I would.”

“Learn to articulate simple requests such as ‘two bottle of Becks, please?”

“No problem!”  ‘One pint of lager for the cunt who can’t say please and a vodka lemonade for the fuckwit who puts up with him, and breathe…and…’ “Smile…Anything else?”

“Some pubs sell different beers. Did you notice you were in a DIFFERENT PUB?”

“Yes pointing, that’s polite, just point…”

“I have no idea what you might possibly, want. If I could tell what people wanted by looking at them I would not be working in a fucking bar!”

“Our wines? Like? Kind of like wine, only more so, we, here, like to think both privately, and on this one occasion, publicly that our wines are very much LIKE wines, they come to us in wine bottles, we serve them in a wine glass to all sense and purposes they are no dissimilar to wine!”

“My favourite people are those that order than walk away, to the loo.”

“I like people waving money at me.”

“I enjoy people who tap or whistle.”

the quick thing

The quick thing slithered, slid and slank

Where it had been was cold and dank

Where it had been was cold and dank

where it had been was barren and stark

Where it had been really stank

It may be quick but it is also large mean it was bigger than a barge

It was huger than a giant

and it's back was very pliant

which meant it could bend and seem small

and you wouldn't find it in the hall

It could hide inside your pocket

Then grow quickly like a rocket.

And if you smelt good like children do

It might turn you into goo

and suck you up or into two

or small enough so it could chew

your arms, your legs, your head and guts

It would swallow you like nuts

you'd be gone and it would grow

Because it was quick and you were slow.

The Race

Ahead was the bustle of the street, with lights and cars and people hurrying to and fro.  He could hear the calls from the burger trolleys and nut sellers.

Through the gaps in his fingers he could see flashes of cars, taxis, buses, the smoke from exhausts and the steam from people's mouths rising and disappearing as they hurried along with packages and bags, xmas presents for children, wives, husbands, mothers and daughters, then another flash of bright white as the trainer slammed into his hands, snapping his neck back with it's venom.

Keeping his hands to his face, and his arms protecting his ribs, he tried to move towards the light, inching along on his knees, trying to keep focus. Peering through his fingers he saw the trainers stepping back, readying to smash him again.  He swerved to the right just at the right time and the assailant missed completely and fell backwards.

This was it!  His chance at freedom from the next onslaught of pain.  He withdrew his hands from his face and clutched at the wall for a hold, digging his nails into brick he dragged his body to his feet and tried to run.  But the pain he had endured and the power of the first blow slowed him.

A dense fog drifted into his vision and the lights looked like a slow release photograph and his brain couldn't decipher the image.  Still, fear has it's own drive and fear pushed him on.  like a bear in treacle he waded through the pain. Holding onto the wall he dragged his aching body towards the confused fairy lights of the street.

He heard the quick fist coming and fell to his knees automatically.  The fist hit the wall above his head and his attacker screamed in pain.

Crawling seemed safer so he crawled, his bruised hands squashing stuff his brain didn't or wouldn't recognise under him until he was almost in the light.  The last words he heard were:  "you're dead now you bastard!"  Hissed through the teeth of his assailant as the final blow shattered his skull against the wall.

touching on lancelot's truth

Leaves scattered as hooves clattered

Across the river his image was shattered

On brazen armour mud splattered

For him honour was al that mattered

The kind and strong Sir Lancelot

He listened no to tittle tattle

Hi did not herd sheep or cattle

His joy was in the latest battle

And returning to Camelot

Stale sweat, blood that was caked

Stuck in armour on a body half baked

Through the fields his horse snaked

To the core his feelings shaked

The loving, brave Sir Lancelot

By the river he knows so well

His heart begins to swell

Now is heaven, the battle hell

He can see beloved Camelot

Across the river he sees the isle

That has been there all the while

And seeing it brings on a smile

He knows hi home is but a mile

The orphaned, white knight, Sir Camelot

An on the island in that place

There lives…a fairy…none shall see her face

But her songs they say are full of grace

And the call her the Lady of Shallot

trip out man come back soon from your dirty mind

Tired, hot, exhausted, sticky, scared, lonely, dirty, dependent on your love.

A million decibels of scream pulsing around my body, tightening my muscles, stretching every sinew with their power.

Memories drifting in and out, smashing against my present reality

Nervous sensation adding to the mass of energy building inside me.

Honesty tearing at my heart, ripping at my guilty soul, my greedy soul smashing every truth into fragments of reality.

Easy, tiny pieces of my life floating through a river of knowledge. Being swallowed by the truth. Bobbing to the surface like glints of sunshine on a ripple of a heart beat.

Continuously rising to the surface.

Trippingly ticking

Trippingly tickling the fancy of a trippingly finicky fanny.  Dipping into the drippingly deliciously delirious secret that is secreting sexual and sensuous sweet honey covered rose petal dew filled sex.

Wonderful powerful aroma rising as you roam the rise and fall of a body bathed in the sweet drippingly dripping as you are trippingly tickled into a frenzy of freneticism,, falling upwards and coming down with the rise and rise and rise, slowly sucking on the succulent shivering quivering sweet sticky sliding sex slide out start over. Trippingly tickling.......

When you accept the power of it, then you can enjoy the beauty of it.  The gentleness of it’s' control.  The sweet caress of its' vibrant edges warning you of the pressure at it’s' core.  There is no pleasure like it.  To be taken on a trip by the power.  Which of us possesses it?  Or could it be us?

will you remember?

When the sun shines through your window, and it's warmth touches your skin, will you remember?

If you went to a certain place, and it was a certain time, will you remember?

When the rain beats down on you, and you're wet through, will you remember?

If a record comes on the radio, and it makes you feel good, will you remember?

I would.