Monday, October 19, 2020

 October 19th 09:48


01 The sound of horses walking, the coughs of men
02 Before the world was wild.
03 He sculpts in coal and makes majestic fires.
04 Potatoes, Carrots, a femur
05 I have sold my tractor. I have gun.

06 My puncture repair kit
07 They are mining chocolate in Peru
08 Exactly nine months later
09 ICE, Salt.
10 A laughing tribe, the women weeping

11 We sit on a branch to dry out
12 When I growed up.
13 Humble Pi.
14 We strongly suggest you try another method
15 Some poets are just not right for this

16 As the sky falls things darken
17 Every Car Pink, a Pink Car Nation
18 Owl
19 He has changed his name from McLintock
20 He speaks a rare dialect, hides.

21 No all wildernesses are wild
22 Poverty comes in through the window
23 The ballerina and the swineherd
24 GIs with their spears, natives with AKs.
25 I am done now, fetch my horse

Sunday, October 18, 2020

 Prompts from Saturday



01 Dandelions make you wet the bed

02 Do not cheat me of my life

03 Give the children wood, sharp instruments

04 You’re dismissed.

05 A little water please

 

06 Dynamo!

07 Gentle, please, slowly. Let me smell perfume

08 Our pockets were full

09 Swirl the balls around, take one.

10 The sky is swollen

 

11 After the music, a small death

12 McLintock found himself a woman

13 I need to shave

14 Oklahoma!

15 I have Southern Comfort, but no Coke

 

16 We found him, trying to take a shit

17 Butter? Margarine?

18 Goggle-Eyes!!

19 He fought a negro pugilist

20 A story beginning: “They brought him out, bearded, dirty, defiant.”

 

21 Play “YMCA” on repeat and write

22 A mouth full of dried insects, dead

23 TICKETS!

24 He left his bike tied to wet railings

25 A sky too big for loving

 Prompts from Sunday Morning


01 A story beginning: “Someone has to wash the Fuhrer’s Clothes.”

02 Pecorino

03 A better angle, better light, for videoing beheadings

04 Cardboard, iron, Plastic

05 I am not impressed by your vows

 

06 No Asylum, you are too fat.

07 No disrespect intended

08 I am a right angle: You are Obtuse

09 Play Michael Jackson’s THRILLER on repeat and write

10 Some has excited the Italians again.

 

11 I am a novice. Can you help me?

12 June Smith is busting out all over

13 Bill Benson’s six-legged dog

14 Long-Covid

15 I don’t like Olives, except from the Chef

 

16 The squaw in her Wigwam

17 Cheeses Christ

18 I’m from Maryland. Here is sane.

19 A Penny for the Black Babies, Miss!

20 WW2 on Facebook

 

21 Ernest likes washing dishes. Ignore him!

22 We have oil lamps, but no oil

23 This is in honour of something, but nobody remembers

24 Can I have your pin?

25 When old songs were new, were old song’s the best?

 Colours!


They are colourising World War One now.  It is SO much better.  I didn’t know that fresh blood was lipsticked bright-red, dried blood darker. They really should do something about that. People might not realise there is more than one kind of blood.

ISIS in Mosul had a white prefab media building where they orchestrated their PR. Those orange death-suits were a good choice. There were morning conferences to discuss the best lighting, the most efficient camera angles for beheadings. It was deemed important that Facebook executions maintained high standards of virality.

 

TBF Hitler & Musssolini were always immaculate. No-one calls Trump a scruff. Appearances do matter. If their women and children are being herded onto the trains, at least make sure the Oberleutnant looks good.

 

People forget: someone has to wash the Fuhrer’s underwear and someone polished Il Duce’s perfect boots. Was it a Jew who pressed the General’s perfect uniform? Did a shrunken Jewish chemist polish his Iron Cross?

 

Those trenches, though, all that grey mud. It seems to be one shade, even after all our trickery. Perhaps they should leave the mud grey, the uniforms grey, and like Schindler’s one red-coated girl, show only the silver glint of bayonets, the pink of boyish faces in their last second, and the blood of course, but one red for clarity.

 

The selective use of colour can add, no doubt about it. Except for Gas Gangrene. Do not Google “Gas Gangrene”, do not select images. It will ruin your Sunday.

 

 

250 Words

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Saturday, October 17, 2020

 Boats


The smuggler give the children sweets. He give to the girls sherbet lemons and to the boys chocolate eclairs, toffee and inside there is a little chocolate. The smuggler say, “Suck sweets, make them last long time. Stop you being sick.”


We hid in the sand long time and before that in hut, from the police then from Coastguard. Libyans are very bad bastards. Rancid dogs.  They will kill you, rape you, take money, hit you.


We can see coastguard boats. Coastguard get money from UK, from France, Italy to catch us and bring us back to Libya. Libya very, very bad. We cannot stay. Better if boat sinks than go back to Libya.


Night get to be hard, hard, heavy, dark. Smuggler push us with AK, say, “Come on, now! And shut up all the time!” and we run across sand and get in rubber boat. Rubber boat is too small for all of us! Men sit on the sides, women on the floor, and some children stand up in the middle.

This is not our boat, smuggler says. There is a big metal boat for 600 maybe 700 people and water there, and crisps. We have to go out in rubber boat, get on big boat. Then it is only four hours he say and we are in Italy. But shut up all the time, he say again, because bastard coastguard.


Fatima say to me before she get bus some part of the way, then she walk at night-time and pay shepherd to take her across border where goats go and no soldier. He want only money and not too much.

Then Fatima pay for Toyota 4 x 4 to cross Sudan desert. People hanging off Toyota. Smuggler have gun and say, fall off truck, you die, we do not stop. In the night they go and it is very very hard and many are sick.


Then, we are across border. Desert is the same. Then 4x4 smuggler who is Sudani say he go know and we are in old house. No-one comes two days and we go crazy for water, walk to railway station for water, then back to house.


After two-three days new smuggler come. He want more money. He make us phone families, uncles, say, I gotta have money or I die here.


When family pay he take us to Benghazi City. Everything there is broken. Broken more than Eritrea or Ethiopia or Sudan. He drop us outside city and he say very dangerous. Benghazi peoples are dirty rapists, murder you for nothing, turn you into slaves. Stick together, find your people in the ruins.


We hide, then good men come, from our country. We go to place was “office-block” but all bombed to bits now like ruin. There is no water, now, no food, but another smuggler will bring rice tomorrow.

 

We in Libya four months. Our skin is very bad. People shit. Children cry.

Fatima teach the children. “Who made you?” “God made me!” “Why did God make you?” “God made me to serve him in this world and the next.”

 

Fatima say to keep your head on your shoulders, keep eyes down. She has broken bottle she hides, to stab a man.

 

There is a bigger boat, but it is wood and dirty, the paint iss all gone and the engine makes black smoke and bad noises. The men go inside where it is hot. The women and the children go outside on top. There are too much people here and the boat leans over and does not want to go fast.

We still are shutting up but the lights of Benghazi go small small and we are long way from Libya, no more coastguard, nothing. The boat complain all the time but throb -throb-throb like old man.

 

Fatima talks of food. She said once in hotel she had perfect soft-boiled eggs and English toast and on the soft egg they put black pepper and salt. Very nice. She will go to Denmark, she says, her cousin is there work in shop. The children sleep but we are cold now and wet.

 

It is not four hours to go Italy. Now we have three days and there is only cold water and the men inside are shouting because down there is water coming in.

 

We hope maybe MOAS boat find us, or Italian Navy, but the old boat stops now, engine is fucked. The children cry all together so Fatima says again:

Who Made You?

 

And the children all say, “God Made Me!”

 

But there is no rescue.

 

766 Words

 

 Prompts from Friday


01 We set to and began to row, the women singing
02 Perfect soft-boiled eggs
03 Ecumenical
04 No-one says, “This prose is dangerous”
05 Run it under a tap, love

06 Who Made You? God Made Me!
07 Hard, hard, heavy, dark
08 The Bucket Method
09 To hold the furnace
10 The angel I met in Tescos

11 A 4x4 to Libya
12 God and me, out on the piss
13 Men, women, buying, selling
14 My father’s rancid dog
15 Right now, a thousand women…

16 Your head upon your shoulders
17 We need to adjust our situation
18 Scarlet
19 Sherbet Lemons, Chocolate Eclairs
20 RSPCA

21 Between the body and the mind
22 Love: the bloody armistice!
23 But apart from that, how’s things?
24 Passion, a stove with no lid
25 When it’s called finished

 Friends

 
We should not say this, mother says, there are people. This we must not do, because the walls have ears. There was a man betrayed by his son. Do not think these things, do not imagine anything. They will see it in your face, know you from the words you do not say. This, before my father began to cough, my father said too.
 
Perhaps, one day, some new men will come, men in green and brown, with helicopters and tanks. Every statue falls.
 
I like McDonalds. I can sing Y-M-C-A and I can do all the hands. I watch Friends and I love Jennifer Aniston. In class teacher tells us, “If your parents die, first you must bury them. This is how. Then you must kill the dogs, there is no food.
 
If you are rich, or if there is an Uncle, maybe he will buy you a new name. A new name costs more than a car. Maybe you can get a bus and go somewhere. Maybe you can hide in the river. Maybe at night you can get over the border where the ground blows up on people. If the ground blows up on you, you go straight to Heaven. If the ground does not blow up on you, maybe you cross the border.
 
Father is coughing again. There is blood on his shirt. I must catch our chicken. Mother says we should not eat the chicken because today, tomorrow we will have an egg. But father coughs and says he wants chicken soup, to make him well, so Mother says go in the yard and catch hen.
 
In America there are cowboys with six-shooters. Wild Bill Earp, Billy Kid, Wyatt Hickock, OK? Some cowboys are quick-on-the-draw but there is always one gun-slinger quicker. I know this, like there are always helicopters, and tanks.
 
In the night, the night is good. We go to the middle room and make no lights. Mother locks the front door and we put a table there, then chairs. We are very quiet. In the day our saviours might kills us. At night, we kill each other.
 
Because he coughs, my father is not afraid now. He tells me, “I am already wet. Those of us who are wet don’t fear the rain.” When my father speaks like this, mother goes into another room.
 
There are no windows any more.room From my bed I can see the sky and the twinkle-twinkle stars. The air is dusty in the day but at night, now all the lights are gone the stars are pretty. Sometimes somewhere we hear pop-pop-pop because someone was Sunni or someone was Shia or someone spoke to the soldiers or someone was translator.
 
There are ghosts everywhere. My father has stopped coughing. My mother comes to my bedroom. Her kiss on me is fierce, a kiss of love. She gives me all my father’s money. I hide it in my shoes.
 
491 Words
 
 
 

Friday, October 16, 2020

 Friday October 16th, 18:14



More Prompts


01 We set to and began to row, the women singing

02 Perfect soft-boiled eggs

03 Ecumenical

04 No-one says, “This prose is dangerous”

05 Run it under a tap, love

 

06 Who Made You? God Made Me!

07 Hard, hard, heavy, dark

08 The Bucket Method

09 To hold the furnace

10 The angel I met in Tescos

 

11 A 4x4 to Libya

12 God and me, out on the piss

13 Men, women, buying, selling

14 My father’s rancid dog

15 Right now, a thousand women…

 

16 Your head upon your shoulders

17 We need to adjust our situation

18 Scarlet

19 Sherbet Lemons, Chocolate Eclairs

20 RSPCA

 

21 Between the body and the mind

22 Love: the bloody armistice!

23 But apart from that, how’s things?

24 Passion, a stove with no lid

25 When it’s called finished

 The Sparrow

 

In my next story my mother will be alive.  In my next story the factory hooter will still sound at five o’clock and the men will walk out, boots tramping on cobbles. Pub snugs will glow amber, kids will hang on the corner in hope. Dad’s will say, “Bugger off, ‘ome to yer Mam. I’ll see yer later.”

 

Let’s talk about something nice. Mushroom Risotto, Parmesan and Parsley to finish it off. Cous-Cous, darling? How about a nice Lentil Dhal? Splash some Rioja?

 

Was it simpler then? Full English, red or brown sauce? My mother, needle, thimble, thread. My mother ruh-thunkety-ruh, treadling at the Singer, running up gingham frocks, Whitsun clothes, red ties, Jesus.

 

Half-pennies filed flat on the red-brick porch for the meter, narrow streets, bobbies. Empty pantries Wednesday, pay-day Friday, Echo Margarine, porridge, coats on the bed.

 

It’s a boiler-breakdown, my love, not a bad night in Aleppo. There are no kids outside with Kalashnikovs. You can share my duvet. The plumber will come, eventually.

 

Did we buy a bigger bed? I can’t remember. Is this bed bigger or is the room shrinking? Do you have to go on your phone? Wanna cuddle up?

I always thought Dad would go first, you know, after the accident, his fags, the beer, him deciding to be old, all the bitterness, the hoarded sweets. I thought he’d go.

 

Wasn’t a great a funeral, was it? I guess if you hang on too lang, all your friends are dead. I’m sorry about the wake. I wasn’t going to drink at all, but there you go. Maybe I was sad.

 

Can you stop texting, just for five minutes? Did I tell you the story, this is true, about the monk who told some King about a sparrow?

They were having a banquet, in this huge fucking hall. The king was a heathen and the monk was his guest.  The monk was trying to explain God.

This sparrow flies into this huge hall, swoops down to the king, swoops up and disappears out of the other end of the hall.

Did you see that sparrow? Asks the monk. The king says yes.

You don’t know where the sparrow came from, you don’t know where it is, where it’s going. But the sparrow is real, and for a second we were all together. This is us; where we come from, where we go, our life is just the here, for a short time. Outside is God.

 

Please put down the phone. Hold me.




 

418 Words

 

 

 

 

 Prompts (13:30)


01 The Five o’clock hooter, men’s boots

02 This place, a different tongue

03 You had ONE job, Mrs Achilles!

04 Beginning? End? You choose…

05 Let’s talk about something nice

 

06 Parmesan

07 You may share my blanket

08 You’re talking out of your third eye

09 Marie is driving to Emergency

10 Dad’s Wheelchair

 

11 We are waiting for the plumber

12 Is the bed larger or the room smaller?

13 He has decided to be old

14 Daffodils EveryFuckingWhere

15 The room wanted peace

 

16 Too early

17 The children have Kalashnikovs now

18 As the crow dies

19 Red, Brown or Naked?

20 Not much of a funeral but the wake was OK

 

21 That story about the sparrow

22 Needle, Thimble, Thread

23 A narrow street in a tiny town

24 Jesus, 2020

25 In my next story my mother is alive

 I managed a half-decent poem out of those prompts, 

so I'm thinking of sending it out

 More Prompts



01 Your wild furies

02 Slow as the world turning

03 At first it didn’t bleed

04 They are all here, I am ready

05 A Postcard, my collected poems

 

06 What could make us whole?

07 I planted a tree. It died too

08 Your absence has been extended

09 This is how division ends

10 Flux

 

11 I’m tired, could you dream for me?

12 Mrs Pianoforte’s Secret

13 On the Street Where You Live

14 Sergeant Pepper RIP

15 I did, but not again.

 

16 A mouth full of dusty planets

17 I am coming down with something, Mrs Taft

18 Wait and see if anyone salutes

19 I had a friend once

20 Candle, Candle, Candle

 

21 The Great Poets of islam

22 Sorry, I’m a bit dead

23 Old boots, pocket-corners, smell of tobacco

24 They have moved him from Cardiff to Oxford

25 Safety Net

Thursday, October 15, 2020

 and then...



The Lighthouse Keeper’s Woman.

 

Dear Gerald, 

 

In your next letter, try not to lie. Take a spotless sheet of cream vellum, your fountain-pen, pause, then write me the truth. Begin, dear Joy…

 

Tell me of the Signal-House, the weather in the wires, the Kittiwakes and Herring-Gulls and how you feel, how you really feel out there on the island. They say it makes men mad.

 

Tell me of your day. The man said days are where we live (but we live, too, Gerald, in our letters). Tell me of Sundays, are they different? Do you see Monday as the start of a long week or just a day beginning M?

 

Those days when it snows. Write to me about soundlessness of soft snow. I do not care for your gales, the lashing rain, the scream of wind, winds so strong the light is twisted.

 

Do you miss dogs barking, the gentle catch of a morning milk-float, telephones?

 

Do not despair, Gerald. You are doing good things, saving lives and allowing little boys to dream of your lighthouse. (Don’t tell them of cold and lonely nights).

 

Your work is good, Gerald. You work not for Herod, nor in a filthy city.

You are not dreaming. Do not write to me again and say your fork and knife were dancing, while the spoons played music. I was not amused. Rather I feared that the island, the patient sea, was seeking you out. Desist, stay in the present, think all the things in the world we find in heavy books, The Kangaroo, the Platypus. The story of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the Slaughter of the Innocents. P lease, never again ask such horrible questions of those children. No, “what-ifs”. They are innocent by default. That is what it means to be an infant.

 

I know the sea rises up. I understand how fear pushed down into the belly rises up in blood to the brain, but I am real, Gerald, I am your Joy and March is but five months away.

Your light so bright it burns, is bright as life. Nothing is bad. Please do not write to say your mind is going that way, this way, that way, this. That is just the weather. And solitude.

 

Stay safe, Gerald, and keep our mariners safe, stay inside the lines we have painted, and in twenty-one weeks, we will be together again. Then you can be a farmer.

 

 

 

401 Words

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 I was temporarily blocked.

When blocked, a good trick is to write any old shit and the block disappears.



How Do You Know?

I found a poem all cut up -

was putting it together

when my mother said

with all these words 

it could be something other

 

My mother now is cut up too

and she is altogether

dead. The doctor said

Let’s work together, get inside your head

and bit by bit

 

you can get your act together

not forever

but with pills 

we soften ills

and at a glance you’re sane

 

but if again, you chop to little pieces

those who disagree

no more poem-parts for you my boy

no literary jigsaws

we’ll make you read prose

 

Flat, solid as a rock

 

and uncutuppable.

October 15th
Third Set of Prompts
16:18 UK Time
=======================



01 On a sheet of cream paper 
02 Call me joy 
03 The weather in the wires 
04 Doing Herod’s work 
05 Believe me, this is not a dream 

06 In your next letter, try not to lie 
07 The fork and knife dancing 
08 We live in days 
09 The Platypus is False News 
10 Jesus, Mary and Joseph! 

11 The soundlessness of soft snow 
12 The trouble with rubble 
13 Dogs barking 
14 That way, this way, that way, this 
15 Bright as life, heavy as dying 

16 They are blue, kill them! 
17 It was long ago, on a dusty road 
18 Paint inside the lines 
19 Saddam 
20 If none were innocent, what then? 

21 Mother, please fuck off 
22 Things I love, things I will destroy 
23 Two Little Boys, Rolf, Two Little Boys 
24 I found a poem all cut up 
25 A dance for one-legged men

 Once Upon a Time in Some Shit-Hole Country.

 

McLintock leans in towards me, charming as Ted Bundy on one of his days off. His voice is brown, like a fat Greek Baritone, real dark. 

 

He says, “A man should get drunk now and then, Soc’, out of principle, don’t you agree?”  The words ooze from him with the dark smoothness of an old pistol. 

 

At the other end of the bar half a dozen of his men are getting drunk; crazy, nasty drunk, their voices way too high, screaming like the damned down an ancient chimney.

 

There is a certain delicious depravity and unpleasantness about this, about McLintock. It’s hard not to identify, so I nod at my glass. He pours.  “Drink the fucking Hemlock, Socrates,” he says.

There were four of them, his guys, he tells me, their tax-free thousand bucks a day suddenly terminated. I know, I say. I saw it, couldn’t write about it.  And now I’m getting drunk with him, their CO, a man who I know could as easy gut-shoot me as buy me these endless whiskies. Four doubles in he tells me he is not fond of bears.

 

An RPG took out the vehicle. Then they watched them burn, cheering, and after, they hung their corpses from a bridge. McLintock is dark but not exactly angry. He seems unphased. Dead is Dead, he says.

 

I am trying to not get too drunk. Maybe, drunk, I’ll say the wrong thing, but McLintock starts talking like he’s me, how this is all so fucked up.

“A long and tedious concatenation of circumstance brings us here,” he says, “And oil, don’t forget oil.” He slugs another, “And revenge.”

 

Then McLintock says something that sounds almost poetic, that these guys, his guys, these all-in-black hired killers are “by this life defeated,” and I think I haven’t heard right.

 

“What about after?” he says, “What’s to do after? A cabin by a lake, a hooker for the weekend, Coke, hunt bears? Or do I fade away, work security in some poor man’s town full of dried up women?”

I say I have no fucking idea.

“Or maybe,” he says slowly, “I could shoot a President.”

 

 

357 Words.

 

 

 



 

 

 The prompts already posted were fresh.


This set (older) were posted elsewhere but are now here, my next challenge.


I will take a crack starting at 12:20 UK Time



A certain delicious depravity and unpleasantness
A man should get drunk now and then out of principle
A voice whooping down an ancient chimney
American mutterings
But I am not that fond of bears

But whom do you address?
Dead is dead
Do not acquire knowledge through spilled blood
Dumas, Dickens
Hemlock

Horse Sense
I have momentarily mislaid my muse
I may waste my twilight or kill a president
I need the harsh smell of sage, the dry air
I should take a job with the Chamber of Commerce

It feels like a long and tedious concatenation of circumstance
It is a little dear here but the climate is impeccable
It's a tough racket
Knocking over gravestones
Not archaic, but not slangy or vernacular either

Or, of course a cabin by a lake
Some flowery dame in a hilltop house, wasn't it?
Talk technique when you run out of ideas!
A poor man's town full of nervous sisters
The dark smoothness of an old pistol

There is far too much talk about the dead.
Those of us here, by life defeated
You didn't sound that happy
You need to FUCK with the language
Once upon a time in some shit-hole country


My response to those prompts


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Remember.

Ah, we were young and easy then, Christine Birch and me. I remember a quiet afternoon, a soft, lazy river, and daises, I remember daisies, Christine showing me how to make chains, me breathless, faintly dizzy, hoping she would ask me to play Truth, Dare, Promise? or say, “Kiss, Kick or Torture?” Daisies, and me wondering what a kiss would be like.

 

You are not Christine Birch. Once, Christine kissed me, on my right cheek, suddenly, below my eye, on our way back from St John’s Ambulance. We were learning slings and splints. Mrs Vacara was behind the counter. She saw the kiss. She smiled at me and her eyes were wet. Mrs Vacara didn’t have a husband because of the war. They said she came from Italy or Germany, that her husband wore a long leather coat.  Every night, after she closed her shop Mrs. Vacara sang in her dark back room. One day she died.

 

We never had those afternoons, those aching, hopeful, breathless waits, you and I. Long before, we had put away those childish things and turned to the business of life.  Did we ever make love? We fucked, but did we ever make love? Did you ever reach for me like a Christine, for peck in a sweet shop, all hope, bravery, light?

 

So this, my now, a room, a bed, a window. You think I’m lonely. I’m not. A poet once said, “What is this life if full of care, we have no time to stand and stare?” I get that now. Did you know he lost a leg? He was Welsh like me. That’s the only poem I remember.

 

You remember your last words to me? You were so ugly as you spat them out. You called me a child (and you were right, you’re always right). 

 

A child ran out. That’s what the driver said. I had no chance. We held a funeral. They had to hose down the road. My cheek burned, just below my right eye.



 

337 Words

 

 



 I am shocked that it's been over four years!


I took a one-year writing break to recharge and get skinny and fit, that became two years, then three.


I did that then got Covid followed by Long-Covid.


I still have long-haul, joy!


But I'm back and posting flash/poem prompts


Here is a set. Write to me if you want to chat about how to use prompts (there is a real art).


I posted this set of prompts about 11:05 UK time


01 A quiet afternoon, a soft, lazy river

02 Ah, we were young and easy then

03 Time to archive our childish things

04 Remember!

05 A child ran out

 

06 I admit it, I am not lonely

07 We pressed your button, you began to tick

08 Far off, a woman singing

09 My Probation Officer wear Chanel

10 Never lose with dignity

 

11 The sea is patient

12 A long leather coat, Herr Schmidt

13 Please don’t ask me to grow up

14 Pomegranate

15 It is midnight. Why is the sky so bright?

 

16 If full of care, no time to stare?

17 Tack

18 This house breathes coldness

19 Seeds, water, time

20 The moon bleeds heavy tears

 

21 Whatever else DO NOT COUGH!

22 I fancy dark glasses, Chicago

23 We don’t make love, but fuck sometimes

24 A Room, a Bed, a Window

25 Let’s murder Mum & Dad