Glad Rags

Glad Rags

You stare back at me

a long, hard look, unflinching

Your expression vacant, unchanging

hollow-cheeked, dark-eyed, spare

coloured, tinted, or black and white

Soft-toned image on hard shiny paper

an empty, two-dimensional being

Expensive rags adorn

and hang about your frame

Cool mags project your image

independent, insouciant, insolent

ideal and unattainable

Slender, bony clothes-horse

sharp, angular cheekbones

long legs akimbo

red lips slightly parted

eyes inviting

Saying have me if you want me

yours for the taking

rouged and ready-for-sex

Caped in haute couture

draped, designer-dressed

Fine fashion figure of long, crisp lines

sporting silk, wool, cotton, cashmere

The cut, the crease, the costume

folds, buttons, pleats and zips

placed to emphasise the fit

stylised, carefully-lit

Snapped and wrapped

shaped and taped

edited, cropped

Air-brushed to perfection

Does your reality have more substance?

Do you exist outside the pictures?

After the last shutter clicks

and the camera-motor stops

the painful pose abandoned

make-up all removed

And another shoot is over

what do you think about?

And how do you feel

when you’re allowed to leave the set?

Finally, sofa-settled

feet up, jumper and jeans

tea and toast, and a quiet cigarette?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Osmosis

Osmosis

Crossing crags and hard-stone ridges,

Following ancient paths and causeways

Through fields and farms,

Henges, hills and hollows,

Wandering this island end-to-end

I feel an ancient architecture trapped below me

Deep buried archaeology,

Secrets of a hidden history

Of forgotten times, unknown

Held within the ground

Not only kings and courtiers

But the common people,

Their too- short, brutal lives

Marrows eaten out by hardship

Eking out frail, precarious existence,

For but an instant in time, the blinking of an eye

And quickly gone, returned to dirt and dust

Into the soil from which they sprang

Not coins, swords and buckles

Bubbling unbidden to the surface,

Nor any tactile objects, much rusted,

But whispers of daring deeds, untold tales

And the very breath that made them happen,

Are sealed and captured,

Absorbed, rooted in the earth

Ghosts of warriors, heroes, villains,

Their blood spilt aeons ago,

Still walking, faint and shadow-like,

Frozen voices and old, old stories

Of love and death, of peace and war,

Of deception and deceit, valour and victory,

Religious faith confessed and then renounced,

And their once-hot, raw emotions

Scattered to the winds

Then settled upon the soil,

Desiccated within the crust

Buried in this landscape where I grew

And drew nurture

Survive those self-same atoms,

Elemental memory of peoples,

Making me true descendant of the past

And living still within my bones and blood

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Bargains

Bargains

Muddy field gathering

The sun hardly risen in a hazy sky

On a bitter-cold Sunday morning

Where crooked lines of vehicles

Cars, pick-ups, estates and vans

Their doors and tailgates gaping

Spill out unfettered boxes and bags

Onto rumpled sheets

Or clumsy tables and trestles

Hand-written signs and tickets

Flotsam and jetsam, jumble and junk

Bits and pieces, prize possessions

Rubbish and tat, tipped out from attics

Sheds, cupboards, corners and garages

Wares, unwanted old objects

Superfluous to modern living

A mess tumbled out for inspection

Discards on display

For all the world to see

Regular traders and dealers

The old hands, with money-belts

Warm coats, gloved fingers

Plastic bags and pockets of change

The first-timers all over the place

Disorganised, descended-upon and picked over

Their children running amok in the chaos

Hoping to make a few bob

At least to cover the petrol

Before wearily packing up

And taking most of it back home again

And the casual punters just out for a laugh

Reviewing, rarely buying

Vaguely hunting for bargains

Inspecting gold, silver, copper and brass

Vintage, antique, restored and re-pro

Disputing provenance and price

Haggling over pennies

Cheaper on eBay, they’ll swear

Bargaining and bartering

Walking away from the vendors

Letting them stew on a best offer

Reluctantly called back

And concluding a hurried sale

Before heading to the car-park with their booty

And a well-earned decent breakfast

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 25th February 2018

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 25^th February 2018

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:

1.  Nationwide people have been left angry and confused by the supply-chain failure that has left many KFC branches closed due to shortages of raw chicken.  Here in The Vize people have been left angry and confused by the shortages of branches of KFC.  Populated only with branches of Chicken-U-Like, Chick-O-Land, Chicken-Fry-House and Chicken-Licken, no-one seems quite sure why they are still open.  There again the local wildlife population of pigeon, fox, squirrel and badger remains firmly under control.  The Fire Brigade and Coastguard report no increase in distress calls from concerned citizens.

2. Meanwhile, on the frozen surface of The Crammer, the local Army Defence Volunteeers have been seen practicing “extreme curling”.  Using a still-active anti-tank mine slid across the icy pond, and the butts of their rifles to “sweep” a path in front of it, the exercise is designed to sharpen reactions in combat.  So far this week only two fatalities have been reported, and fortunately no swans have been disturbed.  It is hoped that any surviving members of this crack team will ber able to enter the 2022 Winter Olympics.

3. For details of these and all other Devizes stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station D-Town F-Off.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Cancer Sticks

Cancer Sticks

Eyes hooded against the rising smoke

Curling, swirling around

Fingers cupped, cradling precious embers

Huddling together outside the doorway

Inhaling deeply

Lungs expanding

Taking the hit

Shivering with cold

Envious of warmer company

And half-drunk beers waiting inside

Nestling in pockets and hands

Perfectly packaged poison

White tubes, their fine filters aligned

Thin threads of tobacco

Neatly cut and shaped

Awaiting their turn for ignition

To deliver their payload

Of nicotine, toxic tar

And complex chemical compounds

Persistent chesty cough, wheezy laugh

Ash-tray aroma of discarded dog-ends

Reeking clothes and sour-smelling breath

Burnt-out, tortured taste-buds

Small price to pay for a short-term fix

Of this, their drug of choice

The death’s head staring

Glaring skull and crossbones

With its oft-ignored warning

Against this unhealthy habit

And the guilty pleasure of the addicted

Now these hospital wards

Their beds white and aligned

Oxygen cylinders and masks waiting

Provide welcome to the punters

The smokers and chokers

Grasping sheets, gasping to breathe

Desperate to inflate, if just a little

The shattered remnants

Of their failing bronchia

Glassy-eyed, hollow-cheeked

Staring into middle distance

Dulled by palliative pain relief

They dream of the old space outside

And the chance of one last cigarette

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Forbidden

Forbidden

Life’s full of many hidden dangers

Against which there are warnings and rules,

Regulations, barriers and notices,

Talking down to us like we’re just fools.

The prohibited list is endless,

Leaving us feeling stupid and flat.

So many things are forbidden:

Don’t do this, and don’t do that.

On the roads, there are codes,

Like speed limits we can agree,

But so many minor infringements

Seem counter-productive to me.

There’s fines, if you disobey guidelines:

No Entry, No Parking, No Turning,

There’s too much to keep up with,

Easy to get wrong, but we’re learning.

It’s a pain, on buses and trains,

Though it’s fitting, they only allow sitting,

And again, I’m very supportive,

Of there being No Swearing, or Spitting.

It’d be choking, if they allowed smoking,

Some people’s behaviour’s not good,

But we’ve got to draw the line somewhere,

Common sense needs be understood.

You don’t need a sentry, to deny people entry,

Security posts make jobsworths lonely,

They don’t need to shout, to keep people out,

Just “Authorised Personnel Only”.

We’ve all tried, to get past “Access Denied”,

Cycling Prohibited, Beware Of The Dog

Non-transferable, Not Suitable For Children,

No Cameras, No Entry, Slow Down For The Fog.

Use some gumption, on “Not Fit For Human Consumption”,

Prescription drugs you shouldn’t abuse,

For you’ve got to be careful with medicines,

Especially those marked “Only For External Use”.

Do Not Drive or Operate Machinery,

Don’t get too close, or put up your nose,

Things that you shouldn’t

And Never Exceed The Maximum Dose.

Let not the State, try to over-regulate.

So, let’s have no if’s and no but’s -

We can work it out for ourselves

When it’s case of “May Contain Nuts”.

Here’s an Unexpected Item In The Bagging Area -

And here is the moral delivered to you:

Haven’t we got our own sense?

Is there anything we can be trusted to do?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Parsnip, thyme & cheese bread

Recipe for: PARSNIP, THYME & CHEESE BREAD

Ingredients:

• 1 tblsp sunflower oil
• 1 large onion, peeled & very finely chopped
• 180g self-raising flour
• ½ tsp salt
• 1 tsp fresh thyme leaves
• 50g hard cheese (goat’s, cheddar, parmesan, or a mixture)
• 180g parsnip (peeled & grated)
• Fresh ground black pepper
• 1 egg, lightly beaten
• 2 -3 tblsp milk

 Method:

1. heat oven to 180C/ fan 160C/ 350F/ gas 4
2. heat oil in frying pan & sauté the onion gently until soft & lightly coloured, stirring occasionally – about 10-15 minutes.  Remove from heat & allow to cool
3. in a large bowl, mix together the flour, salt, thyme, cheese, parsnip & some pepper
4. add the cooked onions & mix thoroughly
5. beat the egg lightly with the milk, then add to the dry mixture
6. mix to form a soft dough, but do not overwork. Just bring together with your fingers and a very light knead
7. shape into a small round, then place onto an oiled baking sheet
8. bake for 40-45 minutes, until the loaf is golden & makes a hollow sound when tapped on the bottom
9. leave to cool on a wire rack, before slicing

 What else you need to know:

1. serve warm or cold, spread with butter and a deep bowl of soup

Skin

Skin

This covering, this wrapper I’m within,

This infection barrier,

Protector, keeper of my guts,

Which holds my everything inside,

Stopping me from spilling out upon the floor

And from pouring myself away,

Is under attack,

Both night and day

Infected, itchy, red, rough,

Sore, dry, cracked and broken skin,

A delicate tracery of lines,

A network of flaking layers,

Pieces to be picked and peeled,

Revealing bare tissue below,

Bleeding into crevices,

Creases, valleys and folds

Between fingers and toes,

Dry hair, crumbling nails

Leaving shrinking islands

Of a barely-working epidermis

Oily ointments, greasy creams

And emollient treatments

Penetrate the dermic strata

With cellular, capillary action

Until they quite are absorbed within

Gently rubbing, scratching, stroking,

Smoothing, soothing,

Bathing, seeking brief respite

From this never-ending torment

And the tiny blisters bursting, erupting,

Spreading further poison

Throughout my failing system

Condemned to live within this atopic cell,

Torture-chamber of a thousand tiny cuts,

Prisoner of a painful pathology,

Chronic, never-ending condition

Making forever unthinkable

Any contact with another human body

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Shack

Shack

Charred remains, burnt stick’d tinder from which

the shack was fashioned, hidden

within the hollow, below beech trees, deep

inside the wood, where his body was found

still cradled within his den.

His place now open to the sky, gaping, where the roof once was,

a door, a corrugated iron sheet, tattered tarpaulin, old palings

rope-shackled, and wire that formed his rural refuge.

His suburban semi only miles away, his wife

and children waiting, unable

to understand what eccentric whim

drove him to live this way, abandon

comfort and company, to bury himself

in muddy abode, freezing

in the depth of winter, half-starving

alone in the back-woods.

Alcohol and cigarettes to numb

the pain, and pass the time,

a camping stove, a naked flame to cook

and warm the fingers, to keep at bay

damp and mould, the essential tools

of staying alive, catching alight, spreading

flames or fumes, smoke or steam becoming

the agency of his unseen death.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Floating

Floating

Quiet night on the river

Waves lapping, slapping gently

Against the side of the boat

Grinding oars the only sound

Creaking, squeaking

Mist, milky, hangs above the surface,

Curls and swirls around.

Lamp held aloft

To light the ferryman’s way

Glimmering through the gloom

Catching pale reflections

From the ripples, then a sudden cry,

Shattering the calm.

Something in the water,

Floating, face-down, a body,

Marks, scars and muddy streaks

Naked, white, gleaming flesh

Turned by the boat-hook,

What’s left of a man,

Face half-eaten, far from fresh.

Nibbled and gnawed

By river creatures

Fish and frogs, river rats.

Dumped upstream somewhere

For someone else to find.

Hauled aboard with grudging effort,

Dirt-smeared, stinking, putrid,

A rotten fish to catch

Bruises on the buttocks,

Scratches, bloody wounds,

Tattered torso,

Tattoos and piercings

A victim easy to identify

By those who do such work.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 18th February 2018

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 18^th February 2018

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:

1.  Crowds continue to flock into the borough for the continuing Winter Games.  Tens of people witnessed the early heats of name-calling and pub brawling in the High Street, and there was much interest shown in sliding down Dunkirk hill on tea-tray.  But the biggest event took place on the frozen surface of The Crammer when a new team consisting of both North and South D-Town players took on the mighty force that is Trowbridge in the semi-final of duck-wrangling.  D-Town won the closely-fought game by two swans to one, and will now play Melksham Muppets in next week’s final.

2. And there was much shock in The Vize yesterday when an earth tremor, measuring 4.4 on the Richter Scale, was felt throughout the town.  On New Park Street one resident reported a book falling off a shelf.  In Long Street it was rumoured that a cup of tea stirred itself.  And one middle-aged lady expressed surprise and disgust when told of the quake.  She said she had been having casual sex at the time.  When asked if the Earth had moved for her, she replied that even the bed-head hadn’t moved.

3. For details of these and all other Devizes stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station D-Town F-Off.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Remaindered

Remaindered

No longer upright like new soldiers

Nor neatly shelved, spines straight-stacked

Alphabetical order, fiction authors A to Z

But tumbled, piled at random

Stickered, scattered

Reduced, remaindered

Bargain bin, basement bucket

Rough treatment at many hands

Edges knocked, jackets torn

Dirty, dusty, fingered and forgotten

Marked up and marked down

With little dignity or ceremony

At the end of useful life

More space is needed

To make way for the new stuff

The spirit of today

What’s happening now

Celebrity authors and TV tie-ins

Titles that sell, units that shift

The next thing, the new wave

Modern, fashionable, exciting

Where it’s at, de nos jours

Moving with the times

The zing of the zeitgeist

And the ring of the till

No room for the out-of-print

Except out of the way

Out of sight, out of mind

Deleted from the catalogue

The stock-code and the index

A slow and lingering demise

And a delayed disposal

Awaiting the final solution

Dumped, shredded, pulped

The bulk commodity of paper

A never-borrowed, never-bought

Unread volume

No reviews nor royalties nor renown -

He handles a copy, thumbing its pages,

Familiar with every word

And the effort it cost him to write

Now regretful, bitter and broken

He flees from the bookshop

The door left flapping

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Leek, cheese & bacon scones

Recipe for: LEEK, CHEESE & BACON SCONES

Ingredients:

·        2 Earl Grey teabags

·        1 leek, washed, trimmed & very finely chopped

·        2 rashers smoked bacon, finely chopped

·        1 tblsp oil

·        50g/ 2oz butter

·        225g/ 8oz self-raising flour

·        ½ tsp mustard powder

·        ½ tsp cayenne pepper

·        50ml/ 2 fl oz semi-skimmed milk

·        1 tblsp maple syrup

·        75g/ 2 ½ oz extra mature cheddar, grated

Method:

1.      Preheat oven to 200C/ fan 180C/ gas 7

2.      Lightly dust a baking tray with flour

3.      In a small bowl pour 50ml boiling water over the Earl Grey teabags & leave to steep

4.      Meanwhile, cook the finely chopped bacon and leek in the oil over a low heat for 5- 10 mins or until soft

5.      Set cooked bacon and leeks aside in a dish to cool

6.      In a large mixing bowl, mix sifted flour with mustard, cayenne & a pinch of salt

7.      Add the butter & use your fingers to rub in to form bread-crumbs

8.      Add the cooled leeks and bacon, and the grated cheese

9.      In another bowl put in the liquid from the Earl Grey teabags, add the milk and maple syrup then mix the liquids together.

10.   Pour the liquid into the bowl of flour mixture.  Bring together with a spoon or your hands

11.   Tip out the mixture onto a floured surface.  Flatten to a piece about ¾ inch thick

12.   Using a knife or a cookie-cutter, create triangles or round shapes

13.   Place them onto the floured tray, and brush the tops with a little milk

14.   Bake for 18 – 20 minutes until risen and golden

15.   Remove from the oven onto a wire rack and allow to cool

What else you need to know:

1.      Serve for warm or cold with butter, or with soup

Mouse

Mouse

Alerted by the noise,

the unmistakeable sound of victory,

Growling, howling, crying, mewling,

of his voices mixed together.

Whether pleased with himself

or ashamed of what he’s done,

The hunter stands defiant

astride the tiny bloody body.

Chased away, scolded, shouted at,

he makes a quick escape,

leaving his trophy

To renew his hunt out in the field,

driven by his nature,

a feral instinct to track and pounce

upon creatures smaller than himself,

To eat some warmer, living food.

Meanwhile, prey discarded,

Eyes glittering in terror,

Its body still warm,

snout and tail intact,

mangled limb, gory gash exposed,

life-force seemingly expired,

Lies inert beneath the table.

Left alone for but a moment

while collecting kitchen paper,

rubber gloves, dust-pan, disinfectant,

paraphernalia of removal and disposal

of a corpse unwanted

Intended for a bin, not a burial.

But the deathplace now deserted,

the body gone,

disappeared elsewhere,

smears of blood and body fluids,

shining, wet and fresh,

Crawled away in agony and fear,

to hide and tremble

in place unknown

to look out, spying upon the world,

Watching and waiting,

for a slow and lingering demise.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

My Funny Valentine

My Funny Valentine (an anti-dote to the hearts-and-flowers sentimentality of Valentine’s Day).

I have to say it’s been a bit slow lately,

In the “bedroom department” you know,

So I thought I’d tempt my dear beloved,

And try to bring back the old glow.

February four-teenth looked a good bet,

For that, as you know, is Valentine.

I thought that if I put in some effort,

Once again, our hearts could entwine.

I went and bought her some fine roses,

The best ones I could see in the shop.

It cost me an absolute fortune,

My funds had already started to drop.

Undeterred, I continued my bounty,

And I added a selection of chocs:

Nothing cheap, I really must emphasise,

Not a small one, but a very large box.

I wrote her poem, declaring my love,

And put it into her Valentine card.

It’s not easy writing poetry, you know,

It fact, I’d say it’s quite hard.

And finally I worked at the cook-book,

To present her with a very fine dinner.

I felt sure that this would win her heart,

I’d even say I was on to a winner.

I made our dining arrangements,

And over the details I took some pain.

There was soft, gentle lighting,

Mood music, and some pinkish champagne.

I hoped that she’d be impressed,

As she swooned over the effects,

And hopefully, when she’d eaten her meal,

There’d be kissing, and cuddling and sex.

But the best-laid plans of mice and of men,

Are often reputed to go far astray.

The course of true love rarely runs smooth:

I was in for a disappointment that day.

She was allergic to the chocolates I’d bought,

And she burnt her mouth on the soup.

The meal I’d cooked was truly awful,

And the sauce just tasted like gloop.

She thought my poem was real corny,

She scratched her arm on the roses’ thorn,

She got drunk on the champagne,

Which left my hopes all forlorn.

She went off to bed with a headache,

As can be a fair creature’s fashion.

I had to do all the washing-up,

And that was the end to all of my passion.

I was left on my own,

To sigh and to moan.

I’d wined her,

I’d dined her.

I’d thought that we two,

Would bill & would coo,

But it’s easy to see,

It just wasn’t to be.

So what lesson can we draw from this tale?

What should we take as love’s sign?

Well - if you think pink,

It’ll drive you to drink.

You know in your head,

That it won’t lead to bed.

So he’s got a lot to answer for, that Valentine!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Beast

Beast

A carcase lies splayed,

Deer dismembered,

Limbs at every angle,

Throat ripped out, entrails spilled,

Ribs exposed, gnawed and bloody,

Its mouth a rictus

Grimace of violent death.

No stoat, no stealthy weasel,

No passing fox, nor badger

Could cause such carnage,

Nor hunt, stalk,

Then haul to earth

Such heavy prey,

Nor rip and tear the flesh,

Leaving here such grisly remnants.

Nothing nearby found

No hair, no skin, no tracks,

Neither teeth-marks, nor DNA,

No photos, prints or evidence,

But then the dogs, nervous, set to barking

As if there’s something out there.

And rough men with guns

Shake their heads

And pull meaningful faces,

As if to say, knowingly,

That a killer stalks these woods and fields,

A creature unseen, sly and stealthy,

Sleuth-like, sloping, sliding,

Slipping through trees,

A reported shape, a shadow

Large, long and lean,

A cunning, catlike killer,

Fierce, feline, feral hunter,

Black, background-blending,

Glimpsed within the greenery.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018