Royal Visit

 Royal Visit

The earliest of starts

Forcing everyone to be there on time

With hurried diagonal parking

In the designated distant spot

And the long, hurried walk to the venue

Through the exclusion zone’s lines of security

The checking of passes, invitations and identities

To gather with the hoi-polloi

In best bib and tucker, dressed up to the nines

Who pretend to have made no special effort

The men in shiny suits and tightening ties

The women in frocks and high hair-dos

The Lord Mayor in polished chain of office

And the councillors and dignitaries

Getting hot under their collars

Affecting not to want to be there at all

But ready to get to the front

When push comes to shove

 

And the long, long standing around

Labouring through meaningless small-talk

Murmuring amongst groups of gathered strangers

Waiting for the clock-hands to slowly creep round

Towards the long-appointed time

Having fun picking out the low-key security men

Obvious with their nervous tight faces

Darting eyes, short haircuts and thick necks

The wires from their walkie-talkies

Curling round the back of their ears

 

And the drifting aromas of fresh paint

Cleaning fluids and laundry

Floating on the air in a floral bouquet

 

A pre-agreed agenda

A palace-approved programme

The timings nailed down to the minute

In a carefully-choreographed series

Of visits, moves, walks and chats

Through the venue, past the people

And groups of obligatory children

 

Then a flurry of arrival activity

Sweeping her in through the doorway

A small head obscured by the huddle

An entourage descending

Heads nodding and bobbing

Murmured questions and answers

And the forced amusement of the moment

A flash of a smile and some hair

Between the bodies that surround her

The party moving inexorably forward

In line with the timetable

Orchestrated and organised

Through displays and demonstrations

Exhibitions and presentations

Chatting and stopping, stopping and chatting

 

And then she is suddenly upon us

Presented to the group

A hand held out limply for taking and shaking

The couple of questions

Feigning interest in the responses

Ma’am rhyming with jam

Tweedy twin-set and pearls

Bad hair and teeth at close quarters

Before being urged gently forward

By the lady-in-waiting, a hand upon her elbow

Towards the final station of the tour

 

The speeches and spouting

A cascade of polite applause

The unveiling of another new plaque

A replacement for its predecessor

Inscribed at great expense

By a guilded local craftsman

Using certified recycled materials

And time-honoured traditional skills

 

At last she is whisked away again

Towards the next appointment

In another market town

The special cakes left un-eaten

And the tea and coffee undrunk

Which the rest of us may now fall upon

Before drifting back to our normal realities

 

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Night School

 Night School (time they offered some more interesting sessions to tempt the jaded palate)

It’s time to brighten up your evenings!

All Welcome! Don’t sit there being uptight!

There’s a new syllabus starting this week,

Tuesday at seven p.m. is orgy night!

 

You’ll find us to be a real friendly crowd,

Just sign up for a starter session inside,

And after your first hour with the team,

You’ll find no-one’s got much left to hide.

 

We’ve got the heating turned up cosy and warm,

So there’s no need for you to be thinking,

There’s a risk that your willy will become chilly,

Or that there’s any danger of shrinking.

 

Beginners don’t need to be shy:

The experienced will show you what to do.

Our guiding text is the Kama Sutra,

But after that it’s mostly up to you!

 

Intermediate and advanced classes,

Are provided as an education.

No limit on the number of partners,

And we provide free lubrication.

 

We cater for every possible position,

Men and women in all of their guises:

Forwards, backwards and even sideways,

And there’s no rules on shapes or on sizes!

 

Whatever kinks you’re into we handle:

All types of frotting, gavotting and knotting,

From complicated sliding and riding,

To quite simple plotting and slotting.

 

Whether it’s frigging you’re really digging,

Cheer up!  There’s no need to wear that frown -

You can come at it from any direction:

Left to right, inside-out, or upside down.

 

If you’re hard and firm, or soft as a worm,

If there’s wrinkles and folds, or you’re just lumpy,

We’ve no preference for one or the other,

So long as you’re up for rumpy-pumpy.

 

All of your body parts are catered for:

Boobs and moobs, bums and tums, legs and thighs,

Whatever ripples, and tipples your nipples

Just go with whatever may arise! 

 

It’s all about your participation,

So don’t hang back looking all soppy.

You might get an ovation for your stimulation,

Instead of remaining all floppy and sloppy.

 

We each have our lengths, and must play to our strengths,

It’s not endurance that wins all the prizes,

But enthusiasm counts for a lot,

And a desire to go with that which arises.

 

So no need to get yourself stuck in a rut,

But come and join us, you’ll have such a ball!

If you fancy a sess, where there’s plenty of flesh,

It’s Orgy Night at The Village Hall!

 

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Poule Au Pot

 Recipe for: CHICKEN POULE AU POT 

Ingredients: 

• 1 free-range chicken, 3-4 lbs (or you can use chicken joints)
• 1 large white onion, peeled & left whole
• 3 cloves
• 2 bay leaves
• 2 sprigs fresh thyme
• 1 star anise
• 6 peppercorns
• 2 large carrots, peeled & cut into large chunks
• 1 large potato, peeled and cut into large chunks
• 2 celery sticks, trimmed and sliced into large pieces
• 1 large leek, trimmed, washed and quartered
• Juice of ½ lemon
• 10g parsley leaves 

Method: 

1. Trim chicken of excess fat and place in large casserole
2. Stud the onion with the cloves and place in the pot
3. Add the rest of the herbs and vegetables
4. Cover the contents with water and add pinch of salt
5. Bring the pot to the boil, then cover and reduce to a gentle simmer, skimming off any scum
6. Simmer for 25-30 minutes, checking that the chicken & veg are cooked
7. Remove the chicken and carve into large pieces
8. Strain the rest of the contents into a large bowl, retaining the broth
9. Cut the onion into four pieces and remove the cloves
10. Share the strained vegetables and chicken pieces between serving bowls
11. Taste the broth and season to taste, adding the lemon juice
12. Pour ladlefuls of broth into the bowls
13. Grind some pepper onto each bowl & top with parsley

 

Disoriented Express

Disoriented Express (didn’t we have a lovely time, the day we went to Blackpool?)

I’m sorry, Your Honour, that I failed so badly,

It’s my own fault for being such a fool,

And I should have known an awful lot better,

Than to go on their day-trip to Blackpool.

 

They were from the Home of The Bewildered,

They’d only been let out for the one day,

A day without luggage or medication,

A Mystery Tour for their holiday.

 

The ladies and gents had all boarded the bus,

When, behind me, they closed up the doors.

It was only then that I spotted the sign,

That this was a trip with “Twilight Tours”.

 

I thought I was being public-spirited,

When I volunteered to go with my Gran,

There on the coach with the old folks,

Only to find I was the youngest man.

 

They were all in their eighties and nineties,

Dressed up in their wind-cheaters and beige slacks,

And a wide range of woolies and macs,

Were packed and stuffed in the luggage-racks.

 

We set off for Blackpool, all in good cheer,

But much forward progress was hard to make,

Because every ten miles down the road,

We had to stop for the next toilet break.

 

Each stop lasted an hour or more,

When the charra we had to disembark.

They needed some help, so came out two by two -

At times, it was like emptying an Ark.

 

The bus was so noisy, you wouldn’t believe,

Not from the exhaust or from underneath,

But from the vibration of walking sticks,

And the ghostly rattling of false teeth.

 

There was one geriatric, called Patrick,

A cheeky and mischievous old boy.

He made passes at elderly lasses,

And tried to bring the old dears some joy.

 

And another crusty, who answered to Rusty,

Ex-military, a dashing old blade.

He made a great fuss all over the bus,

And made great play of his hearing-aid. 

 

But the girls were the ones you had to watch,

And for me the trip got rather risky.

Once they woke up from their sleep,

And had their tablets, they were quite frisky.

 

They might not know what day of the week it was,

Or the meaning of my frightened laughter,

But in their condition, they were on a mission,

And they knew what they were after!

 

But once I’d barricaded the gangway,

The adventure turned out pleasant and nice,

They couldn’t remember what you’d told them,

And you had to say everything twice.

(I say – YOU HAD TO SAY EVERYTHING TWICE!!)

 

But I got caught up in the moment,

And my punishment I’ll have to take:

Tho’ the promenade’s a place for fun and games,

The wheel-chair races were a mistake.

 

In the end I should have known better,

I wouldn’t want you to think that they were abused.

After a whole day in their company,

I think it was me that was really confused!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Walking At Ephesus

 Walking at Ephesus

It may be a simple effect of light, of the whiteness of rays

of the shimmering blinding sunshine flickering between columns

glittering particle sparkles in the crystalline texture of marble

but these careless tumbled liths appear restless, uneasy

heavy and broken, a jumbled jigsaw among the stunted grass

poking through rough gravel, rising up, re-assembling

resolving into many-godded  temples, triumphal arches, fountains, houses,

palaces, tombs and theatres, gateway carvings still fresh

features crisp and sharp, markings new-minted clear

no longer rough abandoned Roman ruins, nor the broken back of Byzantium

but a living space, a breathing place, where ghosts may freely roam

 

The death-heat of Anatolia, barely relieved by the coolness of water

or by fountains plashing into placid pools and baths

and the leafy colonnaded avenue of a tree-shaded Arcadian Way

its side-street walkways busy with the simple sound of feet, sandal-clad

people about their business, voices of slaves and masters

traders in the marketplace, and the client-busy brothel

clients inspecting the flesh on offer

the girls alert for someone new, perhaps an interesting stranger

a darkened sailor from the harbour-side

climbing the shining hill, far up into the heaving city

 

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Nightscape

 Nightscape

 

Our footsteps echo, bounce between hollowed empty buildings

and lose themselves again in deserted door-wells

deep darkened gaps, missing teeth in a broken smile

before being borne away by the bustling, scudding wind,

rattling metal shutters, matrix security grilles

the eyelids of unkempt, un-lit windows

of long-locked abandoned shops

 

The cold creeps into us, bitter chill biting finger-ends,

hurrying us along, despite ourselves, scurrying and scuttling rat-like

through unloved empty streets, cracked paving stones,

broken kerbs and gutters of dirty un-swept sidewalks,

pools of stagnant water snagging flapping sheets of greasy newspapers

hiding random dirt and rubbish

 

And night-time window-shows, bright shopping mall displays

flashing harsh allurements in a piercing clash of neon

reflected in the roadway sheen

shielding the shabbiness of pound stores and bookies,

amusement arcades and charity shops, cash-for-gold pawn-brokers

and unpopulated pubs and clubs

 

Yet somehow something stirs, unbidden flashes of former lively streets

nostalgia for what once was - no longer deaf, dumb and blind,

no longer worn and beaten down, but a town that lived and breathed

memories of a better past

 

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 25th October 2020

 Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 25^th October 2020

 

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

                                              

1.      Citizens awoke in D-Town this morning to the shock news that British Summer Time is over and the clocks have gone back an hour.  Taken totally by surprise, people have wondered how this has ever been allowed to happen, and why (oh, why?) there had been so little warning of such an amazing event.  It had all been so unexpected.  A campaign has been launched to have large posters erected in The Vize to warn people of the coming apocalypse of Halloween, Christmas and New Year.  Advance notice on Pancake Day next year will also be given. 

2.      And several charity organisations around the borough have clubbed together to ensure that no school-child goes hungry during the half-term school holidays.  Volunteers, led by local footballer Drew Peacock, have spent the week putting together lunchboxes and distributing them to the local hordes of feral yoof.  The boxes contain a nutritious mix of items designed to mimic as closely as possible the normal school-time luncheon fare – two slices of Dairylea processed cheese, three turkey twizzlers, a packet of salt n’ vinegar crisps, a can of Red Bull and a flick-knife.

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Twenty-One Pounds

 Twenty-One Pounds

 

Twenty-one pounds

The figures stand out starkly

At the bottom of the column

Of other pounds and pence

An amount within an invoice

An account now rendered

Simple unadorned numbers

Clear in black and white

Just before the grand total

 

Twenty-one pounds

VAT inclusive

The final line of reckoning

The fee for services rendered

The burning of the body

Cremation of his small remains

Somewhere taken care of

That we shall never see

 

Twenty-one pounds

Seems not near enough

To reflect his energy

Nor what he meant to us

But that’s all there is of death

The summary of a struggle

A last and final line of life

 

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

A Corner Turned

 A Corner Turned

And now the thing is done -

The post that seemed so far away

That never would be reached

Has become a milestone passed along the way

Already long behind me

Fading into hazy distance

A cross-ways of sorts

A turning-point achieved

 

Breath exhaled and a sigh released

Then confident strides along

A new and different path

As it stretches out ahead

The course a changed one

The direction of travel

Along a new trajectory

Perhaps towards the same horizon

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Hedgerow Jelly

 Recipe for: HEDGEROW JELLY 

Ingredients: 

• 1 kg crab apples, or cooking apples
• 1 kg mixed hedgerow berries (e.g. sloes, bullaces, hips, haws, blackberries, elder-berries, rowan berries)
• 900 g granulated sugar 

Method: 

1. pick over the fruits, removing stalks & leafy bits, rinsing as necessary
2. don’t peel or core the apples – just chop roughly
3. place all fruit in a heavy pan with 1.2 litres of water
4. bring to the boil, then simmer until all the fruit is soft & pulpy.  Remove from heat.
5. turn the contents of the pan through a scalded jelly bag or muslin cloth & leave to drip overnight
6. do not rush this bit – don’t squeeze the liquid through the bag or the jelly will be cloudy
7. the next day, measure the juice – you will probably have about 1.2 litres
8. put the juice into a clean pan and bring up to the boil
9. add the sugar – 450g of it for every 600 ml of fruit liquid, stirring until dissolved
10. boil rapidly, without stirring, for 9-10 minutes until setting point is reached 
11. skim off any scum with a shallow spoon, then pot & seal into sterilised jars
12. date & label the jars 

What else you need to know: 

1. keeping the skin, cores & stones is a good source of pectin, which helps the jam to set

Invaded

 Invaded

It’s not a matter of consent

or permission to invade

to come within the confines of my body,

nor the medical necessity of timely intervention,

but the very intrusion itself

and the cutting of skin and tissue,

the breach of orifice

entrance by main force,

breaking from without to within,

external to internal,

the subtle insertion of pipes and wires

the transgression of needles and probes

the incursion of cameras and computers

to break into the inner cavities

among the blood and nerves and organs

that pump away unseen

to effect the running repairs

to keep me alive for another day,

to give me the breath to complain bitterly

of the pain of violation

 

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Radioactive

 Radioactive

I’ve had this little operation,

On the theatre table laid prostrate,

They’ve fixed me up, and I’m good to go,

Now they’ve irradiated my prostate.

 

Yes they treated me with radiation,

With hundreds of tiny little seeds,

Now I’m full of alpha particles,

That will soon provide for all my needs.

 

I’ve got my own internal power source,

Which is a most important factor.

Now I’m a little generator,

Like a tiny nuclear reactor.

 

This fusion makes me glow in the dark,

Just like the ad with the Reddy-Brek kid,

And if the nation gets short of power,

They’ll just connect me to the National Grid.

 

Now you’ll see I’ve got a new demeanour,

That there’s a special quality to my gaze:

It comes from a sense of inner power –

Well - that and I’m transmitting gamma rays.

 

And it’s bound to make me so much fitter,

A claim I think you’ll find is fair,

Cause now I can only go out and about,

If I’m sporting my lead underwear.

 

These hot spots of uranium

Provide me with lots of future hope.

It’ll take me decades to decay,

Thanks to the half-life of my isotope.

 

And now I’m fit and full of energy,

A Geiger-counter provides the metric:

I’m a low-carbon, lean, green machine,

And I generate my own electric.

 

Not only that: there’s something else to tell -

This medical advance that’s come to pass,

Means that now I have this inner light,

So the sun really does shine out my ass.

 

There’s only one cloud on the horizon,

Something that might cause me to frown:

There could perhaps be a nuclear accident,

And my innards might go into melt-down. 

 

So just be careful when you come to bury me:

It might have be a very long way down.

You won’t want me in your neighbourhood,

So it’ll have to be a long way out of town.

 

Anyway, there’s only one thing puzzling me:

Now that I’ve become radio-active,

And that I’m fully solar-powered,

Does it make me any more attractive?

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

The Force Within

 The Force Within

Now I must learn to live anew

And re-float myself

As the ark within which are carried

Inside and occult

These strange and dangerous seeds

Bringing death to certain cells

But life anew to this old body

Acting whilst they slowly fade

And mysteriously dissolve

Their active energy

Giving me an inner glow

A fighting force for good

That yet preserve me

Even as they kill

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 18th October 2020

 Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 18^th October 2020

 

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

                                              

1.      Following the latest Covid clampdowns, the troublesome northern areas of The Vize have again broken away in rebellion.  Declaring themselves free to make their own rules and regulations D-Town United Major Businesses (DUMB) have set up a new border crossing point on the Swindon Road and begun issuing their own currency, stamps and passports.  Determined not to be used as “the canaries in the mine” regarding lockdown effectiveness, all caged wild birds have been banned in homes with more than two adults, unless there is a “y” in the day, and mining operations near the Avebury Badlands have been suspended until further notice.

 

2.      And in the latest local conspiracy theory, it has been revealed that conspiracy theorists are being blamed for the spread of Covid infections.  It is thought that their preferred lifestyles (sitting in their underpants in front of a computer screen for long periods, and connected to the interwebthingy) may allow the virus to breed in their brain cavities and be transmitted along electrical wires.  It is also suspected that Covid-19 may cross barriers using WiFi and Bluetooth mechanisms.

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

 

Anticipation

 Anticipation

Soon, soon, but not quite yet

Time dripping like a leaking tap

Its droplets seeping quietly away

A death-march dissipation

But not diminishing the span

Of the open interval

Before the consummation

 

So very nearly there

But not yet docked at the destination

My nerves jingling

Tingling in the finger-ends

The tumour of fear and worry

Gently growing within, building

Sending staccato signals

Through my trembling limbs

 

The anticipation of what might be

Or which may never happen at all

Yet the unbearableness of not knowing

Fearing the worst, wondering what may come

From around the next corner

The active mind plays its awful tricks

Thinking and guessing

Hoping and dreading

Worrying and waiting

I find myself holding my breath

Then the relief of exhalation

Dithering and shaking

So that I cannot settle

Nor find a way to rest

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Connected

 Connected

He sits there in the corner all alone,

Absorbed in reading the latest text,

The most amazing fun he ever has,

Almost better than even having sex.

 

He can’t hear what I’m saying – he’s too far gone:

His social manners are quite uncouth.

His dearest object is his smart-phone,

His only worries are wi-fi and Blue-tooth.

 

He always likes to be connected:

To be abandoned would cause a frown,

So he texts and tweets and emails,

In case he misses what’s going down.

 

He’s got all the very latest gadgets -

Wireless hardware, and some software apps.

There’s nothing he can’t find out, or look up -

In his world, there aren’t too many gaps.

 

He aims to be online completely wireless,

Accessing his friends and data on the move,

Reporting on his every whereabout,

To let them know he’s in the groove.

 

You could be talking and he wouldn’t hear you,

He’s engrossed in looking at Facebook -

It’s as if he’s not really with you,

Just as if he couldn’t give a fuck.

 

His skin has assumed a ghostly pallor,

And his finger-nails are turning green.

Unearthly shadows flick across his face,

Reflected from his i-Phone’s tiny screen.

 

His brow is furrowed in concentration,

As he reads what’s recently occurred,

Crouched over the device within his hands,

And his fast-texting thumbs are blurred.

 

He’s terrified he might lose his signal,

Or his life as a connected man,

The phone he’s clutching, and frequently touching,

Just two seconds is his attention span.

 

Each incoming message holds promise,

Of some earthly contact electronic:

As if it’s asserted that he’s not been deserted,

Though his responses are mostly moronic. 

 

His hearing has almost deserted him,

His eyes are hooded, his jaw it hangs slack.

He’s not really with us here in the room,

As he sits there emailing at the back.

 

Yes he’s got to be Mister Connected -

His concentration must be concerted,

But one of these days, he’s gonna look up,

And find himself totally deserted!

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Compost Heap Jelly

 Recipe for: COMPOST HEAP JELLY 

Ingredients: 

• 500g apple cores & peel
• 500g mixed citrus fruit peel (unwaxed lemon, orange, grapefruit, lime) cut into 1cm shreds
• 900 g granulated sugar
• Juice of 1 orange, lemon or grapefruit 

Method: 

1. put all the apple cores & peel and the citrus peel into a heavy pan with about 1.5 litres of water, or enough to cover
2. bring to the boil, then simmer until all the fruit is soft & pulpy (about 45-60 minutes).  Remove from heat.
3. turn the contents of the pan through a scalded jelly bag or muslin cloth & leave to drip overnight
4. do not rush this bit – don’t squeeze the liquid through the bag or the jelly will be cloudy
5. the next day, measure the juice – you will probably have about 1.2 litres
6. put the juice into a clean pan and bring up to the boil
7. add the sugar – 450g of it for every 600 ml of fruit liquid, stirring until dissolved
8. add the orange or lemon or grapefruit juice
9. boil rapidly, without stirring, for 9-10 minutes until setting point is reached 
10. skim off any scum with a shallow spoon, then pot & seal into sterilised jars
11. date & label the jars 

What else you need to know: 

1. using the skin, cores & stones is a good source of pectin, which helps the jelly to set
2. this is a good, cheap recipe since it uses ingredients which were only bound for the compost heap anyway

 

Adornment

 Adornment

Admire the blank and empty canvas

upon which delicate brush-strokes have been drawn

as if to create a pretty picture, an illusion -

there, across her angled shoulders,

a golden sash, lightly drawn,

an elegant sweep of colour

upon the whiteness of her milky flesh -

there, around her neck, a delicate filigree thread

suspends a single diamond,

upon the gossamer muslin

above her gently-rising breast -

there, along her naked arms,

a rack of gilded circlets,

clicking, singing, cymbal-shimmering

resonating to the movement of her body -

there, on her slim and elegant fingers ,

twine twisted delicate rings

topaz-red in silvered settings,

jewelled in harmony with her carmined nails -

there, on her perfect pallid face,

along the nape and cheekbone

lie barely-visible, tiny blonde hairs

and from the faintest pinkness

of shapely ear-lobes hang heavy hoops of gold -

there, up to the very edges of her pretty mouth,

runs the lip-gloss painted line,

a precise and perfect butterfly

beneath the pertness of her nose

sporting its tiny jewelled stud -

and there, across her sculpted face,

sits her calm and cool expression

which speaks so little of the effort

that it took to look so natural

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Ravished By The Storm

 Ravished By The Storm

He could not have meant it

There must have been some mistake

When the newsreader

Went over to the special correspondent

The local man upon the ground

In some distant disaster zone

Whose first language was not English

And told us firmly

Across the breaking signal

That the storm had ravished the land

And it left me with a strange impression

Of a cyclone that had crept up unawares

Taken its victim by surprise

Lifted the petticoats of the land

And, despite the screams of protest

The frantic efforts to prevent it

The turning away of its face

Had forced itself upon the villages

Scratching and tearing

Bearing down its great strength

Ravaging without mercy

A relentless rapine

Unappeasable

Until it had finally spent itself

Leaving behind a broken spirit

Before it blew away

In weakened state

To build and re-gather

And terrorise another place

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

What LIes Beyond

 What Lies Beyond

It used to be the main entrance

An imposing cathedral space

Stone and glass and grand dimension

An echoing Victorian portal

Giving admittance to the wards beyond

The smell of death and strong carbolic

 

Now modern made-over

With sensitive deployment

Of smart synthetic surfaces

Creating a contemporary feel

Pastelled walls of recent artwork

Imposing copper sculptures

Conversation pieces within the information hub

A crowded hubbub of comings and goings

Busy, active people thronging

The global-branded café outlet

Seeking soothing lattes and mochas

Or a convenient power point

To recharge their mobile devices

To draw some sustenance

To catch the wandering wifi signal

And connect wirelessly

Jacking in to the web

 

Or gently cruise the shopping mall

The range of vending opportunities

Of outsourced concessions

The thrum of retail activity

Bees within a busy hive

A brightly down-lit arcaded atrium

An open meeting-space

With colour-coded signage

In a font of retro-vibe lower case

Indicating the way out

That leads from Waiting

Into the hospital itself

 

Where poorly people lie bed-ridden

Hooked to monitors and machines

Wire-connected

Jacked into tubes and treatments

Losing their vital steady signal

Absorbing drips and drugs

And leaking body fluids

Seeking diagnosis of condition

And prognosis of their future

And amid the wounds, illness and injury

There is tension and anxiety

And a rarely-distant fear

Of suffering and dying

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 11th October 2020

 Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 11^th October 2020

 

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

                                              

1.      Surprise was expressed this week in The Vize when it was revealed that the Town Council had been using an older version of an abacus with which to calculate Covid infection and death rates.  The model, an old steam-driven Morris abacus, only allows the use of one finger whilst in operation, whereas more up-to-date models definitely require a two-fingered approach.  The Council’s IT department, currently in the throes of upgrading their Commodore 64 computer to a more modern Atari ST, were unavailable for comment.

 

2.      But citizens were bolstered yesterday in their Lockdown bunkers by the sight of the Council leader, who had recently tested positive for Covid, making a personal appearance on the balcony of the Town Hall making a rousing, morale-boosting speech to his supporters.  He said that he had completely recovered, that citizens should not be afraid of the virus, that he had tested more positive than any other human being, that he had the strongest/ newest strain of the virus (Covid 20+), that Covid 19 was now old hat, that his frequent injections of Jeyes fluid had made him feel cleaner than he had in years, that he was full of experimental drugs, and that citizens would also be given free access to such medication (*terms & conditions apply)

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

 

Cat Verse

 Cat Verse

The cat is helping me

In writing this verse

Crawling into position

On my lap in front of the desk

Her eyes in line with the cursor

Nose wrinkling at the opening of windows

Her paws intercepting my fingers

Guiding the keystrokes

Purring approval when it suits her

Or growling a critique

Her claws dictating the speed of my movement

Dissuading me from any sudden movements

Or badly-chosen words

Her fur ruffling in occasional disgust

Watching the shift of my hand

As I shelter the mouse

From her imminent attack

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020

Because

 Because…

Because now that I know

…I wish that I didn’t

               …a rabbit that’s out of the hat

Because I keep thinking about it

…dreams of engulfment

…nightmares too bad to bear

Because when I wake up it should just go away

               …dissolve like the rest of my night terrors

…into great gulps of relief

…but this time it doesn’t

Because this time it’s true

…and I can’t the thing shake it off

               …stuck to me limpet-like

Because there’s no easy solution

…no simple way out

                              …nor way to avoid it

Because there’s no amount of money

…that could be scraped together

…that would pay this thing off

Because it doesn’t take bribes

               …no price of my ransom

…nor even listen to reason

Because it’s unfeeling

…it doesn’t know what it’s doing

…nor realise what it’s doing to my life

Because my peace of mind is failing

…because this is it

…because this time it’s real

…because it’s so frightening

That’s why I’m shouting

…calling out in my sleep

…because I’m afraid

 

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2020