Chocolate

Chocolate

Licky, soft, and warming,

Thoughts of future pleasure.

Sticky, smooth and brown,

Velvety, melting dark treasure

To be enjoyed all alone,

In secret time of leisure.

Fudge, flake, finger,

Chocolate, by any measure.

Bar, block, biscuit,

Dark, milk or white,

Pure, solid, refined,

Hard, shiny, jewel-bright,

Fruity, nutty, whole -

Each a welcome bite.

In coffee, cake or cocoa,

Tempter in the night.

Forbidden, stolen moments,

Always finding favour,

Inexorably drawing in,

Towards the flavour.

Calling, just like a lover,

Hidden pleasures to savour.

Exotic Aztec offering,

To gilded gods high-placed:

Rare regal substance,

Ritual priestly paste,

Unrefined, bitter,

Not the modern taste.

Cholesterol-building,

Against medical advice,

Guilty, tempting treat,

Naughty but nice,

Oozy, boozy liqueurs:

Never need think twice,

But go to any lengths

To get the hit, beyond price.

Truffles in the box,

Let there not be any lack.

Serotonin rush,

Anti-oxidant crack,

Helping brain remain sane,

Bringing good feeling back,

Seducing the mind

Floating on aphrodisiac.

Eager anticipation

Of pleasure to come,

The fingers lingering,

To catch the last crumb,

Licking up the final drop,

Senses drowsy and dumb,

Oral organic orgasm,

Satisfied, finally numb.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Vertigo

Vertigo 

       

Yes, it’s all part of the tour,

The thing we’re doing today.

We’ll shoot to the top of the tower,

In the bullet-like elevator,

The vomit-comet, they joke,

Up to the observation deck,

For the best view of the city.

It’s only ten dollars -

Can’t miss it – what the heck!

Looking out through the windows,

Acres of armour-plated glass,

Protecting camera-toting tourists,

Who don’t think to be afraid.

It’s a matter of no moment,

To see how close they can get

To the outside world,

With its roaring wind,

And the edge of the parapet.

And for a few dollars more,

There’s more adventure out there,

Beyond the doors on the sky-deck,

Walking outside of the rails,

Or even bungee-jumping,

Into the wild blue yonder,

With just a thin safety-harness,

That will set their hearts pumping.

There’s laughing and joking,

Daring each other to look down,

Hundreds of feet to the ground,

Why live on the edge when you can jump off?

It doesn’t take any skill,

Just the bottle to defy gravity,

To stare danger in the face,

And experience the thrill.

But I’m pinned against the back wall,

Legs heavy, like jelly,

Breathing shallow and thin,

Feet clamped hard to the floor,

Convulsed by a shake,

The very idea of falling,

Plummeting earthbound,

Is more than my nerves can take.

The edge has a way of drawing me in,

Pulling my body towards it.

A total loss of control,

A force too strong to resist.

Coming up here today was an error,

My sense of balance is failing,

As I slide slowly to the floor,

Filled with feelings of terror.

Clammy hands, sweating,

Mouth and throat dry,

Trembles and shivers increasing,

Sense of balance not trusted,

Dizzy, head spinning,

I can feel myself shaken.

Stuck here, transfixed,

Hanging on to the floor,

This spot is already taken.

Get me out of here, away from this place,

Take me slowly to the earth again,

Past the chattering crowds,

The souvenirs, the momentos,

And the photograph-sellers.

Help me again to feel sound,

Till this vertigo vanishes,

The nausea passes,

And I’m back down on the ground.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Dave

Dave

Collar turned up, usual style,

Clothes and hair that’s the latest,

In the best possible taste,

Fashion that’s all the rave,

That’s my modern mate Dave.

He looks a bit shifty, I guess,

A bit of a wide-boy, if I’m honest,

Thriving on ducking and diving,

But his company I always crave –

That’s my magic mate Dave.

Never sure just what he does,

Or how he makes any money,

Deceiving, bobbing and weaving.

Dismisses it all with a wave,

That’s my murky mate Dave.

He comes and he goes,

Seeing a man about a dog,

Dubious trades, not sure if they’re legal.

Fortune favours the brave:

That’s my moody mate Dave.

That’s the way he lives his life:

Trading, selling, bits of this and that,

Import, export, the usual stuff,

That’s how he’ll go to his grave -

My mysterious mate Dave.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Caravan

Caravan

Just off a track by the cross-roads,

Down the old lane, near the ash-trees,

On an autumn day dark and damp,

At the back of the verge, in the long grass,

A faded caravan parked up in its camp.

A horse tied up nearby, cropping the turf,

In its small circle of freedom,

Rangy, mangy and thin,

With its thick, matted coat,

Collection of bones and of skin.

At the door of the vehicle,

Insolently staring, unsmiling.

Stands a pinched, dirty-faced child.

Watches as we walk past her home,

With the look of a creature run wild.

Thin, tattered clothes on the wash-line,

A twist of smoke from the chimney,

At the back, one broken wheel,

Roof that’s seen better days,

And paint-work starting to peel.

No pretty picture postcard,

This scene of rough rural life,

No romantic tale to be told,

But a cramped, hard life on the road,

A struggle against damp and the cold.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 8th May 2016

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 8^th May 2016

                                             

Here is our weekly round-up of events from Bromham:

1.       Bromham has a new mayor, following elections on Thursday.  Pigletty McPigletface was elected to the role with a sweeping mandate to stop being a nobody and become the village’s mayor.  McPigletface, the son of a common carrot-planter, is the first openly Transgender One-legged Pink Educated Ruralite (TOPER) to be given such elevated office anywhere in the UK.  In his acceptance speech and swearing-in at St Knickerless Church yesterday, he said that he wanted to be a mayor to all of Bromham’s residents, no matter what their sexual orientation or deviant proclivities.  Civic leaders welcomed the news, but the sheep were visibly and audibly nervous.

2.       In a further escalation of the NHS Junior Doctors’ strike this week, the First Aid kit at the Civic Centre will be left unlocked and unattended for up to eight hours at a time.  In a move that is largely seen as a hardening of attitudes, if not arteries, a medical spokesman said that people would have to help themselves to bandages in the event of a paper cut.  Villagers have been advised to be more careful on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, just in case they need a plaster, and to go easy on the germolene.

3.       For details of these and all other Bromham stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station Carrot FM.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

A Long Coffee

A Long Coffee

Hands clasped round her coffee mug,

She sits, but rarely drinking,

Staring into middle distance,

Detached, distracted, thinking.

In front of her the sugar sachets:

Three of white, and three of brown,

Placed in defensive formation,

Mirror of her worried frown.

Each drink maybe lasts an hour,

While she loiters and she lingers,

Waiting for the hours just to pass her by,

Teaspoon twirled in twisting fingers.

Alerted by the door, she glances up,

Checking the face of every stranger,

Then sinking back into her reveries,

Relieved she’s not in any danger.

She has precious little money,

So there’s neither cakes or biscuits to choose.

She’s read the newspapers through and through,

Waded through the gossip-column news.

It’s just something else to pass the time,

It’s the same thing every boring day,

And, with a tacit understanding,

The manager now just lets her stay.

He doesn’t want to get involved,

And, although she’s never said so,

He can see how she’s likely fixed,

That she has nowhere else to go.

She’s anonymous, a total no-one,

A cipher, a shadow, never making sound,

Avoiding any lasting eye-contact,

Blending with the faceless back-ground.

Making patterns on the table,

The same routine, killing off the dead time,

Reflecting on her empty life,

As if being friendless were a sort of crime.

She stares out through the window,

Watching the world as it wanders past.

Then buys yet another coffee,

To see how long she can make it last.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

The Lady Gail

The Lady Gail

Walking along the footway,

A path carried over a ridge,

Looking down at the old waterway,

From high, on top of the bridge.

Spying the weathered old barge,

Tethered to stakes at the edge,

The ropes twisted and tight,

Between the reeds and the sedge.

Thin metal chimney poked through the roof,

Emitting a steady smoke plume,

From the stove near the stern,

The thin galley, a shortage of room.

With fine, faded old artwork,

The reds, the greens and the blues,

Artful, intricate pictures,

Golds, yellows, several hues.

This girl had been beautiful once,

Though her paint had turned pale.

Now low, and snug in the water,

An old vessel, “The Lady Gail”.

Well-travelled, an itinerant,

Good body, mellowed face,

Wandering the waterways,

Moving on from place to place.

For days she moored there quietly,

Majestic, as if lying in state,

Resting her bones in the water,

Waiting, down near the lock-gate.

Then one day, towpath all covered in ice,

A space by the bank newly appeared:

The Lady Gail had slipped her mooring,

Just as I’d expected and feared.

No sign of her in either direction,

Her stay with us turned into history.

The cold water sadly deserted,

Her next destination a mystery.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016