Poetry Hallway - Limpit Smike Sounds Off

So, friends, what's another year, to someone who's lost everything that he owns? You might well ask. But here comes 2018, ready to put a further boot in whilst we shiver and shake in the cold room. This chilly extractor fan blast following that heavy, low-hanging, fart of a year doesn't really lend itself to reflection - we just want to pack up our genitals and run. Long-time collaborator and excremental badger Limpit Smike is going further than most, as he's decided to emigrate. He's getting in his retaliation first. What could go wrong?

An old Concorde, courtesy
of Andy for MoMoJaJa.

One Widdled From A Great Height by Limpit Smike


One day, I shall come back.
In my Rolls-Royce.
Yes, one sorry (really not sorry) day,
I shall return, from… Australia, say;
California – no – South Africa;
The champagne tastes so much sweeter down there.
The peasants shall raise their mud-streaked faces
And gasp at my lavish gold bootlaces;
As I gaze mocking at the old places.
They shall cry: “Limpit, take me when you go!”
And I, imperious, shall sneer a “No.”
My Rolls-Royce fits only me and my beau;
He enters more snugly than they could know.

Poetry Hallway - Having A Trip To The Bank

Any change, guv'nor? At Poetry Hallway we are skint. Strapped. Scooped out. Brassic. We're borrowing a neighbour's internet, hand-cranking a tiny solar torch for light, and coming up with recipes incorporating whatever remains in the cupboard. Pasta, rice and noodle surprise, whoopee! - the surprise being whatever tiny sauce sachets we've filched on our travels along the high street earlier. Hunter-gatherers. Apply here. Please.

Things are so bad we're even thinking of renting out one end of the Hallway to amorous swingers in need of a quick bunk-up. So long as they don't mind sharing with a team of starving poets, and using a pile of old towels and junk manuscripts as a mattress, it could be a winner!

Sadly we're not the only ones with holes in our socks and our guts due to the holes in our funds (especially as we were counting on our latest promised payment from git-faced Limpit, that is until we actually read his latest poem):

Having A Trip To The Bank - by Limpit Smike

They turned me down, those naughty clowns,

They turned me down again;

My fine request for extra funds -

Allow me to explain.

My poet’s life has wheres and whys,

And often just “how much?!”;

But lavishness becomes me, so

I strive to keep in touch.

My bank has clean facilities,

And clean advances too;

But when I can advance no more,

They leave me in the stew.

They have no wit, those naughty twits;

They have no poet’s ear;

What squirt of life flows through their loins?

Quite none at all I fear.

How will I make to penetrate

Those hard, unyielding men?

Am I the Smike forever cursed

To rant and swear and moan?

Insinuate, or sit and wait

Until my verse takes flight?

Or use my lover’s deepness

And thrust with all my might?

A love that swells in all my parts

Would take them by surprise;

And surely soon, my overdraft

Would be quite energised.

Their deepest vaults would sweat and strain

As I thrust strong and tough;

If they would only give me some

I’d give back quite a stuff!

Poetry Hallway - Harvest Festival

If there's one thing that characterises rural England in Autumn, it's the timeless sight of sweaty, burly locals stalking the fields, scything away at anything and everything that moves. The remains are occasionally interred in unmarked graves, but more likely cooked up into tasty dishes to be served up during the traditional harvest celebrations. With this in mind, Beware! tasked its resident poets to whittle down some suitable verses on the subject of autumn. These are the pitiful responses we received.

Wiccan harvest queen. (Andy Brain)

Kerbside Aspiration by Andy Brain

Islington harvest?
Premature mortality.
Every breath you take.

They get everywhere.
Soot soup ferments in the lungs.
Great work, this. Medals?

Cold now on a slab.
Malignant neoplasm.
Airway sabotage.

Diesel: Death's plan B.
"Make something better" ad spot -
Too good to be true.

Particulate trap.
Pulmonary pinpricking.
Pomp. Promises. Phlegm.

Culpable smooth suits.
Statistics swallowed, suppressed.
Countless needless deaths.

Years that should have been;
Lifetimes just miles on the clock.
Empty still the dock.


One in October by Archibald Oulipo

1

Soft mist and propagation;

Other God-given goods too.

He created the earth, yet

he will destroy the wine and

lotus-thatched women's teams;

Apple retorts, doubtless mossed

Summer fruits, ornamental

Oyster fat and forecast oil.

Organization of tools; 

Other promises installed.

Flowers for Maya; the day 

may not be able to stop

a summer full and hanging.

2

Sometimes, this feeling is right for you?

Sometimes, look elsewhere, other time-zones.

Results obtained are of negligence

to the hair-soft spiritual life;

Sierra ship stats, sure, or have a nap.

Groom-calm the prices your way; they say

Interest no more holds the whole country;

Always clean, always - burn the excess,

particularly the upsetting;

Patients' destination has cedar: 

A missed call will remain ever missed.

3

It started in the spring? In fact, what? 

Because music - narrow corridor,
Wide orange vista of light - marries

for him though, dead flowers, rats, horseflies,

The game went slightly pink, ragged, dry.

Infected mosquitoes' pain and song -

Willow Stream, live and dead, air and light,

New Year installation already?

The Hajj makes even Frasier dance;

Now craft regret with red breast pulsing;

Twitter and soft collected volumes.

Just Rewards for Hard Workers by Limpit Smike

Laying back or sprawling forward,
Upon my precious country sword,
The hard, bold land I've seen betimes,
On photos whilst in richer climes.
Those less fortunate than myself,
Those without the gifts of verse.
They surely have it so much worse.
They scratch a living from the land.
Britons, can we not understand?

What of the farmer, does he care?
Of his riches does he share?
No. No. No.
Daft and wrong, daft and wrong.
Force those workers to sell their bodies?
Sell them like whores for mere pennies?
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Proud and strong, proud and strong.

If I could employ them all I would.
I would shelter them inside my hood.
I would scrub their nails to cleanse from dirt.
I would mop their brows to ease their hurt.

Own the land, own the man.
Cherish the land, cherish the man.

It is my duty to share in my good fortune,
So many forthright thoughts I must importune,
Must press and push to enter into their minds,
And make sure nothing bad is left in the behinds.

How to Do a Harvest by Bobby Robert

Sneak into the farmer's field,

Drop your drawers and drop your yield,

Wait til the crime is revealed,

Send a selfie shitty smirk.

Poetry Hallway - Poverty Knocker

Five pounds please! Tonight's Poetry Hallway is falling apart and we can't get it fixed unless you pay. I said we can't get it fixed unless you pay.

Well?

I'm waiting...

LIMPIT: Ahem.

Oh have it your own way. Keep your coat on. It's fair to say that poetic stalwart, Limpit Smike, has been stockpiling his ideas recently -

LIMPIT: Is it time for one of mine now?

Yes, in a moment, we'll be -

LIMPIT: Because I notice you print all of... Croyland's poems, and none of mine.

Well that's not quite true, we had one of yours just a few -

LIMPIT: I'd like to say something now.

OK that's fine. Here's one about the poor.

LIMPIT: No, not the poor - poverty. Which is spelt almost the same as poetry. As a poet I can spot these things.

Poverty Knocker by Limpit Smike

It clambers round the house

Scratches up the door

Smears up all the walls

Throws things on the floor

It's called poverty

And it wants its way

It's called poverty

I must shoo it away

It ruins all the food

Cuts off all the gas

Farts in every room

Cancels all the plans

It's called poverty

Makes monkeys out of men

Sick and thick with fleas

I must not be like them

It wears out all the threads

Sells the lovely stuff

Leaving only bread

Makes you just a scruff

Back off poverty!
 Stick your long nose right out
Lavish becomes me
I will not be a lout

I protect all my pounds

I work hard on my wealth

Money has the power

Of and by itself

I will not succumb

To cheap and dirty ways

My King Yacht will come

And I shall sail away

Poetry Hallway - Filthy Muck / Interview

Beware! recently caught up with acclaimed poet, wit and raccoon, Limpit Smike. He had a writing pad and a big stack of Parker pens.

Filthy Muck by Limpit Smike

I try but cannot understand

why dirty men have sweaty hands

and filthy pants on cheesy nobs

and rotten feet in mouldy socks

and fatty blobs and saucy globs

down jeans they can't be arsed to wash

They squish their scent on doors and floors

I have to disinfect, of course

It makes me retch and then explode

when filthy beasts come up my road.

Mucky man. (Andy Brain)

B: Hello Limpit.
L: Wargh! Oh! What on Earth are you doing there?
B: There was no answer at the door so we thought we'd try the window.
L: Withdraw your head, I'm composing.
B: Busy, eh?
L: Yes I am as a matter of fact, and so should you be. I've got three poems to finish by lunchtime.
B: A triptych?
L: Bless you.
B: No - are they related thematically?
L: Of course not - that'd be far too hard.
B: A sentiment many of our readers could sympathise with. So would you like to describe -
L: (Writing whilst talking) Look you may have time for poking your bits about, but I don't, okay. I have some bloody fantastic verse to lay down onto this paper -
B: With a rather nice pen.
L: Yes, it's one of my new ones from Sun Life, I applied for a thousand insurance quotes and they sent me a thousand pens. Anyway this is a special book of poems that's going to Uri Geller.

B: A commission?
L: No - a composition. You fool.

Empty bogroll. (Andy Brain)

B: I mean, Uri commissioned you to -
L: You might think that. I might think that. Uri as yet does not know he thinks that. Maybe in some crevice of his magical mindset -
B: So not a commission then.
L: Let's just say, when he receives my meisterwerk sheathed in an exquisite lavender envelope, he'll know he's dealing with a quality artist. Quality will out. Uri screams quality.
B: Can we have a taster?
L: No. Of course you can't. Now bugger off. How many times?
B: Okay. (Leans back out) We'll have to go through your bins then.

Poetry Hallway - Mary's Spot / Haiku

Come in and wipe your socks. Mind out for draughts - you're in the Poetry Hallway. Today we have an archival offering from the well-scrubbed Limpit Smike.

"I always knew poetry was within me, coming from somewhere deep, not even in my head but in my torso, and it's always a pleasure, when I have a spare hour, to flex the fingers and let fly with a good dozen or twenty pieces."

"Mary's spot is not a particularly lavish work like my Smoked Salmon series. I like to write about cheap things as well as the good stuff."

Thank you Limpit. Now a haiku (or something that's haiku length - where's the kigo?) from Andy. I think he's talking about a girl.

Tight pressed stressed tresses;
Perfect teeth; clear eyes test mine
I, lust's parody?