to save me from my next faux pas,
I have no time for metaphor:
I make my statement with Dior
and diamonds but, beneath these clothes,
I’m plain Octavia who loathes
Society. I prefer things
that catch the light, designer rings.
See this? I keep it in the shade,
I’ve never worn it. Custom-made.
It gleams so loud it might express
my secret to the gutter press
how once I blagged the total of
a thousand pounds to pay it off.
Both our joint accounts were closed
since hubby got me ‘diagnosed’
and bloody jeweller wanted cash.
Ever since the credit crash
he’s hounded me. That night I shone,
talked with my hands, I turned them on,
Octavia, the talking doll,
has learnt her lines, the protocol,
I flash these lovely diamonds at
The Money Monk. And he winks back.
I state my debt: he makes a bid.
I don’t do small talk: he talks big.
Says he needs to check some data,
says he loves me two days later –
hubby’s cousin, business partner,
Money Monk, renowned for barter,
says he only wants one thing
and covers up my wedding ring
with twenty notes all crisp and new:
A thousand, for a night with you!
I’d rather not become involved
but Money’s spoken: problem solved.
I acquiesce and realise
the Monk has malachite for eyes …
Hubby’s away, a business trip,
he left that morning. When I strip
for Monk, he says his body aches.
I love the sound his Rolex makes,
its subtle tick, as we embrace
I marvel at its jewelled face.
And when we’re done, I call a cab
and pay the last instalment, cash.
Perfecto. Who needs money, love?
I prefer things, I always have.
And that would be the end, had not
hubby returned and spoilt the plot
by asking for the, now defunct,
thousand pounds I got from Monk,
the thousand pounds I thought my own
The Money Monk procured on loan –
he borrowed it from hubby’s stash
but paid it back through me, in cash.
I hate surprises, and my gut
response is blunt confession but
my therapist often asserts,
sometimes it’s good to lie: truth hurts.
I spent it. Not untrue, I can’t
quite lie but hubby’s adamant,
eyes sparkling with anger. I
widen my lapis lazuli
and lip, through ‘Dazzling Amethyst’,
an offer that he can’t resist:
to pay my debt to him in bed …
This ring, I keep deposited –
some things are better left unsaid.
Sharps an Flats
Missy Eglantine
Yet spak this child, whan spreynd was hooly water
And song O Alma redemptoris mater!
– Geoffrey Chaucer
Dear Mum,
It’s your son, J, chattin on a mix made
in Heaven, don’t hit the fade switch b4 it’s played:
remember, used 2 have perfect pitch but my pitch paid
a rich trade when I got cut off by a switchblade.
No need 2 pray, U ain’t hearin voices, this score is
the same voice age 7, spoke like a thesaurus,
wrote long stories, opened my throat like the dawn chorus
in God’s gang, my chords sang Alma redemptoris.
Mum, I woz singin O Alma when the blade blast,
tune makes broken windows rainbow like stained glass,
not lookin out 4 the snake in the grass
gets a boy slain in the vein by the caned class.
I took the short cut, a door shut, I woz deaf, blind
2 Shut the f**k up! Yeah, I mucked up their dead line.
I woz stuck up and my throat woz a red line,
at 7, hit Heaven b4 I hit the headlines.
Mater? Made a martyr 4 backchattin in Latin
sharps an flats, I had no idea what I woz chattin.
2 boys from the back flats, thought I woz backstabbin
so they stabbed with a sharp, 2 cut me off from battlin
like a rich kid. So the switch did the talk, then the mans lied,
boys in blue twisted your words till U were hands-tied
in prayer, the nuns held U up like when dad died,
grief crashin down your face like a landslide.
Mum, smile, it’s me, J, broader and far taller
than the boy whose voice broke before he could call for
help, the star scholar who grew far from squalor,
Do Re Mi Fa, with my spar, Damilola.
Got my chords cut but I’m singin like it’s Sunday,
boys got shut up, an I know this, that one day
you’ll come stay, so peace! Remember what the nuns say,
Love conquers all. I sign off,
Your loving son, J.
Artful Doggerel:
Sir Topaz vs Da Elephant – Round 3
Sir Topaz & Da Elephant
… grime sounds as if it had been made for a boxing gym, one where the fighters have a lot of punching to do but not much room to move.
– Sasha Frere-Jones
I be
Sir Topaz, E3 bling king
so dazzling you be blinking
pack punches till they sink in
I be Twitter, you be LinkedIn
online the girls I reel in
it’s pep-talk that I deal in
but Pepsi’s not the real thing
ask your homegirl how she feeling
(applause)
Da Elephant, I’m eloquent,
the heavyweight of grime,
me rhymes are sick, I’m gonna pick
your pocket full of rhyme,
South London’s king, so I’m linked in,
you’re out to lunch on bhang,
like David slew Goliath, you
will slay yourself with slang
(applause)
You be
so slow you slump on the bassline
I jump off the beat, don’t waste time
hundred kilos, watch your waistline,
I tasted your girl, she taste fine
I’m hungry, speaking of lunchtime
I burn up cals on the frontline
your trunk’s defunct, her cunt’s mine,
you be out for 9 on that punchline
(mad applause and booing)
You double dealt below the belt
but I will bust your screen,
you shoot your load in virtual mode
cos you’re a fairy queen,
you stole my girl, she said you smell
your dick’s a Bic, a biro,
you write your rhymes and learn your lines
and gamble all your giro
(mad applause and booing)
You be
breaking up in your nearly new style
mess with me but you know it’s futile
I got your girl, she’s nubile,
you got three heads, look at you, vile,
one says I’m gay but you retrial
one says I shafted your female
one says fuck-all cos it’s penile!
Stick that up your trunk for a freestyle!
(mad applause)
You got no creds, I got three heads,
they’re body, mind and soul
but dickhead, you have only one
that’s why you’re on the dole
(applause)
I be
Sir Topaz, claiming my last dole
just signed a deal in charcoal
not a fat cat sitting on me arsehole,
shoot rhymes from a metaphor arsenal,
one step ahead, metatarsal,
up there with Wiley & Rascal,
you be doggerel, I’m artful,
Elephant, fuck off back to your Castle …
(mad applause …)
Unfinished Business
Mel O’Brien
Conveniently, cowardice and forgiveness look identical at a certain distance. Time steals your nerve.
– ‘Memento Mori’, Jonathan Nolan
That night, it rained so hard
it was biblical. The Thames sunk the promenade,
spewing up so much low life.
It’s a week since they beat up my wife,
put five holes in my daughter. I know who they are.
I know why. I’m three shots away from the parked car
in a blacked-out car park. My wife cries,
Revenge too sweet attracts flies.
Even blushed with bruises she looks good. She’s lying
on the bed, next to me. Honey, I’m fine.
Tonight I caught her, hands clasped, kneeling,
still from a crime scene.
I didn’t bring my wife to Gravesend for this.
What stops me, cowardice?
None of them, even Joe, has the right to live.
How can I forgive?
How can I forgive
none of them? Even Joe has the right to live.
What stops me? Cowardice.
I didn’t bring my wife to Gravesend for this
still from a crime scene.
Tonight I caught her, hands clasped, kneeling
on the bed next to me. Honey, I’m fine.
Even blushed with bruises she looks good. She’s lying.
Revenge too sweet attracts flies
in a blacked-out car park. My wife cries.
I know why. I’m three shots away from the parked car
put five holes in my daughter. I know who they are.
It’s a week since they beat up my wife,
spewing up so much low life
it was biblical. The Thames sunk the promenade
that night, it rained so hard.
100 chars
monkey@puzzle
wen a mn opN fires hs wa 2 d top thN
loses all overnyt blastN hs 3rd eye W a
fulstop dat’s nt tragDy
tragDy’s d lot of d nvr-left-d-blocks Mr
Nobody whose pebble– lyf is intrrptd
b4 he hs d chnc 2 rise
he wz no tragic hero hitN glasses W d
bosses til hs tragic flaw or f8 md him
free-fall frm a hi plce
2 cordon off hs larger-thN lyf as f
it wr a sculpture on a pavement framed
W blk n yellO dntnta tape
no 666 disgraced bt lucifer w/o d angL
status bringN lyt 2 r lacklust lyfs W a
tweet or status ^date
since tradin widescreen 4 smallscreen
ment mor tym tweetN thN livN nt noing
he wz ritN hs own r.i.p.
ea bite-sized scene of hs soap opera
buzzed n beeped on r fons wen he broK
d speed limit on hs =o&o>
nt d boy frm dat estate hu gru ^ 2 hang
n d park nekN a dImNd wyt he’d
plucked frm d crnA shop shelf
bt king of d gym W mscles bustN ot hs
skin lk he wtd 2B oder thN d skin hu
let fings gt undR hs skin
lk d poison ivy rumour dat he knw w@
he didn’t knw he knw bout a don hu
hung himself bt left no note
n evry1 knw hu couldn’t kip frm tapping
w@ wz hapNg lk sum1 wz payin him
2 freezeframe r errday lyfs
so borin dat wen he went dwn on ll 4s
n d pub eatN crisps OTF brayN lk a
beast twas fri nyt ntrtanmt
nt hs vengeful invisibl h& sprayin ^ dat
cryptic triptych tag on d wall only he n
hs gang cd undrst&
nvr held h&s W d superfit wed W 2 kdz
>- armwrestler hu ended ^ runN 2 f@
W a thug 1s her hubby died
nt bad nuf 2B betrayd n stabbd n d bk
by a bro W a knife 4 a h&shake or shot
X-( n bed by hs bredren
nt set ^ by a relativ 2 do tym 4 a crime
he nvr did nor a sngl dad W 3 kdz *vin
2 death in a hi rise
nvr d psychopath n lust W hs sis unzippn
hs mum’s womb 2C whr he came frm
thN cutting hs own sic lyf
no hero kisD by fortuN losing hs hed 2
a wmn nor king e10 frm d NcyD by d
tapeworms of hs rank pride
no-one laced hs ~!~/ 2 snap him face
dwn n d p%l or stuk d knife n d numba-
pL8 of everyone’s bst m8
a nobody hu didn’t C d hit n run reverse
Nstead of rev in2 his =o&o> cuttN his
suspense mid-sentence
his fon buzzN n beepN d pulse of our
dull predictiv lyfs long aftr d medics
pronouncd him past tense
Animals!
Mozilla Firefox
Love or money? Sex or the city?
You see that trade over there, too pretty
for his own bod, the one by the jukebox
surrounded by birds but eyeing up I, The Firefox?
Not the peacock, the rooster,
bronze, crimped red hair, crisp blue jeans. Used to
daydream about him. Freud says there’s only two
kinds of dreams, daydreams and wet dreams. You
never knew that, did you? They don’t call me
Mozilla Firefox for nothing, I should be
on Mastermind. Anyway, this cock
has a hen for each day of the week, body clock
set for dawn, sings like he owns the farmyard
and I, Mozilla Firefox, starred
in his dream last night. Well, I gatecrashed.
All in red I was, slappered and eyelashed
from too many bevvies at the King’s Head.
I put the pink pound in the red.
Money? Bah handbag! Money can’t buy you love,
William Shakespeare. Anyway, he was outside ‘Dove
Cottage’, feathering one of his hens,
you know, the one in the gold choker who pretends
to sing his backing vocals like she’s number one
in his chart, like she holds the key to his kingdom come,
Poutalot, her name is, so I hid behind a tree.
Animals! Worse than The Heath for bugs and he clocked me
swatting a dragonfly. So I had to come out, so to speak.
I said, I saw you on TV last week.
Never heard a man hit a note so hard!
Flattery is the way to a man’s heart.
He cocks his head, sings his eyes shut and I, The Fox,
have the cock in my throat, the most tuneful of cocks!
Well, he doesn’t quite know how to react,
you wouldn’t, would you. And Poutalot puts on this act
like I’m murdering him. Death and Love,
same thing, John Donne. Then he calls my bluff.
Tells me to tell her to put a stop in the fanfare
so I part my lips to speak and he flies up into the air
and wakes up sweating in his blue jeans.
I told you, only two kinds of dreams …
Now here comes Poutalot in her Wonderbra
to make him think he’s some kind of pop star
cos he drinks Champagne on the rocks.
And he’s making like he never clocked The Firefox.
Chateau or cottage? Shop or shag?
/> Love? Bah, handbag!
SITTINGBOURNE
The Contract
Femme Fatale
Worst job I ever handled, bruv? A woman.
So plain, you’d scan her face for flaws, an find none.
Not a mark on her till the bullets spat.
They fucked up good, should be in here for that
not shelling Jupiter. Call this a prison!
Finishing school. He was never christened
Jupiter, but larged it, full of gas.
Jupiter Jones. One of his moons, I was.
He paid with interest, bruv, an when you got
a past, a job’s a job. One thing I’m not
is lazy … She was sitting in the bath,
no bubbles, an so hot, I held my breath,
felt overdressed in t-shirt an tattoos.
He wanted me to top myself, she goes,
but where’s the fun in that? Lilies, she smelt of,
so strong it made me gag. She eyed me, bruv,
the way all virgins eagle me but scanned
my lids too long, as if I killed her husband.
I never. Nor his brother. Not my business.
You never get a babe like that to kiss
Jupiter’s arse: she laughed, gave him what for.
Not that he wanted her, he wanted her
to want him. But she fucked him with religion.
If there’s one thing Jupiter hates, it’s Christians.
He’s killed more Christians than his wife’s been headfucked.
I aim – and Lily-May’s no longer perfect.
She doesn’t flinch. Asks me to light her gold-
tipped cigarette. Do you believe in God?
I fire again, fuck the analysis.
Again! Who the fuck does she think she is?
And yet I’m answering: No … I don’t know.
She blows smoke in my face. I do, she goes,
like nothing happened. Blood, fresh as graffiti,
the bath, the lino, deep in red confetti
and sister’s singing Greatest Hits. I leave.
Took her three days to die. You don’t believe
me, bruv? I shelled the boss and jacked it in,
buried the bullet, washed away the sin.
Only babe I ever killed, that kid,
I swear to God, worst job I ever did.
I do, she said, like we were hitched. I breathed
red roses, blubbered like a girl: believed.
The Gold-Digger
Tim Canon-Yeo
Subspecies of suburbia
subtitled The Twister,
makar of mixed metals,
mercenary as mercury
my mastermixer.
Hidden in his hoodie
thinblack an’ threadbare,
Telling Tales Page 5