Dry Sailor Boy

Two Piggies

Working, and not having the time to indulge my drafts. So I found the back catalogue, and liked this one, once upon a time. However, it maybe fails the sense bump – not hopping pictures into another’s mind. I would like to read it out to a crowd, and it might work. There’s a repetition somewhere, but I can never find it twice. :)

Two Piggies

You stopped me, got me,
caged me, fed me.
Did you end me?
I am joking
you ate me at the fireside, remember?
I suppose you trained me.
We were happy
when like two wide whales
we wore jammies and fucked,
bred, breathed hereabouts.

We did not go outside
what for?
Dullards lay across every porch
and we, you keep it to yourself, reader;
we knew the crew only too well
so we, at home, we made our own parade
but (yet) as I recall, Pinky
you, or she kissed me
my Perky me,
my lardy
after the cake, you, she croaked
(…)yet I remained
here in pain, awake to baking.

When will it end?
Only I am way past sale, darling
might shift ham,
honey, go see you
and how I see you now.
Somehow we skipped,
do you remember how
by our fridge fantastic
where we laughed?
Together again:
my love,
I cannot message you this plan
from a sofa
built for two piggies.
……………………………………………………….

Big Dogs in Persia

Dr 2…still editing, top half is smoother. Still, I miss my first drafts: these things turn monstrous, 2000 words…

Big dogs in Persia…

We did not keep a dog. We kept only my cat. He was called Percy, whilst a wild ginger (tabby), she kept her (own brace of) kittens outside at the back of the house. She would scream at me when I stepped too close to her lair, in that cat growl which I (then) mimicked, and maintain to this day, for example if I am surrounded by cats. I can disperse an entire crowd of cats. Percy – my cat, he disappeared one summer ‘on the road,’ said the house boy(.) and I imagined my pal hitch-hiking his way to Tehran (visiting)to see the Shah, and later I pictured his snooze among a harem of Persian pussycats, perhaps with a box of ‘After Eights’ tucked in his paw (or maybe Turkish Delight). You see. Meanwhile, back home and alone I was a well-read and worldly little boy, who had books to play with, and toy soldiers, and a brother if there was a power cut. Eight years old, I lived a mile away from the largest oil refinery in the world.

All the sahibs lived in this, my suburb of enormous bungalows with the high ceiling fans, and giant air-conditioners located in the walls. Sometimes even a locust might crawl through the grill. However, step out of the house and another mile away, looking out through our gates I could see the mud huts of the Arab village shimmering in the heat. Turn my head, and I would see our side of town, the long shady avenues that linked these our bungalows, and under the avenue trees Iranian students reading their textbooks back to front, sat there with a tree each, cool(ed) in their jeans and flip-flops.

Jamie Mcilvaney had a dog. He named his dog Killer.

‘Why d’you call him Killer?’ I said.

‘I just like the name,’ he said.

I liked it too. It was a good name.

‘I wish I was called Killer,’ I said.

Lots of families had yard dogs, like Killer – in their compounds. Dogs kept those students at a distance, and Iranians didn’t like dogs the way we did.

I walked round to see Jamie. But he would not answer the front door. So I reached up, popped the latch on his gate, and stepped in the back way.

Only, Killer was sun-bathing in the yard and he jumped up on me and roared into my face. It felt like an age, that time, with the dog’s eyes barking into my eyes. He was heavy too, but he did npt kiss me, and I’ll thank him for that, because Jamie’s house boy whacked him with a very big stick. You will remember what I said about these people and dogs. They don’t even use forks.

Though I (do)reckon Killer had some friends about the place. Ten years later I was sitting in a red van, up the top of the beach, finishing the biggest joint we ever rolled – that day in Devon. This, as you know, is principle limber activity for surfing big waves. I was green in the face. Green, and with a black wetsuit, and a board, stumbling down the beach in a cross-shore wind. And I see him – a mile away at the other end of the beach, galloping like a guard dog, like a ‘Run Joe, Run’ dog. Obviously I knew he wasn’t (not) coming for me, but somehow (by) beach radar, dog knows, intensified my appeal he was coming for me, and all of a sudden one hundred yards away, hunting after only me with his (appetite and) teeth. I ran into the water and he splashed in after. But dogs can’t duck-dive and I got away to sea. It is, I know, pretty dramatic stuff. I have catalogues of dog stories – one chased me in my car in Fuerteventura. So, just to say I shall get my own dog soon, and I will call him Killer.

Little Woman in Love

My god I feel dreadful. Realistically I should not allow myself anywhere near a keyboard. Who knows what damage I might do? I am such a dangerous man, a fiery pen tiger, I might burn the screen with my prose. What else is Friday for – asides from complete self-poison with barley wine. Yum, yum…and today is Saturday and perhaps in half an hour I might poison myself, and my little wife, a little bit more.

‘Come out, come out of your hole,’ I say to the little woman, and here she comes scuttling across the floorboards. I think I shall play a trick on her, oh she is so cute:

‘Fee fi fo fummm, aha ha.’

‘No, no…’ she squeals.

‘Ah hush your rattle, frau,’ I say, ‘it is only me, hop on to my knee top and stroke my hairs.’

‘Oh Matthew,’ she says, ‘your hairs are so soft.’

‘Turn over,’ I say, ‘I want to brush your bottom with my thumb.’

So she spreads herself upon my kneecap, and lifting her white dress to her waist I see a tiny pink bottom rising, and falling, under my thumb. She coos. It really is a quite perfect arrangement.

Teaching diary: Finns & Italians

midweek drafting, no time, still a bit oddly – sandwich episode spins out in the draft – from one sentence to an entire life of sandwich horror :) editing down…


A heatwave and midweek: I am worn noddy, teaching up at the big school and jumping, splash diven into the sea at lunchtime. My sandwich, he watches me from the pebbles. I wave, and he waits…for me.

I sun dry, manly, and say ‘I shall never get rich in this business,’ I say to sandwich, and rub this arm with only a grey sock. I say to sock ‘and know, my dear, I fear…we shall never even become a properly pair, and are only properly poor, in our one single lifetime together.’ [what...]

White, sliced weakling I made: he is held.

‘Why fear me sandwich? heh heh heh, heh heh,’ I growl, and am top doggerel of the beach.

Yes, yet, for me, in this business that is the me philosophy, there remains an afternoon thrill to come, when back in classroom 2B, I catch a bright one in this, my line of sight hooks.

The young fella comes from Helsinki – and crackles, his mind like a rocket: such wit and dry with it, subverts everything that he sees and hears –

The Rabbit’s Bride is a god damn metaphor,’ he says, and lesson done, he scraps his way out to the sound of my whistle in his ears, to the playground arena – where he is stocky, punchy…a combat jacket brother who hangs with the girls. He is brooding from under a flick.

Later we play ‘Rich Me 2025.’ However, my atmosphere becomes raucous – so I cool proceedings with a douse round of ‘Terrible Life Futures’ where students have an opportunity given…to detail a catalogue of horrors from some point in their distance time, kind of like:

‘I live in a tree in Gotemburg park. I eat trash with my pigeon brothers. We am slave to criminal mastermind.’

‘That is a perfect future, Alicia,’ I say.

With Finns and Swedes I also teach rote diction – some version of:

‘Young people, pleased repeats after me:

the elves were left to defend the chickens by themselves…repeat the elves, by themselves eat the chickens and some girls…from the shelves…these elves…they should behave themselves.’

etcet etcet maybe…

When playing ‘Rich me 2025,’…wow…Laurenzo from Rome, tap-types those long fingers upon his jaw; he is very dramatic, and says –

‘Ia hava noa needa fora moneya. I composa ona mya violina the greatest synphonya in the worlda.’

‘Wonderful Lawrence, you are our, my inspitration, but remember please, my boy’ I say with these palms, these yellow teeth, my anger mountain: ‘pull yourself together, boy’ I remind him to his face. ‘It is…recall, my English language – remain flat now, for you musta controla the bounca of your wordsa…at all times.’

Ciao x

Erotica storytelling, 18+ please

Give him a break, it’s his first attempt…keep that head still next time xx

Amazing Achieve

‘Dahling, dahling…I have 300 followers…’

‘You…are…a…sad…prick.’

‘I love you.’

‘300?’

‘Well. 250 nutritionists and fifty people with blogs.’

‘Wonderful.’

‘Onwards and upwards. I think you may have put on a little weight. Have you considered “Army Workout” with payment spread over a convenient 12 month cycle of pure fitness, go go go.’

‘Go fuck off.’

‘Catch, the remote control.’

‘Yes, yes, yes.’

More ELT Lesson Plans

DR1

ELT Lesson Plan

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/11/22/short-story-read_n_4220181.html

Requiring a short text I goggled ‘the short story’ and up popped, from some loathsome comic, ‘the greatest short stories in the English language.’ I think it was the Atlantic Quarterly and these tales – or riddles, were actually, in fact ‘American,’ short stories..? Naturally I persevered in the belief that the students might benefit from the simpler language, structure and general, more basic sense of ideas, emanating from the ‘folks’ across the pond. [haw haw haw, haw haw haw]

I chose only the stories that were labelled as ‘4 minutes’ or less [the link] and yes, goodness knows it is challenging enough to listen to my own family for thirty seconds – let alone some nasal bore pen lick with his IQ and wild pubic beard eyes. Yes again. The first story was called ‘The School by … …….’

This was my favourite of the stories, much preferable to that barrel chest Hemingburg, or the Atwood woman moaning on about the human condition and men wanting sex all the time and women having dreadful lives. I wanted to scream:

‘Have I not read you, your Prisoner Cell Block H Maid Tale…and is that not enough…for you? Go roll…you, away you, you…clever dick.’ [what..?]

Anyway Maggie was tipped into the rejection, ‘ha ha slusher ha ha you’ pile. Yes…

The School, a wonderful little tale where everybody dies – in a funny way, it is funny, although LLarsson – in class – became extremely agitated, frustrated:

‘But, vis is tragic, no?’

‘No, it is funny: it is called, they call it…homor. Read it properly, they are all dead,’ I said.

Also, next I spoke to the kids, in my voice, spoking: ‘If you can get through this next one, you can say for the rest of your lives that you have read Ray Bradbury books.’ Which they did – read the extract. I lost the back page of my copy so never found out what really happened at the ‘End of the World,’ though tried asking several of the students, but none of them was none the wiser.

By far the greatest success had been the day before – for narration and comprehension, I recommend the Brothers Grimm story about the girl sitting on the rabbit’s tail. It might be ‘Clever Gretel’ or something else. It has the lines

‘Come sit on my tail, girlie,’ said the rabbit.

‘No, no’ said the girl.

‘Come sit on my tail.’

‘No.’

‘Sit on my tail.’

‘Yes, yes. yes,’ which was a true crowd-pleaser, both inside and outside in the corridor where the prefects, and all the other teachers, had gathered.

SYNOPSIS:

The girl marries the rabbit. She misses her mother so builds a straw version of herself to fool the bunny. The rabbit beats the straw girl, and believes that he has killed his wife. He has straw on his hands. Gretel never returns to clear up the misunderstanding.

FULL TEXT

The Rabbit’s Bride

There was once a woman who lived with her daughter in a beautiful cabbage-garden; and there came a rabbit and ate up all the cabbages. At last said the woman to her daughter, “Go into the garden, and drive out the rabbit.” – “Shoo! shoo!” said the maiden; “don’t eat up all our cabbages, little rabbit!” – “Come, maiden,” said the rabbit, “sit on my tail and go with me to my rabbit-hutch.” But the maiden would not. Another day, back came the rabbit, and ate away at the cabbages, until the woman said to her daughter, “Go into the garden, and drive away the rabbit.” – “Shoo! shoo!” said the maiden; “don’t eat up all our cabbages, little rabbit!” – “Come, maiden,” said the rabbit, “sit on my tail and go with me to my rabbit-hutch.” But the maiden would not. Again, a third time back came the rabbit, and ate away at the cabbages, until the woman said to her daughter, “Go into the garden, and drive away the rabbit.” – “Shoo! shoo!” said the maiden; “don’t eat up all our cabbages, little rabbit!” – “Come, maiden,” said the rabbit, “sit on my tail and go with me to my rabbit-hutch.” And then the girl seated herself on the rabbit’s tail, and the rabbit took her to his hutch. “Now,” said he, “set to work and cook some bran and cabbage; I am going to bid the wedding guests.” And soon they were all collected. Would you like to know who they were? Well, I can only tell you what was told to me; all the hares came, and the crow who was to be the parson to marry them, and the fox for the clerk, and the altar was under the rainbow.

But the maiden was sad, because she was so lonely. “Get up! get up!” said the rabbit, “the wedding folk are all merry.” But the bride wept and said nothing, and the rabbit went away, but very soon came back again. “Get up! get up!” said he, “the wedding folk are waiting.” But the bride said nothing, and the rabbit went away. Then she made a figure of straw, and dressed it in her own clothes, and gave it a red mouth, and set it to watch the kettle of bran, and then she went home to her mother. Back again came the rabbit, saying, “Get up! get up!” and he went up and hit the straw figure on the head, so that it tumbled down.

And the rabbit thought that he had killed his bride, and he went away and was very sad.

………….

Serious – for intermediate and up – Rabbit’s Tale/the School/ Bradbury. The Atwood is too heavy – there’s Hemingway too – worth a check: Narration, comprehension, reading, speech…I asked students to transform 19c fairy to 21st grit – (follow the stages of the tale, like steps) great results with their bloodthirsty CW, lovely…

Drugs and Literature

Literature Special

Once upon a time I would happily agree with you – that there’s nothing more dull-tedious than the old stoner books: Junky, Trainspotting, Mr Nice. Been and gone, been it, seen it, done it, yawn, yawn, roll over, roll your own Lou, wait your turn, you’ll get yours, your morphine sulphate, on the ward, come the day…

But

I knew about the Lee book, and along with many others had read the morphia extract, lifted and printed in Howard Mark’s book of dopey stories. However, for visual thrills and pure reading (probably is a male pig thing) ecstasy, the opening chapter to James S Lee’s ‘Underworld of the East’ is delightful, delicious, hilarious. [Mat, you ponce] – racist, completely against the grain of acceptable values etcetera…

Lee is a 22 year old mining engineer. The year is 1898, and in the far north east of India, there is a clearing overlooked by a guard tower manned with gurkha soldiers, and a thick jungle inhabited by hostile nose bone type tribes. Deep below this clearing lies the mine. Lee travels underground in the mine, steps from the main underground coal highway into a dark cavern where women are mining coal with picks:

The chamber was hot, and the women had loosed their “serais” and tied them round their middle, and from the waist upwards and the knees downwards they were bare. Their skins were moist with perspiration, and glistened in the lamp-light like polished brown marble.

I always felt uncomfortable among a crowd of coolie women; they eyed me with such curiosity, and made personal remarks, a few words of which I was beginning to understand. When the remarks are lewd and obscene, the Hindustani language can be very expressive. There were more women in the mine than men, because they were better workers and cheaper. Many of them were young girls of sixteen or less. Morality was very low amongst them, and sometimes I was almost afraid to go along some of the far parts of the workings; I was little more than a boy and I had heard tales of lone men being carried off into disused portions of the mine by three or four women, some of whom were under the influence of “bhang” or “ganja.”

“Oh Sukie. Here is the young sahib come to see you,” called out one of them to, to a pretty little girl, who answered with a shrill laugh.

One bold young thing, with glittering eyes and a grin showing ivory white teeth, advanced towards me with a mincing gait similar to that sometimes adopted by comedians on the music hall stage, and without bothering to cover her breasts, she stood before me, a beautiful image of symmetry, and then she started to wriggle her body in the manner of the Nautch dancers, evoking a scream of laughter from the rest.

Another girl, whose mouth and lips were blood red with chewing betel nut, or “pahn,” as it is called, came up and offered me a chew

James S Lee Underworld of the East, Green Magic press

Oh, hello, heh heh hmmm heh hang on a minute, yes quite, one is reminded of Conrad’s Heart of Darkness:

‘the horror, the horror…’

or even my own narrations at the Brighton Arts Club that time, if you recall, narrations of my ‘Lady Red Hot Electric Midnight Collection.‘ This is the central problem – with the ‘National Tour Erotica’ project, the possibility of – I fear for my safety, or even duplicating [thank you] the experience of the Welsh singer Tom Jones, who during his Netherlands concert suffered a head injury – when a clog was thrown from the audience, by these women, absolutely losing control of their feet, uuum, stop.

Drunk on Friday

dr1

I celebrated my return to planet Zog with a bottle of Swedish vodka. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there? I mean, I’ll probably buy another one tonight, and maybe, well, give myself a night off on Sunday, or Tuesday, or Wednesday rest day – like the Tour de France.

That’s one of the great highs of steady employment – this guilt free purchase of Absolute vodka down the corner shop. Tommy the Tamil, he spotted my gait up the back of the shop and gave me a the nod, the regular’s wink – and I responded with a wobbly thumb’s up, and being as I’m the kind of customer who wears a shirt and collar was escorted to the fast stream counter:

‘Swedish vodka, please.’

‘With cherry flavour, lime?’

‘No, headache is best.’

‘Ha ha, ha ha ha.’

‘Ha ha, ha ha ha.’

So home with my trophy, but this night it did not work its magic – she just kept going – like the chick babe in Raiders of the Lost Arc, at the beginning, in the bar, and I was like the Mongolian loser. I think I finally keeled over with a pair of knickers on my head round about 3am. She took a few snaps to celebrate – heels on the spine kind of thing, and stuck them on the internet, as usual.

Seashell

I set a few of the rambles to private. I get all precious if my word order ain’t right. I’ll return and fix em up pretty down the road.

Week off next week. Wish we had a little bit more cash and could go to Lisbon. I love beach side cities – San Diego I’ve been and oh, umm Brighton, of course. Down at the beach in Lisbon it’s a bit scruffy but you go see the guy who rents the surfboards – he hands you a plank, doesn’t want your credit card, he thinks you’ll bring his board back – and then plunge: huge waves like a washing machine, all the brown boys in the water, hundreds and me, the giant anglo. My brother always got into fights with his surfing, I never did. Well, I am a massive gorilla, and remember teasing the Spanish men off the peak down in, well goodness knows where. They swore at me in Spanish and I scarpered straight up the sand, gathered the children – like a hero, took the family home, that kind of thing.

The teaching leader said the kids thought I was a good guy, so nice, eh. Better get some more teaching work, hell :)

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