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Urban Fables

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3.40pm SAFEWAY Tuesday

March 2nd 2008 06:21

Catching glimpse
darting glance
gliding aisle by
cabinet round
rack through row
pausing
fleeting
smiles float
mavericks we
share in serenity
of isolation splendid
golden despair
blasts our tranquil
their assault
unleashed in roars
opens fire hailing
roaming teens rocket
rata-tat-tatting
round upon round
ribboning walls
adolescent disdain
there remains
harried others
two three in tow
fall in
behind
battered jeep.
no prisoners taken
desperately ruthless

their mission :
secure some repast
hungry troops accept
with least resistance
their shrill insistence
dominates the din.
disgust sparks ignite
manoeuvring road blocked routes
contempt, disdain, pity
cannon from their trolleys
or be he a
three year old General
screaming orders?
safety sought in
express line rendezvous
shell weary
battle shocked
shattered of ruthless
invasion
numbed beaten and betrayed
with silent pact each sworn:
supermarket earlier tomorrow

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Posted By: R J Hammond - Category: No Category

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Nape

February 26th 2008 04:20

It was the nape of your neck that made me do it and I shall have to tell the bank manager the truth. I’m waiting for him now. I am nervous because I will have to explain my regrettable, unforgettable actions.

I’m waiting for the bank manager, who will come blustery and wild eyed, demanding an explanation for these outrageous accusations. He will want to know what I had been thinking when I did what I just did.

I will have to tell the squat, bull throated bank manager that I was thinking about the nape of your neck.

I will explain to the fuming, flame haired bank manager that while I was lamenting my neglect of that salty, smooth, precious desert of golden promise, I had stretched out my arms and wound them tightly round the shoulders of the man in front of me.

Then tracing my eager wet tongue along the tiny track of skin that teased between starched collar and crisp crew cut, I had feasted on his freckled flesh .

I was trying to make amends; regretting my oversight, chiding my forgetfulness.
I was celebrating the beautifully soft, smoothly precious desert of perfect, sun kissed expanse that is the nape of your neck … by proxy.

It will be difficult to explain, I’ll admit that.

Of course, I said Sorry, sorry, sorry to the man in the queue (once I had regained my senses).
No worries he said with a pat of my hand. I’ll be dining out on this for years. The bank manager doesn’t look too happy, but.
It was the nape of your neck that made me do it and it is this that I must confess to the bank manager.

Forever lost to me is that dreamy desert of speckled glory that is the nape of your neck and I will have to explain it all to the bank manager, my husband - who had been waiting meekly to lunch me for my birthday.

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My Dog Peed on a Pram

February 22nd 2008 05:26

my dog peed on one of those
groovy three-wheeler prams
while the mother wasn’t looking.

the flaxen haired yummy-mummy
resplendent in Juicy Couture
was scolding her trendily dressed toddler
who was lagging some distance behind.

my dog’s aim was true and he fired
a sizeable splodge onto the navy canvas.

I reprimanded him of course
but he gave me a withering glance that suggested
given half the chance I would have done the same.

Some time later, as we strolled in the sun
my dog went out of his way
to pee on a suited businessman
who with his head turned away
was barking orders on his mobile phone.
he felt something though
for he turned around sharply
kicking out his trouser leg in dismay.

my dog and I were across the park
laughing and squealing.
Well, I was – he was leaping beside me
thrilled to have delighted me thus.

when we walked to the supermarket before dinner,
my dog cowered as a nun struggled with her tartan shopping jeep
her crucifix banged against her chest and my breath caught in mine.

I willed him to cock his leg one last time
but he gave me a look that said I had gone too far.

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The Frankston Line

February 21st 2008 09:23

Thick with a miasma of sweat and defeat, the 3.45 groans towards Frankston.
Banga’s earphones spew angry rap while well-worn suburbs slide by with a sneer.
Plugged into pop, synthetic beats rattling like a ball in a tin, Samantha’s acrylic nails, tap-tap-tap at the glass. Dave’s playing death metal and wants to kill them all, “Fuck them, kill them, die fucker die.” The hairs of his inner ear duck and weave in self defence

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Fat Parents/Fat Kids

February 21st 2008 08:53

Can we have Macca’s Dad?

Grantly’s hand, podgy and moist tugs at the hem of Ben’s King Size shorts.

“Can we? Can we? Please?”

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Every girl's a porn star

February 21st 2008 08:46

Testosterone soaks the couch with its dull insistence and Lemmy and the boys adjust themselves awkwardly in their seats.
“Tammy’s” being repeatedly raped by the “brothers” in the cheap DVD that flickers on the screen.
Brooke feels sick and wants to go home but Carly throws her a look that says, “Be cool”. She’s finally managed to squeeze in next to Lemmy. Hot Lemmy, hot, buff, cool, Lemmy. Every year eleven girl on earth would want to be where Carly is now. He’s ignored her since lunchtime, but she knows just sitting here watching porn with him and his mates will score points. Big points

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