the heel of the boot v

she drives
so i can faff
do you know
you hoove
with a hoover
and you put
loash on
overtake a wobbler
driver’s drinking a beer
with the phone to his ear
a green flash
from the monoxide meter
and an electric shock
from the wall socket
another laptop tizzy dash
stranded at the front
while the crew all pee
with the woman
from yesterday’s cafe
then reunited in aisle six
iron oxide
on duck egg gasometer
queues likely
on the way into town
best do some health
whole meal dinner
with broccoli prizes
should have had a taco,
chickened out

eventually, you know, you will hoove with a hoover. or the robot hoover will hoove the house. much like an apron used to be called a napron, words necessarily get perverted over time. i could care less! literally. that was a really nice holiday. then i had a brocolli prize dinner. i sort of had one last night on a train as well. whole grains, fat, brocolli. i really like brocolli. i don’t understand the low regard with which its generally regarded. this is a theme i will return to next week.

the heel of the boot iv

toggle be,
the jazziest beaver
i am untartened,
a border reiver
amaro montenegro,
an iron brew
why am i feart
of mosquitos
i’ve already been
bit like 40 goes
got one back
like cracking
human blood goo
from a winged black egg

my girlfriend likes to wear neck scarfs, so i got her a toggle, a bit like i used to have when i was in cubs. i left long before i got to scouts, where i would have been outed re my lack of a clan tartan, being a border reiver by birth. for long us benns have walked in the wilderness, reading aloud our poetry, making love under the king’s moon on english wildflower meadows, and pinching livestock. always getting bit by insects.

the heel of the boot iii

morning lag,
saddle bag snag
locked up rear
momentary fear
east is beast
west for rest
the church by the wine bar
they ring the bells
to summon up
the ghosts from hell
until they have
a quorum
to discuss matters
ecclesial
in their
worthy forum
there was
anarchic popelessness,
the vatican
was hopeless with
erratic sin
and soulless stress
you understand
the mess we’re in!

we had some funny luck with our bikes on the holiday. the crank arm was threaded and the pedal fell off. we got a different bike. and we had a little difficulty with balancing above, rather than on, the tarmac. the saddle bag strap on my bike snapped and the bag fell into the wheel and the strap got stuck in the brake caliper. although the first i knew of it was a noise and the wheel locking up. quite scary but kept it upright.

the heel of the boot ii

the roman tricolore
basil, tomato and cheese
and the teal from the sky
to the seas
post ride,
ride the tide to ankle deep
eat the weans’ white ices
except
oor wan wean’s
nae teethen’ yet
a semi colon;
then we slept

but then we were on the holiday and it wasn’t stressful. the food was great. the weather was great. i made new friends, including a cheerful baby who had just learned to wave.

the heel of the boot i

couldn’t eat
the dinner she made me,
enzymes fail me
she forgets her passport!
in the air,
hunger avails me
credit card stand off
at the hire-car shop,
assistance is futile
trees like gobbled snails,
a white wine week of vees while
i unthread the pedal
and am not trusted
by the bike hire goon
tricasse porto, pizza, costal
flustered
mostly on wheels…

when i’m very stressed i don’t just not want to eat, i find trying to very unpleasant. i wasn’t quite that stressed before the holiday with my girlfriend’s friends who i hadn’t met but it was stressful enough to hit me in the appetite. then the morning was stressful too. in fact, everything was a bit stressful to begin with. credit card wouldn’t work at the hire car shop. a bike shop goon thought i was a bad mechanic. i mean, i am not the best mechanic, but i know what direction the pedals screw in. anyway.

a short poem about a short cycling holiday in argyll

a hot heat,
awestruck, fading
but you won’t get rid of me
a lizard in argyll,
a long goodbye,
hyper-palatability
confused saint mungo,
road chicken strut
and tut. and tut.
sent the pint back
and got a new one
just the same

there’s the road ahead
and the music in my ears
an idea in my head
called the gilet years
it’s the beep of the derailleur
greeting the last cog
march on, forward, onwards,
towards our epilogue

i am always thrilled to see a lizard, all the more so if it’s in scotland. you don’t see a lot of lizards here. i’ve seen more red squirrels than i’ve seen lizards here. three squirrels. two lizards. oh i ordered a pint of st mungo and it was dead nice. in the bar. then i ordered another one, in the restaurant. but it tasted different, not as nice as the first, so i assumed they had given me the wrong thing and sent it back. anyway, the exact same flavour of pint came back. i think maybe they gave me the wrong pint at the first bar.

sports food

as a broken limb
altered my spin
i bonk by bonkhill
(they slip a shag
in every gap)
i could be ripped
i swear
aside a predilection
for chocolate and beer
it’s a bitter sweet dichotomy,
but i need treats
eat sweet gelatine,
spluttering
up the mountain
traffic jam

what got me into sport? as a child, i just liked playing football. i was obsessive, it was all i did. i was a skinny wee boy. but i always thought i was fat for some reason. i wrote a short story about body image and social difficulties when i was about 15. i called it sunburn, but my teacher said it should be called ‘in your shadow’ and i just went along with it. i was thinking about it the other day, and decided to rename it ‘shade’.

i will dig it out and post it the blog sometime. but that was just a digression. i lost my connection to sport when i left school, and did get a little bit fat. because i love eating sweets. so i started dieting and running. lost the weight. felt accomplished.

but to keep the weight off, i needed to keep running. and, the sums are no good. a 40 minute run might only burn off two mars bars. so i got into road cycling. and now i just eat whatever sweets i fancy whenever i want. i’m not sure i would recommend this as ‘healthy’ or anything.

and in a fog of lousy vibes await an operative positive.

calling back to yesterday’s quite literary post, i am suddenly reminded of a literary/confectionary connection of note. roald dahl was one of my favourite childhood authors. i am ashamed to say my inner reactionary preferred enid blyton generally. but long before i had started on adult books i had reaslised that dahl had the superior worldview.

anyway, while of course dahl famously wrote ‘charlie and the chocolate factory,’ you may be unaware he also wrote a non-fiction essay ‘the chocolate revolution’ which revealed him to be a keen lover and historian of confectionary, and a particular aficionado of the ‘golden age’ of chocolate, 1930-1937, a heady seven years of sin which saw the inventions of many of the great confections of our age of tooth decay: the mars bar, the crunchie, the curly wurly, the aero, and the ‘energy balls’ – which are now known as ‘maltesers’.

what is your favourite chocolate bar?