(C) The Game

Now look, I don’t want to monopolise your time,

And it’s true that my words are often in a scrabble.

Ok...I got a bit tiddly; winking at all the girls,

Sometimes, I haven’t got a clue; do not believe all the babble –

I come out with, and really there’s no need to check, mate.

This is not just a trivial pursuit; I’m deadly serious about junk too,

I’m prone to the domino effect, a house of cards and fate...

Decrees I slip down ladders and climb up snakes, try kung fu

That I learnt from the Chinese; chequered career though it may be,

Perhaps I don’t need to pass – go on, tell me what you reckon.

Don’t be cryptic, a cross word won’t upset this baby,

My ace of spades has been trumped, a new deck on...

The table, but I’m snookered; the balls won’t drop.

I’d jump through hoops my sweet croquet…or is it coquette?

When you get to the bottom or the helter skelter – climb to the top.

Life is a slippery dip ride, a see-saw – what’s the etiquette?

Fifteen love and it’s your serve; I’ll just putt for par,

My last bowl was a toucher, it’s so good to kiss the jack.

Nothing like a bullseye and a fresh drink from the bar,

And I haven’t lost my marbles, they’re rolling ‘round in back.

What’s the game we’re playing – Pokémon or yahtzee?

It’s a bit like playing twister, with your sister, on the carpet.

Spin the bottle or tic tac toe, Truth or Dare? And lastly...

Backgammon or Baccarat, I’ll try to bridge – or I’ll forfeit.

© The Puling

©   The Puling:

To whimper; to whine, as a complaining child.

 I pulled one thin leg up and out of the covers, wondering what I would discover today.

Opened the shutters, with a touch of the shudders and found: ‘Uh pelting down rain as always!’

Thankfully it was Sunday, no commitments to keep – maybe more sleep? I then plug in my blanket.

But in came the wife, said ‘Get up Jesse – god you look messy; you have to play today for the banquet.’

Indeed I had forgotten it was Senior’s week; the band was due to squeak during morning brunch.

So begrudgingly I showered and shaved, primmed and powdered. Then I gulp down some toast and munch...

My way to the garage, load the car with drum kit, the sound system, my ego and other bits of gear.

So with a crocodile tear, off I went to spend a dreary hour or two and plunge hit after hit into their ears.

We played a few tunes (one old fat bloke played the spoons), and for a moment I saw myself pull gut in: help!

As if things couldn’t get any meaner, I got an award for being a senior! I s’pose I’ll have to stick it on the shelf.

‘Aw, lighten up!’ said the cheese ‘n’ kisses, ‘It’s not the end my cherub, listen, people love to hear you chirrup.’

‘And be glad that the old tunes were sung,’ and so with all the words hung I pelt upon the skins and usurp...

Their indulgence, I presume as they shuffle ‘round the room; I wonder what became of the young crooner I was.

Now with tinnitus, infinitus, day and night my hearing’s at crisis: I’m not Beethoven, rock ‘n’ roll’s the cause!

Well I never made a million and never had the thrill of being on the telly belting it out with JO’K.

But I played the Capitol Theatre in a witch’s outfit: ‘Hubble bubble and Hoadley’s crumble bars all the way!

But at the Capitol in Washington they have squandered all their capital; Obama has a drama on his hands.

Just lighten up Barack, there’s no turning back, your gun: the lip can’t flip the obsequious rifleman’s demands.

 The gulp in my throat caused me to splutter on my coffee when I read softly about America’s huge debt.

It’s next to impossible to grasp or understand the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan that still continue as yet.

In the decades still to come six trillion dollars will be the outcome; that’s a six followed by twelve noughts.

Just picture an international telephone number; longer than a Lebanese cucumber, so – care to join the dots?

 And now the new Pope divine can now gulp thine wine amidst rejoicing in Argentina that continues still.

But I hear that old Frankie still frowns on hanky-panky and still won’t compromise upon the pill.

But it’s rather commensurate of this Pope Jesuit to settle his newspaper account from the Vatican palace.

And he still stays at the Vatican hotel thus far; maybe George will get him a room gratis at Domus Australis.

So lighten up you silly fools, there really are no rules; thine plug should be removed from your orifice.

Leave the angst to Tony and Julia and don’t let their ‘spinsters’ fool ya, lighten up or letup nigh you come adrift!  

© Bend in the River

          © Bend in the River

               (A Bent Sort of Hymn)

Brethren Divine there’s a Bend in the River,

Revert In Behind and thou shalt be saved.

Taste of the sacred wine ~ Dei Herb Vintner,

Never Thine Bird shall be kept in a cave.

That’s where we should meet ~ Bend Thine River,

Dive In Brethren the waters shall cleanse thee.

Never Bind Their clothes – they shall not shiver,

Words In Thee Verb Rind like the bark of a tree.

It’s time to forgive and Rebind The Riven,

Let’s meet for a drink at The River Bed Inn.

Wine, whiskey, song and Thin Beer, Driven

           Divine Brethren to where the River Be Thinned.

© Change, Ego, Fate, Hell?

© Change, Ego, Fate, Hell?

(The Challenge of Age)

T he Challenge of Age... is to understand modern television commercials – what is the product?

H ence, all pretence of gravitas has been abandoned as everyone scrambles to board the gravy train.

E ven politicians have embraced ‘social media’ as an expedient way of dispensing proper conduct,

C onsider that the demarcation line is sorely in decline; petitions rupture all partitions – so much to gain?

H ealthy debate is now subordinate to personal abuse and the demand for product brand consumes all,

A pplications are now called apps; perhaps I’m taking it all too personally, this denuding of the lingo,

L engthy words are now unfashionable...whoops what I meant was passé – pardon the French; I call...

L ong suffering checkout chicks to task because a tangelo does not turn up in their computer jingo.

 

E xcept, don’t call them ‘chicks’; it sticks in the gullet – sorry...oesophagus. Got any asparagus fresh?

N ow I’ve received another survey, it seems proof reading is a lost art – significantly is spelt ‘signi cantly’.

G o to the bar if you want water and push the knob on the dispenser; but it won’t dispense or synchromesh!  

E very day is a bonus, so I’m told, but don’t take that tone with us elders as we groan exponentially.

O h my hat, would you look at that! Another ‘begging’ letter has arrived via email – send your details at once.

F or goodness sake keep it quiet – it could cause a riot, just give us your credit card number and password,

T he ego fell, a change is in the air; society constantly evolving, some things are still revolting – here’s the crunch.

H owever longer this aging population lasts, some things are now past: technology is relentless, can’t be mastered.

E ven the air machine that supports me and inflates and more often...deflates me is an aberration, an intrusion...

A nd in conclusion; any junk-mail that exhorts me to have a ‘happy EOFYS’ will find itself recycled, no mercy.

G o to your window and assert, I’m as daft as a draughthorse and I won’t take anymore; life’s an illusion.

E ven to get to this stage or the bottom of this page is the challenge of the age; here I bow or curtsy.

© Rajah’s Story – An Indian Idiocy … err Odyssey

© Rajah’s Story – An Indian Idiocy … err Odyssey 

Just listen closely to my story; I’m from the Rajah Sacrum Tribe, the oldest family alive.

All over India, my businesses thrive and I lend money with Rajacash Rub Remit.

My company - Rajah Resubmit Car is the most honest used car dealership by far; it’s legit!

Expect exotic flavours but have no worries with Rajah Amber Citrus curry.

So, like to dance in a hurry? Take a chance at Rajah Rumbas Trice, quicker’n Arthur Murray!

All women will agree with me that Rajah Cream Rubs It out effectively. And for mummies,

Rajahs Erratic Bum is another company I run, supplying medicine for upset tummies.

To ensure people are not sick, I developed Rajah Meats Rubric to show the right way to cook.

How do I do it? Some prefer fish and A Rajahs Brim Cruet is perfect for fish oil, just look.

Undertake my advice, Rajah Rats Bum Rice is really very nice, in fact it’s best of all.

Relax sahibs, keep calm, I have my own farm: Rajah Acres Bit Rum supply food and alcohol

Comparable to the best in the West; and please try a wine from Rajah Muscat Brier: it’s fine...

Rajah Barter Music is very jolly; reproduces the finest that Bollywood has to offer today.

Another interest is music tuition although many find the Rajah Sitar Cumber-some to play.

I am the Rajah Mature Cribs, in my position I tell no lies, falsehoods or fibs; it’s true!

But I’m also Rajah Satire Crumb and I have come from India to thumb my nose at you.

Is Rajah Carter Bum the same man who plays on tabla drums? That is being another clue!

Sometimes in India we ride on elephants and Rajah Bar Rectum Is wearing no underpants?

Regretfully, is true when he takes tourists on safari with no Sari, Rajah Curb Met no resistance.

And when you’re next in India and in dire need too, Barrister Majah Cu will look after you.

Just surrender your passport and rupees, please to Rajah Sacrum Biter – a righter of wrongs.

And he is a singer of songs as Rajah Brace, I Strum to keep pace on the ukulele, wearing thongs.

Here is my favourite, “It’s my japarti and I’ll cry if I want to”... Hah, a Rajah Ruse Act, Brim full,

Customers of silly jokes; but now I will take you good folk to Rajah True Mac Ribs to refuel.

Alleged, by my good self, to be the best takeaway Indian grub, but first you Merit A Rajah Scrub.  

Rub a dub dub in the Rajah Cream Tub Sir, guaranteed it’s the thing you need to really clean up.

Toes especially need attention, did I mention to Scream? Rajah Rub It in hard, sandals barred!

Even during monsoon season, ladies, Rajah Bra Cut Miser ensures that underwear stays dry.

Relatively few realise, who is in charge of the circus: as Rajah Master, I Curb wild animals,

Believing that training manuals can teach you what to do with help from Tamer Sahib Jar Cur...

Understand is another family member of the Rajah Sacrum Tribe, the oldest family alive.

Maybe your trip to India has been grave? *Fir Milenge, I return you now to James Arthur Craib.

*Fir Milenge (see you) – Hindi

(C) The Bubbles are Bliss

                                                                      The Bubbles are Bliss

We met on a cool, crisp autumnal morning; although the sun was shining,

Our conversation was stilted; inclining towards prosaic subjects,

Nothing too taxing on the intellect: – ‘Still at the old place?’ ‘How’s your job?’

Monosyllabic answers in return: ‘Yep,’ ‘Fine.’ But I was pining for more.

We strolled along the promenade; an offshore breeze kissed the crest of the breakers.

One or two brave souls ignored the cold in their skin-tight wetsuits; in pursuit

Of the perfect wave. I took her hand, she said, ‘I’m not comfortable with that.’

Drat! I thought, ‘Pardon my  infatuation, I think I’ve blown it again!’

‘You have a strange effect on me,’ said I. It was a lie of course.

But she showed no remorse, reminding me that she was doing me a favour.

I wavered before I made another gaffe and now I longed to make her laugh;

Make her believe that I wasn’t just another desperate and dateless dude.

In truth, I wasn’t really sure how desperate I was. My crude attempt at casual intimacy,

Was completely lacking in legitimacy. I needed to come to grips with...

Reality. ‘I kknow,’ I stammered, ‘Lets go get some fish ‘n’ chips, and maybe a drink.’

‘Ok.’ said she and winked, ‘There’s a little pub over the way, just down the lane.’

It wasn’t exactly the Ritz. ‘What’ll you have?’ I enquired tentatively.

‘Something fizzy, effervescent, would be pleasant,’ she laughed, ‘Hark at me, a poet and...’

‘A glass of Moet, perhaps?’ I cut her off before the well-worn phrase left her lips.

She looked at me pained, ‘Yes a little bubbly...would be lovely!’ She smiled triumphantly,

‘With the chish and fips!’ I groaned inwardly; it was not going well!

 I returned from the bar with two foaming flutes and a little less loot, ‘Here we are!’

‘I’ve ordered a couple of fisherman’s baskets,’ then added, ‘the fisherman was a bit miffed.’

She raised her eyebrows and shifted in her seat, ‘At least it’s good to eat and good for the brain.’  

Again, she parried comfortably with my alleged sense of humour. I demurred to retort - 

   Thwarted, for the fishy baskets had arrived and I contrived to regain some facade of control.

We talked about rock lobsters, rock ‘n’ roll, Balmain bugs; all manner of things inconsequential.

She shrugged off her coat, I thought to myself, ‘Self...she seems to be relaxing, there’s potential.’

But for what: a few wretched hours ravening each other in a sordid hotel room?

(How did she know that this hotel was here anyhow?)

Oh Lord, stop it! You’re declining into paranoia now; stop, relax, take in her odd perfume!

I broached previous affairs, tried to coax her into revealing some of her ‘baggage.’

‘Mainly, here in Manly,’ she replied. ‘I do try to get across to Sydney to make merry.’

Raising her glass, ‘Most men I meet are wimps!’ I bit another shrimp, ‘Is that why...

They call me the Manly Ferry.’ She looked askance for a moment, and then a smile danced –

Upon her face. She laughed out loud, not a trace of rancour could I detect.

As the champagne plied her nose with bubbles, she cried, ‘Oh bliss – a man with real humour!’

Could this be the start of something? Should I continue to be circumspect?

Then I heard that sound, a low rumbling, bubbling as from below the ground, and...

I was to hear it often, attended by a scent – sometimes sweet or sour; rent again and again.

Well at least I had broken the ice; which was nice. She in turn had broken...

My heart? No, not at all; there was an air (so to speak) about her that held me in thrall.

‘Oh dear, did I just far...?’ her voice trailed off, ‘Err, I mean impart a gust of...’

I must’ve looked bemused, so she excused herself and repaired to the ‘loo; as you do!    

Whilst she was away, I ordered two fresh glasses of sham-pagné – in truth: sparkling chardonnay.

But hey, I knew she wouldn’t complain. Back she came with her dignity intact, eager in fact,

To carry on. ‘So Artie,’ said she, ‘please excuse me it’s the bubbles, my in-flatuation; cheers’

‘No troubles Dawn m/dear, whatever you wish for yourself! Good health!’

© The Plagiariser

© The Plagiariser

Are any thoughts original?

This intellectual miser, has Shakespeare turning in his grave

And am I none the wiser?

I trawl through texts, devoid of sex

And contemplate the geyser, of random intellectualism,

I am the Plagiariser.

Post-modernism at its worst,

This ruthless two-leg spider spins a web of counterfeit –

Beware the advertiser!

I work the crowd, who talk too loud,

Contaminate the Kaiser abandoned in his counting house,

I am the Plagiariser.

Did Marlowe just in-jest the Bard?

Or does it taste like Bacon?

Usurp the work of Marx, Foucault…a sprinkling of Lacan.

Aboard the train, here’s Emu Plains! Graffiti becomes higher…

Art? I doubt it – seen before.

Despair the Plagiariser.

Has romance sunk to Mills and Boon?

The Lady Chatterley Choir, sings…

Just slightly out of tune,

“Oh kiss me Oliver” – “Hire!”

Screams the bus conductor,

“Do Little!” retorts Eliza, “I danced all night with G.B.S.”

Et tu the Plagiariser.

© James Craib, September 2004.

The Floral Wreath

© The Floral Wreath

We were driving past the Cenotaph and I saw a floral wreath;

Perhaps a remnant left over from last Anzac Day.

Or instead a private gesture from somebody still in grief,

Caused by the ignominious death of young soldiers in Afghanistan

– that sandy hell-on-earth so far away.

I watched a documentary and behold the coral reef;

Has become as white as a sepulchral monument.

Still the climate-change sceptic’s denials just beggar belief,

Maybe the floods and wild tornadoes that have ravaged up in Queensland 

            - are caused by God or Allah, just for devilment.

The plight of live cattle exports is causing public quarrel; beef...

Sent to Indonesia to be slaughtered in the halal way.

The hypocrisy and the heresy is just simmering underneath,

Nary a thought for grain-fed bovine clones and over sized chicken bones

            -  washed down with coke at countless takeaways.

I watched the flotsam and jetsam that had formed a ‘floral wreath’,

Mesmerised like a rabbit in the lights of a passing car.

Scattered around Christmas island in a ghastly leitmotif,

A recurring theme you often see: refugees as refuse on the sea

            - all their Christmases come at once, so near yet so far. 

And I like to remember yet another laurel wreath,

Although made of plastic, it adorned our front door.

To welcome friends and neighbours who come armed to the teeth,

With bottles of wine and cakes so fine, all the trimmings of the season

            - to indulge ourselves, pause, and recall those soldier boys once more.

© With Impunity!

© With Impunity!

In these days of upheaval,

Those things that were evil

Are now quite confused, you see...

So George, John and

Tony can suck Iraq bony. 

And drive Sadam into the sea.

They say; 'Screw the U.N.'

The  French and all men

Who are so bemused by we

Three brave Musketeers;

Cotton wool in our ears.

We act with complete, impunity'.

James Craib, March 2003.