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Sir_Nigel

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  1. I contravene the Highway Code and stroll down the middle of a four lane road. With no other soul nor a car to be seen it feels like a Hollywood opening scene, like something disastrous happened today - an asteroid struck but it seems I’m OK. The scientists said that no man could survive yet I am uninjured – The Last Man Alive. Our lonesome dude must hunt for food, build a shelter, wield a knife beware emboldened wildlife, defend himself, evaluate, find an Eve - re-populate. Or maybe it’s more of an end credit scene and I’m an unstoppable killing machine, sent to vanquish humankind and this is what I’ve left behind. My mission – Man’s annihilation ….plus all his forms of transportation. Oh what will threatened humans do? You’ll have to wait for DeathDroid 2 In truth there is sun and a temperate breeze and birds twitter sweetly in whispering trees. I’m strolling alone on a tranquil street to the comforting sound of my own two feet and not entertaining the niggling fear the world has now ended but I didn’t hear. Although the forlorn desolation is sad, this new-fangled quietness isn’t so bad. My pace has now slowed, I meander in the road. Gone are the days when you’d look both ways. Now when I do I see something new - neglected old buildings, historical plaques, obstinate undergrowth struggling through cracks and up in a tree where a trainer was flung a couple of blackbirds are feeding their young. Then, at last a taxi speeds past and not so far off I hear someone cough, on the building site there two scaffolders swear. Life in a lull is a little bit dull but I’m not quite alone in this lock down zone.
  2. You may be a sad poet loner but you don’t want to die of Corrona so look out for yellowy glands and constantly scour your hands, ensure you’ve a hanky close by and your alcohol content is high. And if you are writing then please take a bath before touching the keys - a germ on your fat sweaty fingers can carry a virus that lingers - a sentence is all it requires then it seeps down the internet wires and then you’ll unwittingly spread it to every poor sod who has read it. Use a pencil instead of a pen and …..don’t talk to any strange men. And if you do have to endure it then toilet paper can cure it. I hope this is useful to you and clarified what you must do
  3. If you’re feeling a little bit low why not purchase my poems below? diverting and cheap with nothing too deep you carry them round as you go. When going by bus or by train you can read ‘em again and again just put up your feet on the opposite seat and ignore all the jerks who complain. By keeping the volume close by you can use it for swatting a fly it is lethal and keen and will quickly wipe clean - another good reason to buy. It can also be placed on the floor to firmly prop open a door Or by cracking the loaf of an indolent oaf you could gain more respect than before. You’ll notice how carefully I’m promoting my writing in rhyme which works a lot better than sending a letter or trying to say it in mime. Or strolling around with a bell - Proclaiming! - to help the thing sell or hawking my wares at small village fairs with a talented lady named Nell (who’s pretending to die of TB so they stop and take pity you see) ‘Please purchase my book, for my daughter’s sake look’ - disgraceful I’m sure you’ll agree. So this is a much better way - Now I‘ve said what I wanted to say. Just a quick cheeky note to briefly promote my volume of poems today. Rescued from Oblivion – all my poems now in one fat book. Available now at https://www.feedaread.com/profiles/10661/
  4. Today like every other day he sings in that annoying way- a nasal adolescent whine and songs you cannot quite define, or voices incoherent rap in a jaunty backwards baseball cap. Rap I know sod all about, his singing though is miles out – his limitations magnified by being loudly amplified. With coins collecting at his feet in a busy lunchtime city street, he’s on a fervent quest, it seems, to live his tuneless fat kid dreams. With self-belief and passion strong he bares his feelings, lost in song, the soulful ballads mainly those that no-one over thirty knows. His eyes are closed, he knows some moves and fleetingly his act improves but nothing really compensates for all the notes he desecrates. What’s needed here is a word in his ear, to make him aware that life is unfair and what he enjoys is really just noise, To crush his dreams, spoil his schemes, tell him he’s flat, then hand him his hat. Such a terrible task is a really big ask- the gloom it would place on that great moon face and I just cannot see that falling to me. But if somebody bold, forthright and cold told him to stop the penny might drop and spare us all his caterwaul.
  5. I’m trying to eat but so tough is this meat that I’m wondering whether it’s actually leather. But as I’m a guest I know that its best to chew for a while, swallow, then smile. To leave all this food would simply be rude. I can’t even cut it but where can I put it? A deft little toss to a slumbering dog? smuggle it out to be flushed down the bog? Could it be wrapped in a tissue or two then slipped surreptitiously into a shoe? If only the windows were open for air with one little flick I could fling it out there. My mind wanders back to the dinners at school where battle-axe ladies, insistent and cruel would force you to eat all the gristle and fat. No meat could be wasted - that firmly was that. So you’d bury it furtively under your mash then off to the bin you would anxiously dash. And with these accomplishments daring but shady you’d fool the intransigent fat dinner lady. But though I have tried it there’s nowhere to hide it. No chance to use the old schoolboy ruse. It looks like I’m beaten this has to be eaten. So all I can do is sit here and chew, But chew as I might there’s no end in sight. The meal drags on. All hope is gone. This dutiful chore is hurting my jaw. You may ask, my friend, just when this might end. The answer is never. I’ll be here for ever. I’ve blunted my knife now, this is my life now. If someone you see asks what happened to me - wondering why I no longer drop by, tell them I perished saving someone I cherished as we sought and destroyed a rogue asteroid. Or I couldn’t restrain a runaway train. Or fires were braved, orphans were saved - I dragged ‘em outside and then alas, died. Not met a sad end trying not to offend, trapped in a room in a permanent gloom, day after day just fading away attempting to eat some inedible meat.
  6. He sports a manly torso like Rambo only more so, has weightlifters shoulders, hands like boulders, he’s bull necked, as you’d expect and proudly etched in letters stretched across his chest on a sleeveless vest the name of the gym which created him. A shaven head is perched atop this keenly muscled outcrop - a head of great immensity of an unsurprising density. He’s very keen to say you must sign up today. By toiling in the gym you too could look like him! He’s proud of his physique, but scornful of the weak, anyone not pumped ignored or quickly dumped - an inferior being to his way of seeing. But he chooses to ignore one large apparent flaw: After starting this way he just… dwindles away. He doesn’t continue the muscle and sinew but tapers from burly into eight year old girly - his legs being short and the spindly sort with improbably petite twinkle toe feet. So you stifle a snigger ‘cos he should be much bigger. He’s tried to put right his absence of height - repeatedly tried ways but grew only sideways. But his mirror doesn’t reach the floor so, in his head, he’s six foot four, a superman, a demi-god, nothing even slightly odd. Convinced that he is blessed not merely self obsessed. So even though he’s crass and dim you still might even pity him -a narcissistic man with a wood preserver tan whose upper half is in effect the measure of his self respect, caught between contempt for you and the image he aspires to.
  7. Homewards they go with faces aglow, a picture of happiness aged, content - him in a billowing holiday shirt her in a frock like a flowery tent, well fed and watered, revelries done, waddling home in the evening sun. No strangers I think to good food and drink. Relaxed and unhurried, fat and unworried, they do love their grub and a boisterous pub especially today when its Bank Holiday. Officialdom cautions the old and the fat to eat less of this, cut down on that and points out the issues you ought to address so you won’t be drain on the NHS. But they don’t think twice about meddling advice, taking no measures to cut down on Life’s pleasures, they merrily choose each other and booze and care only whether they’re happy together. They demonstrate how you should live for the now -a worthy philosophy surely until one of them dies prematurely.
  8. Some people I know start an answer with So….. It’s a sort of refrain when they’re asked to explain. Perhaps on TV as an interviewee they’ll be asked for their views on some item of news and they start off with So… and then tell what they know. Or perhaps they’ll address a young trendy professor in a new documentary meant to explain how the Spanish defeated the Moors in Spain. And what do you know - he starts with a So… I don’t hear what comes next ‘cos I’m so flipping vexed. It serves as an irritant, and I get a bit militant. My views are displayed in a modest tirade - That’s not the right function It’s an effing conjunction! you and your snowflake millennial friends with your smug veggie liberal media trends, coolly, offhandedly trying to show you’re a hip metropolitan user of So… Oh for the days of conventional ways where some stern tweedy type took a pull on his pipe, thought for a spell, then began with a Well….
  9. I’ve written a poetry book - there’s a link if you fancy a look. Then you can see if it’s your cup of tea and make a transaction with luck. If you’re feeling a little bit low there are poems - maybe 50 or so. You just put up your feet on the bus or train seat (a bit anti-social I know). Though WH Smith may not stock it, it will fit in a roomy coat pocket you can soon whip it out when you’re out and about. That’s a good selling point - so don’t knock it. In addition, there’s no reason why you can’t use it for swatting a fly it is lethal and keen and will quickly wipe clean - another good reason to buy. You’ll notice how carefully I’m promoting my writing in rhyme which works a lot better than a stiff formal letter or trying to say it with mime or hiring a man with a bell - a Town Crier - to help the thing sell. or hawking my wares at markets and fairs with a versatile actress named Nell (who is feigning to die of TB so they stop and take pity you see) ‘Please purchase my book, for my daughter’s sake look’ - disgraceful I’m sure you’ll agree. So this is a much nicer way - Now I‘ve said what I wanted to say. Just a quick cheeky note to briefly promote my volume of poems today. thank you Sweepings from the Factory Floor
  10. attracted by books and convivial looks I cheerfully stop at a trendy new shop where pricey books lay on arty display the shelves, almost bare uncluttered and spare have a notice which states they’re reclaimed from old crates though miniature cacti mystify lined up like ducks between the sparse books business is thin there’s no-one else in I very soon see this isn’t for me nothing to read nothing you’d need just puzzling selections of photo collections niche little volumes of not very much black and white pictures of nothing as such no landscapes, no faces no people, no places nebulous titles give nothing away nothing to hint what they’re trying to say whose ideal gift would be photos of driftwood? a hipster, role unknown lounges with his phone idly typing jadedly swiping straight outta Hoxton no effing socks on not there to assist he pretends I don’t exist what is this place? this vast waste of space who even looks at these fathomless books? what do they do when they’re done leafing through? the hipster no doubt knows what it’s about one glance can tell if I’m hip clientele but his face says forget it he knows I don’t get it but I still make a show of pretending I know making quite plain my lofty disdain sorry my friend this is way behind trend too hackneyed and worn I am stifling a yawn I came to be thrilled and I leave unfulfilled but I haven’t a clue just who’s fooling who
  11. Bit late for that, it's just a pile of rubble now!
  12. A sizeable crowd has gathered in town to watch as an obsolete building comes down, Just the lonely and elderly looking for ways to fill up the hours of their long empty days, gazing in wonder, flinching in shock at the crash of plummeting concrete block. Watching the destruction, causing an obstruction. It’s something to do ‘til the next bus is due. A notable landmark, I know the place well - it once was an upmarket stylish hotel with a fine reputation for serious nosh back in the days when prawn cocktails were posh. But over the years it faded, grew dated, to a new generation - old hat, overrated. Now monster machinery chomps at the walls, dust clouds erupt as the edifice falls reducing a tower of seventeen floors to a pitiful tangle of rubble and doors. Now I’m pretty busy - got things to do but awed by the spectacle, I stop too. Idly watching slack-jawed for a spell as a mechanoid dinosaur eats a hotel, enjoying each thunderous, sickening crunch, I just need a bucket of popcorn to munch. It’s a sociable crowd, the buzz is quite loud but it’s soon clear to me they don’t see what I see. They have fond reminisces, stories to share - they had dates and romantic proposals in there, 21st birthdays, the odd Christmas do, wedding receptions were held here too. They’re peering through the dusty haze to misty fond-remembered days to a happier time, to a place in its prime recounting how it was back then, recalling shining moments when they were, on joyous afternoons, waved off to seaside honeymoons. Saying goodbye to what survives of fading pages of their lives.
  13. In the bustle of daily commuting I find I increasingly seem to be falling behind its puzzling and rather depressing to see just how many people walk faster than me. I know that it’s not a pedestrian race but there’s still competition to stay with the pace. I’m still in a hurry, my pace isn’t slow but they’re making me look like I’ve nowhere to go. They bustle and weave to the head of the line like their job is much more important than mine. Trying to pretend that as swift over-takers they’re vigorous, go-getting movers and shakers. I used to take pride in my spirited stride and would gleefully wonder how long it would take for the slow and unfit to be left in my wake. I really don’t know when the slowdown began but I’m starting to look like an ambling man. Now I have to accept that a healthy young lad might, in a fair race, beat a something-ish dad But that round little fat girl half my size with an audible rasp from her corduroy thighs whose short chubby arms seem to scoot her along will also dart past in the hurrying throng. And did I imagine or actually see her teddy bear rucksack waving at me? Although she is young and undoubtedly keen she isn’t athletic or sporty or lean, her arse is the oversize waddling kind, so how does she constantly leave me behind? How can I challenge her? what can be done - an undignified trot, a desperate run? Options are few but I know what I’ll do to get back in control - …..I’ll affect a cool stroll. You hurry past baby, I really don’t mind, I’m a man unconcerned with the day to day grind. Fly to your workplace, fast as you can but me, I’m a loose livin’, slow-walkin’ man, just takin’ my time and enjoyin’ the day, not rushin’ around in that hot-headed way. And wherever I go you can safely assume that nothin’ goes down until I’m in the room. I’m takin’ a stroll so the folks gotta wait. And no mother**cker tells me that I’m late. There’ll be envious glances, questioning talk ‘bout the self-possessed guy with nonchalant walk. Brows will be wrinkled, goals re-appraised, serious questions on life could be raised. And I’ll draw on a cigarette cool as can be as they slow to a casual saunter like me.
  14. Shining with triumphant glow I gaze upon my vanquished foe reflecting on the sweat and pain that left him there so soundly slain. I’d stood aside for far too long and watched the beast grow broad and strong but sometimes when the cause is right a man must take up arms and fight, reject the weak defeatist talk and wield the mighty garden fork to slay the brute that I shall dub The All Engulfing Monster Shrub. Unchallenged now for years unknown and menacingly overgrown, it triumphed here for half an age - the Ghengis Khan of foliage. And so I launched my vengeful raid with loppers, fork and trusty spade. With branches slashed much ground was gained, but still the knotted trunk remained. I plunged into the sturdy brute dismembering its tangled root. My anger rage and hate released I sliced and hacked the stubborn beast but even with its guts revealed this creature simply would not yield. Hour on dogged hour we fought but all my efforts came to nought. Weary and frustrated now, a sheen of sweat upon my brow, I briefly thought of sweet retreat but spurned ignoble vile defeat and summoned one last killer blow to finish off my stubborn foe. I heaved and heard a mighty crack then turned the b****** on its back. Disinterred and dying there its roots now reach for nought but air like creepy crawly feelers stilled as if some monstrous bug I’d killed. I lean upon my blade and rest my foot upon its conquered chest. I doubt that you will ever see a man as brave and strong as me. I may erect upon this plot a stone to venerate this spot to mark that noble day I slew the shrub that simply grew and grew.
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