Or even light drinking, for that matter. At times like these it certainly tempting, and I’m not trying to discourage it. Dive in. I’m right behind you.

But here’s the thing. Turn off your computer first. Hide all iPads, phones and even pens or pencils. By all means discard all of your inhibitions and clothing. BUT. No matter how passionate or playful you might be feeling DO NOT PUBLISH ANYTHING.

Here on your own site is ok, I suppose. You can delete it in the morning along with any incriminating photos that may have been taken during the night as you are cleaning up all the empty bottles and discarded underwear. BUT DO NOT PUBLISH IT ANYWHERE WHERE IT TAKES ON A LIFE OF ITS OWN BEYOND YOUR CONTROL. Once you push the thing under with the ‘submit’ button you never know where it might come up for air.

You are already guessing that I did it. That’s true. And I have zero memory of doing so and certainly no idea why, of all things, I chose to use this thing (I cannot,with a straight face, refer to it as a poem).

But Here it is. They supplied the photo.

Who are these people? I feel indebted to them (thanks Spillwords! I genuinely love you) …. but I question their taste.

Anyway. You have been warned.

You can find a link to Chelsea’s terrible poetry competition Here

I really don’t know if I’ve got the idea right (write?) but I think I can claim with some confidence to be undeniably terrible.

I don’t know why I mixed up Shakespearean quotations with the theme song from Mr Ed. But I did.

Beware the Ides of March, my dear

With feelings foul for you I fear

Beware the frauds, the fools, the fakes

When light through yonder window breaks

The Ides they come and come what may

Compare thee to a summer’s day

Though no such day will yet prevent

The winter of our discontent

There will be blood, you may be sure

Cry havoc! Let slip the dogs of war!

And there within the maelstrom see

Lord! What fools these mortals be

Lend me your ears. Allay you’re fears

The rider of the storm, he nears

My kingdom for a bloody horse

For a horse is a horse. Of course. Of course.

I have not posted anything for some time. There is no particular reason for that other than the distinct possibility that I’ve run out of things to say. The well has gone dry, creatively speaking. I’m in a drought. It may just be a seasonal thing or a permanent climate change.

So I delved into my list of silly poems and dragged out this little (have you seen it before? You’d be unlikely to remember it, anyway) one which seems to reflect my current state of mind.

The world is full of fools but there is no fool like an old fool – left stranded in an increasingly incomprehensible ocean without a paddle ….

***

There are so many rules

On this ship of fools

That I’m thinking of taking a dive

We’re so fucking old

We don’t need to be told

That not one of us gets out alive

I’ve been a bit quiet lately. My family keeps throwing me into ambulances and dragging me off to hospitals. It’s only a matter of time before I find one of them standing over my bed, pillow in hand, whispering strange biblical quotations with just a glint of a tear in one eye.

Nevertheless I did manage to cobble together an entry to the NYC Short Story 2020 during the period immediately preceding my last confinement and therefore another potential source of shame and embarrassment when the judges take a knife to it.

The good news is that I expect to still be around for next year’s competition.

But, for this year, the requirement was for a 2500 word thriller featuring an addict and an investment. I don’t really do thrillers.

So …. only if you are bored …. here it is.

Down by the Tracks