lunes, 5 de noviembre de 2007

B.S. Wattenbuttel

I dabbled a little in nonsense verse when writing the song STRAWBERRY HOUSE, and decided to take it a little further with this little offering about a strange man:

B.S. Wattenbuttel

B.S.Wattenbuttel lived in a room
That he kept very clean with an imaginary broom
He would sweep all the dust and the cobwebs away
With a wave of his hand, but just the same, they would stay
And the days turned to months and the months turned to years
And B.S.Wattenbuttel was up to his ears
In the dust and the cobwebs he thought he'd removed
He feared he might die, and so it was proved
There was no fuss or inquest when he was found dead
For B.S.Wattenbuttel never got out of bed.

miércoles, 10 de octubre de 2007

Ashes on the Wind

The protesting screech of the hangar doors shattered the stillness of the winter morning. The man, small, unremarkable, panting with the effort of opening them, slipped inside.

A vast, open space greeted him. A couple of pigeons fluttered nervously up by the rooflights. He threw the power switch.

There, in the middle of an unswept floor, stood his salvation, his escape.
Vapour, in grey tendrils escaped slowly from the snake-like hoses that curled malevolently around the base of a shiny black pod.

That was how he’d always thought of it. The Escape Pod. An escape from the nightmare this world had become. Wars, disease, the Politics of Corruption had the world reeling from a cancer of decay.

He, a humble scientist, with no life outside of his research, had stumbled upon a means of escape. He’d re-routed funds, kept everything secret from his employers. Now he was ready, and not a day too soon. They knew. They were asking questions. There must be no further delay. Today, he would go where they could not follow. He would escape into time itself. Surely the distant future held a better life.

Suddenly, the roar of vehicles, the shouting of men, just beyond the doors!
He ran for the Pod, opening the small hatch and climbing in. Through the vision port he saw them, a team of stormtroopers, guns blazing, advancing on his dream. Panicking, he set the controls with trembling fingers. A tremendous thrummmmm reverberated inside his brain, as the snaking pipes automatically disengaged from the Pod. The soldiers, still firing indiscriminately, advanced closer, and the Pod appeared to shimmer, then with a soft pop of inrushing air, disappeared….

Scant moments later, the man trusted himself to look out of the vision port.
He was surprised. Everything looked….old.
He punched up data on the panel in front of him, scarcely believing he’d miscalculated. His expertise was the product of hundreds of years of Japanese technological superiority, surely nothing could’ve gone wrong.
But the faint green glow of the readout looked back at him accusingly, daring him to disagree;

08:14 August 6th 1945

Realisation dawned on him, like an icy trickle down his back. He looked up from the display panel, and out across the city of Hiroshima, as the clock registered 08:15, and a tremendous flash lit up the morning sky.
Before he could reset and escape into time again, the searing shock wave of the Atomic Blast incinerated any memory of his existence, save for the ashes on the wind.

lunes, 8 de octubre de 2007

Room without a View

I just sat here, thinking a short story might be a good idea for today in The Mighty Pen. I had a comment about one of my poems a while back comparing it, flatteringly, to the style of Poe, and I thought a Poe-inspired tale might be cool, so here it is, written in ten minutes, hot off the press, so to speak...

Room without a View

He watched the condensation forming on the filthy ceiling. Inexorably slowly, the moisture gathering together, re-shaping, forming, until it became a pendulous mass, depending from the roof, gradually surrendering to gravity’s sweet song.
It fell, down, down, growing, though the effect was illusory, as it continued unstoppable through the fetid air of the dimly-lit cellar. For the merest fraction of a second, a dull light shone on its surface…and then it exploded in a thousand tiny droplets on his forehead. He tried to force his tongue up to catch the precious moisture, but it always seemed to be beyond him. His tongue mocked him, immobile.

He had no idea how long he’d been here in this room. He felt numb. He felt…the slightest sense of being, like the brush of a feather or a lover’s tender kiss on the back of your neck, fleeting, ungraspable.

There was a sound in his ears, like a storm, like rushing water, unyielding. It seemed he’d always heard that sound. Then he heard it. Something else. The distant sound of a metal bolt being drawn. Footsteps on cold stone, The creaking of a rotten wooden door.
A face loomed over him, a sallow, corrupted face, wearing medical whites, no longer white, stained, bloodied, some bright red and fresh, others old, brown mute to the horrors they had seen.

The face drew close, smiling, rotting teeth like tombstones arranged in ghastly rows.
He spoke in a harsh whisper, like a death rattle.
“You lasted the longest.” He said, holding a grimy hand mirror up to his captive’s face.
The prisoner glanced at his reflection, wide-eyed and terrified, letting his gaze travel down his face…to the ragged edge of his throat, the hack-sawed remnants of his spine, muscle, fat and nerve endings protruding out from the bloody stump of his severed neck like a dead man’s fingers.
The man lifted the head and threw it into the flaming jaws of the incinerator in the corner, to the sound of a silent scream.

Copyright Kev Moore 2007

jueves, 4 de octubre de 2007

Slight Return

I've been conspicuously absent from The Mighty Pen for some time, dear readers, and I throw myself upon your mercy. I shall not hide behind my extended travel itinerary as an excuse for my pitiful output. I shall merely resume where I left off, putting things that fall a little outside the remit of my diary page. I mentioned in there today that I was taking off at the weekend for a show in Germany, and it got me thinking....The shows themselves are always wonderful, but in fact account for around 70 minutes of my time away. When you drop on a particularly unforgiving itinerary, such as this forthcoming weekend, the show becomes, to quote a friend in the business, "a minor inconvenience." When I begin to think of the 5 a.m. alarm call, the queue at check in, the interminable security procedures, my flight to Hannover my FOUR trains to the eventual location of the gig, an overnight in a hotel, my SIX trains from the gig across Germany to Dusseldorf, it is small wonder that my eyelids grow heavy before I even step on a plane. So I thought I would try and illustrate the thoughts that go through my mind when I leave home on a weekend like this, by using a poem that I wrote sat in Manchester Airport at 5 a.m. on the 17th June last year, waiting to come home. It's called:

5 O'Clock Shadow

Traversed,the night,
With scant regard for sleep
Appointment with a metal tube to keep

To hurl me through the air
Commune with Gods
To head for home
And weather fair

Oh, Glorious morning
Azure and Turquoise hue
Tired, with days new dawning
But always, coming back to you

Kev Moore 2006

domingo, 1 de abril de 2007

A cautionary poem for the forthcoming Easter break..........


Little Arabella stood and stamped her tiny feet
"It's Easter time!" she wailed, "And I want lots of things to eat!"
Her parents turned the other cheek, ignored her pleading cries
So naughty Arabella an ingenious scheme devised

She left the house in dead of night, with housebrick and a torch
Her heart was beating faster as she raced from her front porch
Down the high street, fast as light our Arabella flew
Arriving at the superstore at quarter after two.

She heaved the housebrick through the air, and shattered all the glass,
Alarm bells began ringing, so she started moving fast
A shopping trolley close at hand was filled with such delights
She pushed her egg and chocolate hoard back out into the night

The sirens wailed, police had failed, to catch our little girl
For she was in the park, consuming fudge and chocolate whirls
Her face all brown and chocolatey, egg after egg she munched
And just for fun, a sticky bun, and treacle biscuit crunch

She cleaned her face and home did race, though feeling rather queasy,
(For running when your stomach's full is rarely ever easy)
Her head soon hit the pillow and when morning came around
To see her face you'd think she was the sweetest girl in town

But mummy came to wake her, a smile was in her eyes
"Is my little girl awake? .. because I've got a nice surprise!"
"Look Arabella, here's your Easter eggs, I'll leave them by the door!"
Arabella took one look and promptly threw up on the floor...

Kev Moore 2007

miércoles, 28 de marzo de 2007

The Law of the Jungle

Miki had a quiet word with me the other day about my bouts of "road rage."
She drew my attention to the fact that I, apparently, within minutes of asetting off in the car, hurl abuse at the first unfortunate that happens to cross my path on the highway. The journey then inevitably descends into an expletive-ridden roller-coaster ride of terror for my hapless and unwitting passenger. I have resolved to be a more courteous and patient driver. For her sake. But for my sanity, I have to get this off my chest....

When will the Spanish learn how to drive and park???!!?? ...and why, more to the point, do the other nationalities that come here descend into the same madness???

I'll tell you why, it's the law of the jungle. Survival of the fittest. Kill or be killed. Yep, you name it, I've got a cliche for it. They park on yellow lines, on junctions, on roundabouts, simply stop halfway into a turning to talk to their bloody wife, no indicators, no hazards, and a perfunctory glance your way when you have the temerity to sound your horn. Only yesterday, we were gingerly making our way across a local junction where the rule of the highway code appears to have broken down altogether, and we were overtaken, in the wrong lane, crossing a light controlled four lane highway by some suicidal dutch nutcase.Even Miki expressed some mild concern (this is the equivalent of apoplexy in ordinary mortals) I actually burst out laughing, so ludicrous was the maneouver.

Miki believes that the problem is a logistical one, the area is growing at such a phenomenal rate, there simply isn't the infrastructure to cope with parking facilities for all the additional cars, but that hardly explains why they swing merrily from lane to lane on the autoroute doing a convincing imitation of having sold their indicators, does it?

Oh, I can rant and rave against it all day, but I can feel it happening, ever so slowly, insidiously, creeping up on me like a bad winter cold...I'm..becoming like them. I'm beginning not to care..block someone in because I cant find a space? No problem!! Triple park on the main road? Thats me, mate! Park on a pedestrian crossing so oncoming drivers cant see the poor sods stepping out? Bring it on!
What? Its illegal? Don't blame me, it's the infrastructure mate!

lunes, 12 de marzo de 2007

Rainy Days and Mondays

After the winds, the clouds engulfed Albir today and we were treated to some nice chilled Rain. Our planned trip away,then, seems to have fallen just right! We head North into France and Germany for a week for a mix of business and pleasure. These trips always replenish our reservoir of tales, experiences, sketches and songs, not to mention the growing collection of photos Miki is unable to stop taking! So I'm sure we'll have a variety of things to share with you on our return, or perhaps even while we are away, if we can find the a) time and b) cybercafe!

But for now, here's a poem I wrote about a place from our previous meanderings that we stumbled on when Miki and I were both "down my way" in Almeria. It was a beautifully named secret little Spanish village called Los Molinos del Rio Aguas" which roughly translated means "The Windmills of the River Waters" Let's hope our travels continue to inspire us.

Los Molinos Del Rio Aguas

The trees impede, then teasing, let us pass
Insects buzzing, cossetted by tall green grass
All at once, A clearing
With goods for sale in shanty shack
While crickets chirp ahead of us
And stunning mountains at our backs

Perhaps this place remains forgotten, Brigadoon-like
Forever lost inside the mists of time
Then, once an age, appearing
Reminding us of all that's fine

And though they spin no more
And sails no longer cut the sky
Let's linger here in Los Molinos
For a moment
You and I.

Kev Moore 03/06/06 inspired by a visit to Los Molinos 18/05/06