Wednesday, 24 August 2016

DICK – Tom, Tom, I’m really excited!

TOM – Are we doing an investigation again? We could investigate bow ties, or, or, adding things. I like adding things yet I’ve no idea who invented it.

DICK – Shepherds I think, mmm, I wonder if sheep count shepherds to get them off to sleep? No matter ‘cos we ain’t investigating.

TOM – I don’t understand then. What then is making you so excited?

DICK – Well me being a poemy genius and everything, and what with us not having to do stuff for them pesky Clueless Collective poets, I’ve finished me latest poem that I’ve been working on for three years. Prepare to be astounded:

Here I sit broken hearted
Spent twenty p
But only farted.

Brilliant eh? I’ll tell yer, I’m gonna win awards with that.

TOM – It’s shit. I’ve heard it before.

Friday, 24 June 2016

TOM - Thought Brexit was pooing out yer breakfast.

DICK - I can see where yer coming from Tom, but the morning dump is just that, a common or garden morning dump. No need for any grand names.

TOM - I don't do that in the garden.

DICK - It's an expression Tom, like Tom's a cunt.

TOM - Thanks for clearing that up, wanker.

Sunday, 19 June 2016

TOM – You got us sacked from the CluelessCollective’s site didn’t yer?

DICK – I don’t think I did actually ‘cos we ain’t been sacked. And besides if anyone ‘as got us sacked it’s you for being boring.

TOM – No! It would deffo be you for looking up Drew’s skirt, or coming back from the pub and throwing up over their precious poems, or picking a fight with Mankie the Cat. So if we ain’t been sacked what we doing in this dark smelly corner of your disgusting mind?

DICK – We are now in charge of our own destiny.

TOM – Sacked!

DICK – No Tom. They suggested we invest more time over here so we can do what we want to do. They wanted more room for their poems and we should be doing our own thing. Once they realise they no longer have their poetry genius, aka me, to hand they’ll regret their decision. You’ll see.

TOM – So no more investigating then. I liked investigating.

DICK – I shall investigate the prospect of investigating down the pub. Best place to start investigating don’t you think?

TOM – In your case, no.

Wednesday, 3 February 2016

TOM - Amy's at it again.

DICK - At what?

TOM - You know.

DICK - No Tom. I don't.

TOM - Do too.

DICK - What like destruction of the Western world? Eating trees? Mole farming? Counting lampposts? Spill the beans my little sock counting wanker.

TOM - You know. Poem stuff .

DICK - Oh that.

TOM - Don't yer like Amy's poems?

DICK - Yeah I do, it's just … well … I thought when you said she's at it again you were talking about masturbation.

TOM - I don't know what that is.

DICK - Do you rub me up the wrong way on purpose?

TOM - I want to go home now please.

DICK - Sock counting wanker.

TOM - Complete and utter wanker.

DICK - Only into yer favourite socks.

TOM - STOP! STOP! STOP! It's poem time.

Monday, 18 January 2016

DICK - It's here.

TOM - But it's also there.

DICK - What is?

TOM - Ed's new poem. It's there in the cobwebby thingy.

DICK - That's what I said ain't it.

TOM - Not really, 'cos you said it's here when in fact it's out there in the whole big world, so it follows, logically speaking, it's there and not it's here.

DICK - Fuck off Tom before I hit yer.

Saturday, 10 October 2015

DICK – Here’s another offering from Amy.

TOM – I’m surprised you like this, I mean you can’t even reach the chain after you’ve had a poo.

DICK – I can so reach it.

TOM – Then why don’t you?

DICK – Can’t be arsed. Too much effort. Besides, that’s what Toms are for.

TOM – A Tom is for life, not just for Christmas you know.

DICK – Don’t I just fucking know it.

Friday, 11 September 2015

TOM – We’ve been on holibobs. We went to the seaside.

DICK – I buried Tom in the sand.

TOM – I got sand in me mouth and in me nose and in me ears and up me bum.

DICK – I threw Tom off the pier and into the sea.

TOM – It washed away the sand.

DICK – Who knew Tom could swim?

TOM – We built sand castles and ate fish and chips with ice cream for afters.

DICK – I drunk a whole bottle of sun block.

TOM – It made you spew.

DICK – It did indeed Tom.

TOM – You threw up all over me.

DICK – I had to Tom. It’s the law.

TOM – But all’s well that ends well, ‘cos there’s always Amy.

DICK – Yep, there’s always Amy, and the adventures of her poo, and the secrets of her toilet.

TOM – God bless Amy’s poo and loo.

DICK – Amen.

The Toilet Would Not Stop Running

I went to the hardware store, 
and the man behind the customer
service counter said I needed
a new flapper, sent me down
the appropriate aisle.  I went home, 
followed the surprisingly easy
instruction, replaced the flapper myself.

Two days later, the toilet was still
occasionally running.  Back
to the hardware store I went.
Another man behind the customer
service counter said I probably need
to replace the ball cock as well.
That was my line in the sand.
I told the man that the only way
these hands would be removing 
a ball cock would be if I caught it
cheating on me.

He laughed as he wrote down
the number of a local plumber.
I thanked him, and walked
out the door.

A.J. Huffman has published eleven solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. Her new poetry collections, Another Blood Jet (Eldritch Press) and A Few Bullets Short of Home (mgv2>publishing) are now available from their respective publishers.   She has two additional poetry collections forthcoming: Degeneration from Pink Girl Ink, and A Bizarre Burning of Bees from Transcendent Zero Press.  She is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, and has published over 2200 poems in various national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, and Kritya. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press.