11 November 2010

Talking Monkeys


Jehovah H. Frankenstein! - What have you done now? I went along with the duckbill platypus, the giraffe, the elephant and the giant fish – yes I’m aware that they’re mammals thank you – this time you have gone too far! Talking monkeys – are you insane? What earthly use are talking monkeys? Apes – shapes they look like monkeys to me. Say, are those monkeys wearing clothes? Why are your monkeys wearing clothes? Have you been talking to them? To your talking monkeys - have you? Have you been talking to your talking monkeys? Not really? How often is not really? A couple of times? That’s all! What did you say to them? You can’t remember! That’s no good! Nothing important! – I’ll be the judge of that! You know, you could have compromised the entire project. Talking monkeys indeed – it just won’t do!



19 October 2010

Dirty Harry

I don’t think too much about it, I just write from whatever direction the wind’s blowing. I have no flags to wave, I don’t believe in ‘things’ - so I got no use for flags. I have no cause to affect and no mission to accomplish. I already set myself free, as befits a man of my temperament.

I have no beef with anyone in the normal flow of events, but when some numb nutted, bovine brained, cloven hoofed, worm tongued, would-be Wordsworth wanders lonely as a fucking cloud across MY horizon - I figure, why shoot the breeze – when you can shoot the messenger? - I bark bullets - I don’t take prisoners - I don’t have the facilities.

I dish out summary execration to anyone waxing lyrical on the virtues of agape, or how their soul abideth with some mythological god. I read them their rights  – before I ram my muzzle home - and loose my words - BLAM! - d’ya feel that? - BLAM! BLAM! – do you understand? BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! - any questions? - then we’re done here – one less polygluttonous book maggot wasting good paper.

*This work is entirely fictitious and any resemblance to person or persons actual or fictional is purely co-incidental. The views expressed here are not necessarily not the views of the author.

© Copyright John A Jack @

3 October 2010

The Mark Of Cain

I come from East of Eden,
And bear the mark of Cain,
That may be the reason,
They say that I’m insane,
My boots are caked in mud,
From walking in the rain,
My hands are stained with blood,
From the brothers I have slain.
The End

*Image by Robert Crumb

2 October 2010



there’s the tenderest vibration 
of laughter’s unheard echo 
the emptied out sensation 
of rooms now left hollow
and something fragile vacillates 
between happiness and sorrow 
something now is missing 
some subtle nuance fled
it's something nearly tangible 
that burns inside my head 
as half remembered passages 
in a book that I once read 

The End

28 August 2010


Nymphet strumpet whores cascade down Picasso Avenue in giant stiletto heels. Crack monkeys in sharp threads and wearing sharper faces tap the windows of passing limousines with black – blue metallic shiny raven sheen, driven by sanguine velvet dust junkies with golden smiles and populated by porcine businessmen with their million dollar hookers.
”Weed?, speed?, oxy’s?, meth?, smack?, crack?, coke?, crank?, acid?, E’s?, 'shrooms?, ludes?, peyote?, snake oil?, embalming fluid?” Sample sewn satin linings open like bat wings. “I can turn you on.”

Suburban voyeurs are hassled by dealers, whores and panhandle cops, student vessels trapped in the neon glow. Fledglings crunch popcorn as they pitter patter through pools of blood that await the rain. Zebras and Lions stalk the crowded sidewalks, Vultures feed on carrion. It’s a dog eat dog world, only they ate all the dogs a long time ago. The cops frisk the feeble hearted for dope and pennies, peanuts, but that’s what you get when you hire monkeys. 

A moon faced born again ding dong chants Hari Krishna hip hop style. His hands spasm before him, signing in ancient Indian semaphore – ‘stay away’. The wolves haven’t eaten him yet ‘cause it’s considered bad luck to eat crazy meat. The innocent are herded and fleeced in a revolving strip show of brutality, horror and vice. Layers of degradation and corruption are peeled for their delectation. Most of them will make it home, but some will end up with their teeth in somebody’s necklace. The rest is just hamburger meat.
The End

11 August 2010


My friend,
You should by now,
Understand that existence,
Consists of an infinite sequence,
Of uninterrupted brutality and pain,
Peppered only by the occasional betrayal,
And interspersed with despondency and anguish,
Driving us inexorably from humiliation to shame,
Binding us forever in chains of lonely isolation.
The End

29 July 2010

A Children’s Crusade

They sing a mournful song,
In the hours before the dawn,
They march in rank procession.
Through the land of desolation,
The lonely sons and daughters,
Of forgotten generations,
The one lost tribe,
Scattered through the nations.
The End

22 July 2010

Fish To Fry


Life is hard,

And then you die,

Yours is not,

To reason why,

You got your own,

Don’t cry in mine,

I’m sure everything,

Will work out fine,

And we’ll be laughing,

Down the line,

But now I’ll leave you,

To sit and cry,

I’ve got other,

Fish to fry.

The End


14 July 2010

The Abattoir

The abattoir was secreted away amongst a warren of dereliction. It stood alone amidst the burned out buildings and piles of rubble. Its red brick walls were mostly covered by a coat of black soot, courtesy of many local warehouse fires. The soot thinned out at the base so it looked like a black occult temple which was dipped in blood, like the feet of Tezcatlipoca the terrible god of Aztec legend. The clock tower towered above the entrance like a great black phallus. Through the gates below countless thousands were once led to the slaughter. The entrance reeks with the fetid stench of rotting flesh. The holding pens, arcane iron contraptions stained red ochre by rust and congealed blood. Meat hooks hang silent witness to the butchery committed in this meat factory, this industrial necropolis. This temple of savagery is not deserted. There is a priesthood yet, practitioners of a dark and unholy art. There are others too, the innocent abandoned. Victims of a satanic press gang, penned like cattle awaiting slaughter. Herded into the bloody death traps where iron jaws are clamped around their necks. They await the skull cracking hammer blow. They wait to be made meat.
The End

29 June 2010




They lie to you at school,

To make of you a fool

They really only want you,

For the labor pool,

They only teach you stuff,

They think you ought to know,

When you’ve learned enough,

It’s time for you to go,

Now you have to work,

There is no time for play,

You simply cannot shirk,

If you want to earn your pay.


Wabi Sabi

Wabi Sabi
My darling you’re imperfect,
In every single way,
You have the kind of smile,
That darkens any day,
You frighten little children,
When they come out to play,
Your countenance is glorious,
Your anger to inveigh,
Your temperament's notorious,
But I love you anyway.
Wabi Sabi is a comprehensive Japanese world view, or aesthetic, centred on the acceptance of transience. The aesthetic is often characterised as one of beauty that is "imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete" - One of its central precepts is that imperfection is itself beautiful. I thought I'd take this concept and stretch it a little...