Tag Archives: macabre

Surreal, macabre….yes, that’s Scottish poet Carole Bone!

  • Here are two new poems by Carole, read by her with great relish at recent poetry readings hosted by Glasgow’s Oxfam Book Shop, Byres Road, in the Spring and Autumn of 2013. I’m sure you will agree that she has a distinct feel for the surreal and the macabre!
  • ( please, readers, accept my apologies for the peculiar perpendicular dots on the left side of this page. Try though I might, I could not erase them….my contribution  to the surreal, if not the macabre!)
  • IN MY DREAMS
  • In my dreams I can fly if it takes my fancy
  • There’s a two tailed talking dog called Clancy
  • Who plays Flamenco guitar telling tall-dog-tales
  • Of giant clockwork cats with ears like sails
  • In my dreams I live in a house made of cheese
  • Blow bubblegum bubbles with effortless ease
  • So big that they lift me up-up in the air
  • Did I mention Clancy has electric blue hair?
  • In my dreams time is measured by dandelion clocks
  • There are NO spiders and NO odd socks
  • Doris the Mermaid sings Aerosmith songs
  • Eating anchovy ice cream and egg foo yong
  • In my dreams there are many magical things
  • Bright yellow dragons with duffle coat wings
  • Corkscrew daisies grow fifteen feet high
  • Clancy likes them…. You can understand why
  • In my dreams many things transmogrify
  • But they ARE only dreams, so can YOU tell me why
  • When I wake with Clancy no longer there
  • My pillow has strands of electric blue hair?
  • ON THE OTHER HAND….

  • EVERYONE HAS A BOOK INSIDE
  • She s-mothered him till he was forty-five, her precious child,
  • fussing over him, prune lipped and pillow breasted,
  • a benevolent dictator.
  • He simmered like the bubbling fat in the fryer
  • of the family fish’n’chip shop.
  • Three Generations Son!!!
  • He despised it, and her.  The acrid smell
  • of grease and the way it
  • clung to everything.
  • What he really wanted, was to paint a Masterpiece
  • or write a Bestseller or go hot air ballooning
  • up the Orinoco.
  • One Sunday afternoon, he was painting the masterpiece
  • that was the kitchen door and she was prattling
  • ON and ON about potatoes.
  • When it suddenly occurred to him that
  • there was NOT that much
  • to say about potatoes.
  • He saw his life then, peeled and chipped.
  • Deep-fried and wrapped up in
  • yesterdays newspaper
  • discarded on a Friday night, cold and half eaten
  • and he pushed her in the chipper.
  • Then, inspired
  • he picked up his pen and a fresh sheet of paper.
  • Smoothed it carefully.  At last!
  • Fodder for the bestseller!

Carole Bone

Carole Bone

To see Carole’s bio and her publications list, click

Carole Bone – Bio and Publications

Contact Carole at: carolebone@hotmail.co.uk

500 words copyright Carole Bone/Anne Whitaker /2014
Licensed under Creative Commons – for conditions see Home Page