Saturday, 9 February 2013
Saturday, 17 November 2012
Krampus, shanks, clocklet…like brainfat-in-a-basket.
Krampus, chains,tongue-spit, thick hair to grab at and hang off.
Jingle bells; clack guts, black butt. Krampus trotters soil the carpets.
Spit drips gob the slobbers off.
Krampus gone got himself killed he did!
He done didn’t!
Glee eyes in different directions trapped in a stare out with bloodshot yella eyes.
This is the krampus tip tap of cloven hooves soaked in cuts made from chain-link cloaks.
Krampus swung the switch swatch and whupped. Coal, cordite and clock-watchers cane the frost burr off his antlers. A jangle of melancholy cowbells and the dander of a cocksure king goat announce him.
He shakes the frost off.
Krampus army comes, none of them can close their mouths, none of them can stop the slaver. The tongues are strops as clean as meat
His buckets are full of shoes.
Two tin pales on a yoke burst into flame.
It’s a night blizzard, the snow in the torchlight, the woods full of bell music.
Girl-krampus, Budelfrau, one red shoe, one black shoe, red legs, red arms, red head, an ankle-length bearskin dress and moth-feather cape,she cocks her machine gun. Now she’s turning on the bull-krampus and a snarl the shape of an upsidedown heart rises like electric blue smoke made from satin and creosote.
The dander of the Christmas beast settles now like melting snow on the fallen boughs of Lodgepole pines and mole hills.The ice breaks in ruts and mud comes up in splatters.
He stood still for so long listening that the ripples stopped.
Wait.He has come down
He has come down in the form of silence.
Black coat. White fur gone dirty. Red boots.
Beetle wings tatted in his hair.
Eye shadow glitter and beetroot stains.
White face. Red mouth. Black fingernails.
Black face. White hands. Red fur.
Black sequins come in a hailstorm. Blue sequins scattered on the snow. Branches painted gold. Silver switches and steam, twilight and barbed wire.
1)Dead crows hung on the fence
2)Crow cage blown upside down.
He got a pitchfork.
We’ll spank and smack and smash and clock you.
You don’t want to be clocked by the krampus army.
A mousetrap on each finger.The claw call craze.Lazy with fear.
Krampus stomps his one leg shorter than the other stomp through the Shopping Mall. He smashes up a perfume counter and reeks of the stuff, forearm fur matted with scent and blood from smashing up the case and bottles.
Insensible as a drunkard.
Pissed up on Spore Wine.
A shard of glass like a lifting plate sticking out of his elbow.
He’s in the fast food outlet, gutting a pike, tossing its head into a pram. He appears to be pissing in a deep fat fryer.
His buckets are full of burning high heeled shoes.
He fires his shotgun into a false Christmas tree in the central atrium and flails around in the tinsel, on fire.
There’s a krampus called Farm hand Rupert birching a mannequin , shouting “I hate the swarm coz it’s all I got”.
Back in the gloaming of St. HorseHeart Eve, a pitchfork stuck handle first in the sillion of a ploughed field hangs with a scarecrow conundrum made from knives and forks. The horned krampus-woman drags a cradle full of coal across a frozen pond with a bridle and bit, her teeth white against her soot blackened face.