How to Kill a Goose
P. S. Osborne Thorax Adams I. Tomms Illustrated by Paul Osborne
How to Kill a Goose (An Anthology)
This first book, of a series, contains the ramblings of several personae. P. S. Osborne, I. Tomms and Thorax Adams were all born near Birmingham in June 1975. The illustrator of this book was present at their births.
Copyright (c) 2010 Paul Osborne
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the permission of the copyright owner.
“To them, from me”
Contents How to Kill a Goose God Broke Down Black Cloud “Wads” Fox Hunt Eyes Wide Open Slow Down Share it with Someone Monster The Compartment The Pied Piper Down by the River Danny of the Jungle On the Death of Neville Barber
How to Kill a Goose
We wanted eggs Not problems And were given geese The gander growled One time too many And the boy came close to a nip The final straw in a history of violence So I took the bar And rope And shovel And fashioned a noose to catch The foul was easy to fool The noose tightened Followed by a swing A crunch Connected Definite Done
P. S. Osborne
God Broke Down God broke down Empties lay around Pulling apples from his tree Devil spoke up, bold as brass And smiled in mock sympathy
The lords cut wrists Bled on the earth Crying tears of loss for the free Little did he know They left long-a-go For someone more celebrity God broke down Empties lay around Pulling apples from his tree Devil spoke up, bold as brass And smiled in mock sympathy It’s not my fault I wandered from your path You set the bar to high for me If I can’t climb over Then watch me crawl And where’s my apology P. S. Osborne
Black Cloud Black cloud hangs like poison in the sky Like poison in the sky Like poison in the sky It covers my sun, and rains on my patch Rains on my patch Rains on my patch Hot rain, stings my face, and fills my soul Fills my soul The Black Cloud rolls Rolls And rolls The hills flat
Caught in the valley, it strains to escape It strains to escape It strains to escape Pouring its tears Caught in gorse Caught in a gorse bush Caught on the thorns
Tears itâ€™s own lining, leaking blood Leaking its blood Leaking its blood It scars, it scars The Earth, the Earth With itâ€™s pouring
Slowly in death-throes burns itself out Slowly in death-throes till nothing remains And the sheer weight of black That pours into the valley Sinks, becomes trapped And dangerous
(There it stays all day, pissing on my parade) Thorax Adams
Wads BY I. TOMMS That morning it was my job to cycle around the island, collecting the waxed paper cups from the water stations that had been replenished overnight. It was early, and the sun had not heated the air for it to become uncomfortable, and I was getting a nice cycle-ride breeze on my face. I arrived at the first station, and pulled all the cups from the dispenser, “25…30…35…” and counted them into the rucksack I was carrying. This was a good start, plus it represented what the supply would be in the remaining water stations. This job would not take long.
Over the next half hour I paid visit to all the stations in the area, and tallied up 460 wax paper cups. This was a satisfactory haul, most probably overkill, and would suffice for the needs of the day. After the last station I started to cycle back, a few of the cups overflowing from the rucksack and tip-tapping on the tarmac behind me.
You see, the problem with the wax cup, as we discovered a few days before, is that the only the inside surface is wax coated. This means that the outside of the cup is unprotected and very porous, and because we had to “dip” the cups into our concoction to fill them, the liquid would soak in from the outside surface of the cup. After around three cycles of “fill and drink” the cups would become flaccid and useless. On that occasion we ran out of cups very quickly, and the fun was spoiled by poor preparation. This would not happen again. So we devised a plan.
in two ways. Firstly you can tell each person to “bring something along”, and add it to the pile of drinks on the table. This tends to be a bit random, and there are always certain individuals who will bring low quality alcohol and freeload of the good taste of others. We wanted to avoid this so by democratic vote we decided that we would create a “special” cocktail that everyone would drink.
After a complicated process of elimination, we could conclude that everyone would drink: Baileys, Vodka, Kahlua, Dark Rum and Bacardi. Now we had our chemicals, we needed to decide how much? Quantity was an important factor. We wanted to have surplus, so we could all drink to our individual capacities. So we all agreed that the intake should be capped at 140cl of 40% proof spirit, per man, for the entirety of the session. This equated to 2 bottles of spirit per person, or 4 bottles of a liqueur at 20% proof.
Whilst I was out collecting the cups, Danny and John were busy breaking into a storeroom behind the food hall in which we ate our meals. Danny was the instigator of this operation, as he worked in the food hall during the week as a commis chef, and knew exactly what we needed for our escapade. Inside the store was the focus of their activities, two large industrial catering fridges. In the bottom of each fridge was a watertight, pre-chilled, 12-gallon, insulated freezer tray. As an unforeseen bonus, in each tray were two 6-litre tubs of chocolate ice cream. They took everything. The freezer trays and the ice cream were en-route, back to base.
We all went shopping.
Now on this island there was no such thing as import tax, the prices were exempt for some complicated reason, so we managed to purchase each bottle for around £2.50 each. Shopping List
16 bottles of Baileys 24 bottles of Kahlua 24 bottles of Dark Rum 16 bottles of Bacardi 10 bottles of Vodka.
The total came to around, £250. That worked out at around 6.35 each. We transported our haul back to base, and became chemists. Into each container we poured the correct ratio of alcoholic components. This was then topped off with 12 litres of chocolate ice cream. We named our creation, “Rocket Fuel”.
These containers of “Rocket Fuel” were very heavy and it took 4 men to lift each one outside onto a long aluminium table, which was in the rest area outside our accommodation. The table flexed, but held, and with our supply of wax paper cups, we were set.
The drink made us very innovative, and many games were created that day. My favourite was how we utilised the spent and sodden cups. At the point where the cups could no longer hold liquid, it became common practice, for the owner of the cup to pop the entire cup into their mouth and chew. They would then suck the precious remaining “rocket fuel” from the macerated fibres, and the resulting wad of pulp would be spat at a target wall, in attempt to “knock off” the previous marksman’s deposit. I was very good at it.
Fox Hunt A Grandad with story Of fox killing glory A giggle of children Sat down by his side
A horn blows a blast And horses jump past The dogs homing in The scent of the kill
“I chopped of it’s tail” He raises his hand The brush of the fox Whips through the air
It whips past their faces And leaves musky traces Fur in the mouth The thrill of the chase P. S. Osborne
Eyes Wide Open Another dawn comes To the sound of alone It rattles through my body The morning sun Spills on my bed It colours these sheets Wakens my body With silver heat
Like a lizard on a rock I began to turn Blood running sun Through my eyelids burn Sandman coming to rescue me Eyes wide open Lack of sleep Catch me at a hotel Propping a bar Drinking, I crush glass With these bare hands Canâ€™t sleep without you My lovely sands Smooth my brow With your cool hands
Like a lizard on a rock I began to turn Blood running sun Through my eyelids burn Sandman coming to rescue me Eyes wide open Lack of sleep
P. S. Osborne
I feel Iâ€™m failing Clogging up, and Falling behind I gotta break into a run To catch up Time doesâ€™nt wait For this man
I found a feeling All that remains Is the meaning to find Perhaps I should go out And get drunk
I want to sing the songs I wrote The year we met Need to slow down Let my thoughts collect I want to sing the songs I wrote The year we met I want to slow down
P. S. Osborne
Share it with Someone A good friend of mine Took me aside Offered these words of wisdom
If you have talent Don’t be selfish Share it with someone If you have time Don’t be selfish Share it with someone If you have money Don’t be selfish Share it with someone If you have love Don’t be selfish Share it with someone
Monster I’ve been eating people all morning Stealing babies from beds Not feeling to well at the moment, made an appointment, for half past ten Someone I ate it’s so plain to see, they don’t want to be inside me I’ve been eating people, popping them like pills Put them in together now 1, 2, 3 And why did, you eat me Who’ll feed, my family Who’ll be, the bread-winner now
I’ve been stomping streets all morning In search of human meat It’s been a river of blood, a bloody smorgasbord Sampling homosapien delicacies
Someone I ate it’s so plain to see, they don’t want to be inside me I’ve been eating people, popping them like pills Put them in together now 1, 2, 3 And why did, you eat me Who’ll feed, my family Who’ll be, the bread-winner now Thorax Adams
“I’ll never gift boys” And the portal it opens The tick of the counter A tally of dose The reluctance The order The brave boy a fool He enters the chamber The body absorbs
The Pied Piper
You Pied Piper in a white luton van In a desert town Low moon setting behind A grey silhouette You open your shutter And the poverty boys climb in The boys of the village Most of them To touch toys Families watching And smiling Then the horror The shutter rolls down Barred from the inside Fathers beat metal with fists The screams And crying And slicing The van rolls forward And drives Away P. S. Osborne
Down by the River Down by the river Theyâ€™ve cut back the reeds Burned all the bushes Felled all the trees Down by the river Below the willow That crys for a life That can never return
Under the bridge In the water so dark I threw the knife That I ran through your heart Down by the river They’ve cut back the reeds Burned all the bushes Felled all the trees Their looking for you But they’ll never find Cause I hid you so perfectly Beneath the mire
Under the bridge In the water so dark I threw the knife That I ran through your heart Down by the river Hung from a bough That bends from my weight But I’m with you now Thorax Adams
Danny of the Jungle Danny fell into the jungle We laughed And called And drank And forgot
Three days later Summer dripped from leaves, and Danny walked from the green Owl eyed and blooded He limped towards me An enigma of wisdom Possessor of secret knowledge Initiated
On the Death of Neville Barber
Time slowed, and I walked to the bearer, and Took the receiver, and Prepared for the worst, and The messenger spoke, and I started to choke, and I held back the tears, and Thanked for the news, and Remembered his face, and The sound of his voice, and The free cigarettes, and The “one last drink”, and “I’m in love with a young man”, and The pain that it brought, and The confide in secrets, and Candle ends burning, and Whiskey and water, and The clock on the mantle, and A bed that I slept in, and Gentlemen’s wardrobes, and Talks about Jimmy, and Visits to graves
P. S. Osborne
An experiment in dark poetry with illustrations, by Paul Osborne.