“The man who killed Christmas. A saga in murderous red, green and silver”

Time for the Christmas ditties. This time I’ve found an image to compliment them with. Which is nice. Or maybe not.

It works here not just because of the collective title for the these two poems, but because he is in fact the star of the show.

Freddy has been the focus, or star, of several pieces I’ve written the past 3 and a half years. Not least these and the companion piece about Easter. But it’s not because I’m a particular fan of Horror or even of him, I’m not. It’s that he does seem to fit a particular bill when something needs expressing through words and or images of a violent nature.

Without delaying any further here is the distillation of the modern spirit of Christmas as seen through cynical eyes that hide, locked behind them for its own safety, a twinkle of hope.

christmas-freddy

(I’ve no claims over the picture above which has been borrowed with thanks from http://wickedwaysproductions.blogspot.co.uk/2014/12/monstrous-christmas-day-12-of-creepmas.html)

“The man who killed Christmas. A saga in murderous red, green and silver”

 

Part one:

 

I saw Freddy killing Santa Claws. (November ’14)

 

Freddy’s killed Santa now he’s running free,

He’s wearing the fat man’s suit burning Christmas trees,

He’s had his nails done for the season,

And his jumper dry cleaned,

 

He knows the mistletoe’s hanging,

So he’s brushed his teeth,

He’s coming for a Christmas kiss,

Gonna give you a festive squeeze,

 

Freddy’s in the house now pulling crackers,

Stokes the fire with a leg borrowed from Santa,

Turkey’s still frozen but it’s nicely sliced,

But he’s still hungry summat’s getting diced,

 

He knows the mistletoe’s hanging,

So he’s brushed his teeth,

He’s coming for a Christmas kiss,

Gonna give you a festive squeeze,

 

Freddy’s on the stairs floorboards creak,

Kids know there’s no presents if they don’t go to sleep,

Shoulda locked the door, left the light on,

Seems the “merry” bit has got up and gone,

 

He knows the mistletoe’s hanging,

So he’s brushed his teeth,

He’s coming for a Christmas kiss,

Gonna give you a festive squeeze,

 

Freddy’s over grannies bed pointing to his cheek,

He gets his kiss and then starts to speak,

“Think I’ll visit Easter next, that’ll be funny”,

“Can’t wait to surprise that cute little bunny….”

 

Part two:

 

The last elf. (December ’14)

 

The last elf sits hiding on the shelf

Behind the last C5

He’s giggling with the furbys,

Smoking joints that’ve just been lit,

Freshly rolled on an album full of festive hits

 

In among the mars bars and the toy cars,

The brussel sprouts are munched,

He likes them with the chocolate,

Then he makes farty noises with smartie tubes,

And swaps coloured squares on Rubiks cubes,

 

As his heart beats faster with the laughter,

His eyes are briefly shut,

Then the shadow swiftly passes,

While his mind replays the bosses fatal shave,

Here in his toy cave safe among the architraves,

 

He breathes the heat as he smokes last summer’s treat,

And on reflection,

From the Christmas baubles,

A familiar hat and jumper now emerges,

And claret chokes with the smoke in red, green and silver festive surges,

 

Merry Christmas.

 

(c) Jim Laing 2016.

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About Jim Laing

The Buddha said there were four kinds of people. Those who run from dark to dark, those who run from light to dark, those who run from dark to light and those who run from light to light. From a life going from dark to dark to having a few years running from dark to light, with scuffed hands and knees from sometimes falling, I may be getting the hang of it now. How it began is not now how it is, I need a quiet space, After the noise of the day, So I take sanctuary in the creativity, And my soul feeds, On sometimes dark, Sometimes light fantasy, And I dare like many to work, But stay up off my knees, To dream, perchance to suffer, But always still to dream. Here are things mostly lyrical and poetic, with nonsense sometimes, reviews and personal musings. The coffees hot and always black. The words not necessarily so.
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