Beak instead of Teeth

Well, today's the day; you kinky bucket of clownfish, you. I must once again thank the good people of Raise The Bar for providing me with a suitable barricade from which to fire the lysergic confetti cannon that is Beak instead of Teeth: 

They were even kind enough to place a microphone centre-stage, thus clearly marking out where a performer might stand if they wished to be well-framed and not to challenge their camera's focusing capabilities too steeply. A lot of performers would have heeded this tacit advice. A lot of performers are not Tom Hunt.

Slugs - Live at To Be Frank

Good evening. It's been a while, hasn't it, my oily little whelks? Thought ol' Tom had forgotten you, eh? No such luck, I'm afraid. Just last night I had the distinct pleasure of performing at To Be Frank, a poetry event held in Bath, Somerset. There, I was able to film this eight-minute video of me faffing with my hair. Those of you watching with the sound on will notice I am also reciting my poem, Slugs, to a surprisingly appreciative audience. Enjoy.

My sincere thanks go to all the organisers at To Be Frank Poetry, especially Rhys for his to-camera, documentary-style introduction. The whole team put on a genuinely lovely night in Bath, and all of you should go. I certainly will, assuming they let me back in.

Chapter Six

There could be no hiding it; this much he knew. No more than one could hide blood on one's hands, or hate in one's eyes, or an entire unconscious human body in an otherwise empty walk-in freezer. It was a travesty, plain and simple; beyond all salvage and completely indefensible. He could only keep his head down while the shame sluiced over him in rivulets, counting himself lucky he had not been quite justifiably called out for his behaviour by one of the many innocent bystanders.

"I've gone too far." He muttered grimly to himself. And he was right. The shopping basket in his hand was an absolute train-wreck.

"Cat food, a ham and pineapple frozen pizza, personal lubricant reduced due to the packaging having been tampered with, and... crème de menthe?" He grimaced at the floor as the cashier listed his crimes aloud. They had never done this before.

"I didn't realise there was pineapple. Just the booze, the lube and the cat food, then." He continued to study the scuffed linoleum. "Please."

He leaned against the side of the conveyor and watched the pair of hands in his peripheral vision relieve his basket of its contents. Two electronic bleeps sounded, followed by the sounds of a glass bottle and a plastic tube rolling lazily down the sloped metal sheeting, toward the bags. Nothing followed.

"Funny," came the apparently overly judgemental cashier's voice again; "I wouldn't have pegged you for a... cat person."

Who was this prying muckraker? This minimum-wage inquisitor, as brazen as they were unwelcome? Bristling at the floor, and also at the tremendous indignity of the situation, he arranged his face into its most scathing configuration before bringing it to bear against his interrogator; a curiously familiar man, wearing an eye-patch, a clearly fake moustache, and nothing from the waist down.

"Hello there, sir. Long time no see. Perhaps it's time you and I had a little chat about Lewis."