Maharaja Blues

It started with feathers.   One on the windowsill. One in my coffee. One tucked inside a jazz record sleeve that hadn’t been spun since the moon last blinked. I lit a cigarette, watched the smoke curl like a question mark. Something was off. Pigeons don’t just happen—not in triplicate, not in my flat, and not with that look in their beady little eyes. Like they knew something. Like they’d seen things. So I laid the trap. Seed trail from the fire escape to the phonograph. A fake feather duster rigged with a motion sensor. And a decoy pigeon—stuffed, stitched, and wearing a wire. I called him Gregory Peck. Midnight. A rustle. A coo. A shadow moved like guilt across the parquet floor. Then I saw him. Trench coat. Bread crumbs in his pocket. Eyes like burnt toast. The Pigeon Smuggler. Real name? Clive. Alias? The Beak. He’d been planting birds in flats across the borough—some kind of avian espionage ring. Surveillance pigeons. Message pigeons. One was trained to tap Morse code on ...

The Slow Worm & The Glow Worm In a pub called The Burrow & Bug, A slow worm slid in with a shrug. He ordered some moss, Sat down like a boss, And gave his old tail a tug. A glow worm lit up near the bar, Her shimmer outshone every star. She snubbed the poor bloke, With a flicker and smoke— “Too slow,” she said, “won’t get far.” But the slow worm, determined to disprove, Started to slither and move. To the rhythm of roots, And muddy old boots, He danced to a sexy groove. His belly beat hummed like a drum, His tail tapped a beetle’s bum. The glow worm blinked twice, Then thrice (how nice!), And said, “Well, you’re not quite so dumb.” Now they’re pals in the moonlight’s gleam, A duo, a dazzling dream. One flashes with flair, One slides with care, Together they’re quite the team. They’re out on the town, seeking guys & gals, In hedgerow haunts and leafy dals. With slither and flight, And bioluminescent delight They’re the kings of the wormy canals. All this now needs is a  ...