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Chunder Guts

25 Oct

Flicker fast, little light,

            Through the gaps in the trees,

Headache pangs, twitching eyes,

            Rough motions bring unease.

Vertical becomes flat

            In the blur, whizzing through,

Focus gone, dizzy head,

            Feeling woozy, spewing soon.

Not long now, Chunder Guts,

            Three more stops, only three.

Carriage sways, to and fro,

            Fro and to, like the sea.

Glimpsing sights, blotchy shapes,

            Don’t black out, worse inside,

Organs churn in their cage,

            Stuffy guts, get outside.

Loo’s too far, paper bag,

            Saliva forms, panting quick,

Bile rises, head constricts,

            Vomit time, travel sick.

The Battle of Beddington

2 Jul

The bombardment began, at the Battle of Beddington,

One wet weekend when weariness waned,

As cheeky couch quarrels concluded in conflict

On treacherous textile terrain.

 

The Eiderdown Infantry intercepted intelligence

Of rivals plotting landmines at lunch,

But the Bolster Battalion’s booby trapped bunker

Plotted a pulverising pillow punch.

 

Frenzied fire over the futon frontline

Triggers a teddy trench trauma,

Ammunition ambush, an armchair assault,

And a Dutch wife dugout drama.

 

Disperse and duck down behind dining room debris,

The beanbag barricade’s blown!

The illustrious incident, at the Battle of Beddington,

Where wakefulness was overthrown.

Shakespeare’s Forehead

29 Jun

 

Thou hast always been there,

And we’ve all seen the glare

Of Bill’s shiny forehead

And his sad lack of hair.

 

It is proof that genius

Always trumps beauty,

But let’s thank the lord

He found words were his duty.

 

This egg of a man

Is worshipped still

As the greatest playwright

That e’er used a quill.

 

But every time

I praise his name,

I can’t help but think

That his face is a shame.

 

Would I sacrifice looks

For a chance at his brain?

I’m not sure, but perhaps,

I’m a little too vain.

 

 

Now as for old Albert,

He’s got no excuse,

For his unkempt hair

That just needed a spruce.

 

Give me scissors, a comb,

Or maybe some shears,

And I’ll make this physicist

A style pioneer!

 

Science was his forte,

Yet he hadn’t the concept

Of products and lotions,

For alas, he’s inept.

 

A Nobel Prize

At the cost of his hair,

I mean, what real use

Is E=mc2?

 

Would I sacrifice looks

For a chance at his brain?

I’m not sure, but perhaps,

I’m a little too vain.

 

 

Wolfgang was a child

When his brain was unleashed,

He wrote ditties, symphonies

And a perfect pastiche.

 

His portraits were false,

Photoshopped with a brush,

But even with that,

He can’t make me blush.

 

That growth off his mug

Is one cracking honker,

If given his options

Just make me a plonker!

 

Every weakness has strength,

And he sure could compose,

But this talent was balanced

With his sizeable nose.

 

Would I sacrifice looks

For a chance at his brain?

I’m not sure, but perhaps,

I’m a little too vain.

Singer 1904

24 Jun

I bought myself a vintage Singer sewing machine, of the year 1904. The mechanical sounds and rhythmic workings of the machine sounded poetic to me with all its nostalgia and beauty to compliment this. So I wrote a poem about it. What else could a writer do?

Singer 1904

Wind wool with

Tugging cog-work,

Seize silk in

Quick footed jerks.

Wheel churns,

Cranked to top height,

White thread

Tacks tatters tight.

Hinges worn

To creak and clank,

Whirring whinge

Of a rickety crank.

Tension springs,

Mechanical tackle,

Wrench the yarn

Into its shackle.

Whizzing stitches

Puncture cut cotton,

Cashmere, organza,

Don’t top our contraption.

Hundred years wear,

But bobbin won’t bawl,

Buttercup dress,

With lace and all.

Failing Poet

18 Jun

Globular blobs of tacky black ink stink up the pure page with words that inflect their infection of diction so it loses the perfection of simple silence as the implement of creation gives physicality to the notions that float in fiction amid the synaptic snaps of the thoughts of the author whose hands twitchy motions scratch scars of excretion on the paper nappy that catches the crap with the hope of extraction of some golden nugget of enlightened quotation, caesuras don’t feature as she waffles in metre and trips where her tongue would be eloquent teacher to her scribbling fingers that smear and distort every effort to reason with clunky retorts that fall short of Wordsworth’s lonely walk and Owen’s heart wrenching trench report. Her timing, her rhyming, there’s no use denying she’d be gifted at miming rather than trying to articulate and shape the shadowy crates that infiltrate her slowly numbing cranium to fumble over jumbled mumbles of clumsy catastrophic couplets that cut off her flow like a wine bottle’s cork but here’s a thought, that if she drank a dram the barrier would collapse perhaps that is the gap between the scraps of fragmented yaps coming out of her trap to cement her sketchy schemes together but whether this could ever be, it remains for me and you to see.

Ballad of a Tree

11 Jun

Two centuries of rings within,

A tribute to nirvana.

Nature’s statue time forgot,

Quercus Virginiana.

 

A seedling dangles, vulnerable,

Clinging to mother’s limb,

The gusty air is strong up there,

An ominous prelim.

 

Nevertheless, before the wind

Had chance to snatch the nut,

A furry fiend kidnapped it first,

Plucked straight from cradling cup.

 

Its beady head with marble eyes,

Adept with glassy vision,

Scanned the ground for the perfect spot

To make a kernel prison.

 

A pleasing plot the rodent found,

Where hilltop meets the sky,

To claw a ditch into the land

And lay the seed inside.

 

The acorn snoozed in soily bed

Atop the earthy crest,

Till rain began to poke the seed,

Which stirred its peaceful rest.

 

Its innards swelled fervently,

Exerting its waxy armour.

A crack splintered through the shell,

Beginning its arduous labour.

 

It anchored down to find the juice

That quenched its thirst for life,

And then began its journey up,

Towards the glint of light.

 

Two hundred years soon saw the sprout

Accede to estranged DNA,

Mosaic bark of shredded fragments,

Softened by silky algae.

 

Some thousand pliant leaves formed

A glorious jade afro,

But chameleonic in the fall,

It redressed in gamboge.

 

In cyclic life, its seeds were reaped,

As jays and squirrels blitzed

Every offspring to create

An acorn necropolis.

 

But a fatal canker leeched the oak,

And swelled around the trunk.

Its poison bled through every ring,

And through its roots it sunk.

 

A voiceless life, hushed in death,

In a breeze it waves goodbye,

Just a silhouette of inky veins

Leaking black across the sky.

An Apology

27 Apr

I am so very sorry for not blogging for a very long while… University work must take president around this time and I am in yet another play that opens on Sunday. But here is a poem I read recently that I think is apt for this post, and I think it would be sacrilegious not to share it with you! It’s a fabulous poem, enjoy!

Deep Sorriness Atonement Song

BY GLYN MAXWELL

for missed appointment, BBC North, Manchester

The man who sold Manhattan for a halfway decent bangle,
He had talks with Adolf Hitler and could see it from his angle,
And he could have signed the Quarrymen but didn’t think they’d make it,
So he bought a cake on Pudding Lane and thought ‘Oh well I’ll bake it’
       But his chances they were slim,
       And his brothers they were Grimm,
       And he’s sorry, very sorry,
       But I’m sorrier than him.
And the drunken plastic surgeon who said ‘I know, let’s enlarge ’em!’
And the bloke who told the Light Brigade ‘Oh what the hell, let’s charge ’em,’
The magician with an early evening gig on the Titanic,
       And the mayor who told the people of Atlantis not to panic,
       And the Dong about his nose
       And the Pobble re his toes,
       They’re all sorry, really sorry,
       But I’m sorrier than those.
And don’t forget the Bible, with the Sodomites and Judas,
And Onan who discovered something nothing was as rude as,
And anyone who reckoned it was City’s year for Wembley,
And the kid who called Napoleon a shortarse in assembly,
       And the man who always smiles
       ’Cause he knows I have his files,
       They’re all sorry, truly sorry,
       But I’m sorrier by miles.
And Robert Falcon Scott who lost the race to a Norwegian,
And anyone who’s ever spilt the pint of a Glaswegian,
Or told a Finn a joke or spent an hour with a Swiss-German,
Or got a mermaid in the sack and found it was a merman,
       Or him who smelt a rat,
       And got curious as a cat,
       They’re all sorry, deeply sorry,
       But I’m sorrier than that.
All the people who were rubbish when we needed them to do it,
Whose wires crossed, whose spirit failed, who ballsed it up or blew it,
All notchers of nul points and all who have a problem Houston,
At least they weren’t in Kensington when they should have been at Euston.
       For I didn’t build the Wall
       And I didn’t cause the Fall
       But I’m sorry, Lord I’m sorry,
       I’m the sorriest of all.