Poem number 3
In The Garden
The empty tree, stripped bare by thieves
The lawn now raked, the mound of leaves
And sitting in that leafy pile
My daughter with delighted smile
The sea of colour round her lap
Her little gloves, her little cap
Persuade me Autumn’s not so bad,
She scatters leaves, and runs to dad.
Poem number 21
I met a girl with ash blonde hair
And breasts that were quite big
Her bra was full of padding
And the hair was just a wig.
Her name was really Colin
He wore woman’s clothes for kicks
His voice was deep and booming
And his breath smelt quite like sick.
I smiled and made excuses
Then I left him on his chair
And found a girl with tiny breasts
And lovely coal black hair.
Poem number 87
Ode To My Wife
I’d slaughter every badger in this green and pleasant land
For an hour in a meadow. You and me, holding hands.
I’d murder every field mouse, kill off every baby fox
Just to see you in a meadow in your flowery summer frock.
I’d massacre the pigeons and the squirrels and the deer
Just to picnic in a meadow, and to simply have you near.
Because nature is a wonder and a beauty, yes it’s true
But nature’s simply nothing next to meadows full of you.
Poem number 88
He glided across the High Wire. Tiny confident step after tiny confident step
Tunic gleaming in the spots, tight trousers, gloves of white
Sculpted body and the face of Johnny Depp
The audience loved him. Eyes sparkling they sat in silent delight
Until someone sneezed. A small wobble. His concentration wrecked.
A bigger wobbling step. Another. Desperate arms flung to the side
And a plunge. Down. Down. To an end he could hardly expect
As the net broke. His head hit the floor. He died
In a flash, a baby bird fallen forever from its tree
And shattered. Never to return to the skies above.
The audience inhaled. Screamed in terror, or was it glee
At the end of one for whom they’d declared their love?
For what is the High Wire but an invitation to the feast?
The promise of tragedy. An opportunity. The slightest chance
To witness disaster, or misfortune at least
For the demigod. Up there on a wire and paid to dance.
So the women screamed. Peeking through loosely woven fingers
At the blood. The bone. The end
Of it all. And for them the memory lingers
Through taxi rides home and stiff gins before they embark on a night they will spend
In bed. With a lover. Re-enacting the plunge in their mind
As they succumb to ecstasy. Sex is death is sex once more
And in all the world what else could they find
But the High Wire, to sate them. And endure.
Poem number 95
A Summer Parting
I was born in sight of Christmas
On November’s dying breath
With the lunchtime rain forgotten.
Time has passed.
When I die it will be summer
With the sky a cobalt blue
And the butterflies alighting
On the grass.
My eyes will fade through blues and greens
To settle on your gentle gaze
And then close in the warmth of our sun
Your tears like glass.
Poem number 96
Scatter Me On Balmore
When you’ve burnt my mortal body
And I’m just a pile of ash
I won’t want nothing fancy
And I won’t need nothing flash
Just scatter me on Balmore
On a lovely sunny day –
The view will be my heaven
And in heaven I will stay.
Poem number 100
Lovenote From The Pretty Girl Who Sits Behind You In Maths
You’ve a face like a mummified arse
You’re the ugliest chump in the class
Your hair is like leather
Left out in bad weather
Your intellect’s barely a pass
Yet still you see fit to intrigue me
Your humour is second to none
Your jokes make me giggle
Although your hair wriggles
With headlice and nits by the ton.
Your nature is charming and gentle
I’m sure that you’re loving and kind
But your nose drips like tallow
And sadly I’m shallow
And have a fantastic behind
So I have to pretend to despise you
I have to submerge how I feel
But each jibe that I make
Simply makes me more fake
Whilst my ardour grows ever more real.
Poem number 111
Beyond The Boobs
Buns and baps and wobbly bits
The ladies have nice parts
But a lady who eats lots of beans
Is always prone to farts
And all the pert and lovely nips
And bottoms in the world
Can’t hide the smell of used white wine
And burgers when she hurls
So look beyond the boobies
When it’s time for you to choose –
Pick a lass who hates bakes beans
And never touches booze.
Poem number 120
Oh for the wings of a porcelain gull
Polished daily by wrinkled old hands
Never could porcelain ever be dull
To the spinsters stuck fast through the land,
The knickknacks and ornaments filling their shelves
Are a substitute, that much is true
But the ladies would never admit to themselves
That they’re lonely – there’s too much to do.
There’s dusting and wiping and polishing too
Every ornament shown to its best,
When accidents happen they’re mended with glue
Then put back in their place with the rest.
Oh for the wings of a porcelain dove
Such a gentle and limitless charm
The unexplored mystery of falling in love
Unlamented. A porcelain balm.
Poem number 127
Two Men In A Shopping Centre
Would you like to see my nipple?
Yes I would, good sir
But wait ’til no one’s looking
Or you might create a stir.
You don’t want to be arrested
I don’t want to cause a scene
I’m respected and important
And last year I met the Queen,
So hang on a mo, I’ll scout the land…
Yep! The coast is clear!
Reveal to me your nipple –
But be quick with it, my dear!