Tuesday 30 June 2015

a sixty second new poem ... 'leberwurst'

Merkel frowned darkly
When the cheese trolley
Was wheeled beside where
She sat and kept her shrivelled
Hands severely in her liver-
spotted lap. FFS,
THERE WAS NO MORE
LEBERWURST!!

a sixty first new poem ... 'vegetarian BBQ'

Stalin ate like
An absolute savage,
Stuffing spuds and BBQ'd
Broccoli down his
Wobbly gullet, burping
Like a horse in between
Mouthfuls – or so
Adolf thought as he
Chumbled wetly on
A salad leaf.

a sixtieth new poem... 'shame'

After publicly disowning Ben
As well as the
Flower Pot Men,
Bill sank deep into a
Compost of shame –
The root cause of course
Was vainglory and
Fame, fatal fame.

Friday 19 June 2015

a fifty ninth new poem ... 'tiger'

Tiger’s tee shot
Ended up somewhere off
Interstate 70, so
He removed his shoes
And walked barefoot into
The desert.
Ken Brown, meanwhile,
Had already hired a
Reconnaissance plane.

a fifty eighth new poem ... 'boycott'

Geoffrey walked to
The wicket with a
Yorkshire pudding on
His head, batting pads
Made from butcher’s
Sausages and a stick of
Rhubarb under his arm.

a fifty seventh new poem ... 'PMQs'

Less loony-left politics, more photo opps,
Astride a Trident Missile, in a field of GM crops?
Sleeves rolled up, pint of ale on one's head?
Brown nosing with George, George and Jeb?
Less loony-left politics, more Twitter pics,
Coddle a Sun model, safe hands over tits?
Play balalaika outside the Kremlin, Russia?
Have a bloody ball while the rest of y'all suffer?
So, less loony-left politics and more FB snaps
Less about NHS health care plans, how on earth you fill the gaps;
Less trash talking Murdoch, Dacre and the gutter press, and please
Forget the riff-raff, since one couldn’t care less. 

a fifty sixth new poem ... 'gazza'

Gazza grinned from
Ear to ear, eyes wide,
Winking at the cashier
As he passed
Through check out
With a trolley load of beer.

Tuesday 16 June 2015

a fifty fifth new poem ... 'cuckoo'

Tick-tock, tick-tock - 
The clock was …
Still ticking, even
Though the Cuckoo
Had died  as a consequence of
Resistant Hypertension days ago.

a fifty fourth new poem ... 'the boss'

Springsteen slid his
Greasy fingers up, down the
Neck of his steel guitar; hard
Lips saturated in
Motor oil, face
All man sweat and corn
Stubble, his skin the
Colour of solvent red diesel, when
He spoke his voice was
Like rubble, gravel in the gears of
A big truck. Even at sixty
Five Charlize thought he’d
Be a good fuck. 

a fifty third new poem ... 'big potato'

Someone called Bert
‘Big potato’, which hurt, was
Strange to Bert since
He’d always been told he
Looked more like a turnip –
Plump, purple, bulbous; he
Also had Swedish roots. 

a fifty second new poem ... 'light-weight'

Archie was a light-weight:
Three sniffs from a can of
John Smiths and he’d
Be pissed, rat-arsed,
Passed out in his own
Wee or gesticulating
Dementedly to nobody
In particular, extra-
Curricular drinking sure
Muddled his thinking, linking
Words, actions,
Reading advertising captions:
‘Don’t drink before you drive’,
‘Feel alive, Five Alive’ all
Contrived to make no sense,
Archie wasn’t dense, just
Another cheap date, fundamentally
Speaking a light-weight.

Thursday 11 June 2015

a fifty first new poem ... 'in the soup'

Frank smuggled an apology from his beard.
He had a ketchup stain on his chest the
Colour of tomato soup, some other
Gloop.
Eileen sighed
And sombrely ate a chip – Frank had
plied them with too much vinegar,
As usual.
She thought about pretending
To wretch,
But in fairness it would
Have been churlish, childish, so
Eileen fetched
A napkin instead,
Wiped underneath her eyes, red,
Turned down the corners of
Her mouth and screamed
Like a new born baby.
Maybe Frank would understand
For once, instead of
Being such a c**t.