Wednesday 20 September 2017

a one hundred and thirty fifth poem ... 'daily mail pride of britain awards'

In the midst of afternoon tea
The Queen
Had heard and then seen
A commotion outside
Buckingham palace, furious
She threw down her golden
Tea chalice and with a look of
Dark, imperial malice screamed at
Her Aide-de-camp to fetch the
Royal horse. Of course, he
Obliged and hurried away, while
The Queen returned to the palace
Window to watch her prey.
Then, when her aide returned
Her majesty went outside, and greatly peeved
Mounted her tall and trusty
Steed, Von Ribbentrop,
Stopped to adjust the saddle before she
Dug her jack boots into
The animal’s guts and,
Together, they charged at the
White canvas huts
Filled with revellers, all jodhpured
With booze, light headed, confused -
She was among them in a flash, with
Slash after slash of her antique cavalry swords
The headline next day read:
Carnage at the Daily Mail Pride of Britain Awards.
Piers Morgan was dead, Elizabeth 2
Had cut off his head, Beckham’s
Panama suit was turned blood red,
The Queen stabbed through the neck
First Ant and then Dec, before
Scalping that bloke who played Capt. Kirk in Star Trek.
When the news crews arrived
Mary Berry was being revived ...
But it was too late for Phil Collins
Who'd been flayed alive.

Wednesday 13 September 2017

a one hundred and thirty first poem ... 'liverpool football club'

Liverpool football club
Blub blub blub!
We haven’t won in years
And it’s all about the tears.
Man U have all the money,
Chelsea their pot of honey
We’re just bloody broke
Even worse than fucking Stoke.
Liverpool football club
Blub blub blub!
Last time we won a throw in
We still had Michael Owen.
These days Spurs can even beat us
And ever since I was a foetus
I can’t recall an era
Where the price of success seemed dearer.
Liverpool football club
Blub blub blub!
We can’t defend for toffee
And for all the Everton mints and Irish coffee
Why did we put a German
In charge? I’ll spare the sermon,
Save to say we let in three v Watford
… We let in three v Watford.
Liverpool football club
Blub blub blub!
So, we haven’t won in years
And it’s all about the tears,
The glory days of Shankly
Souness, Paisley, frankly
Have turned to dust, now we stare
Into the abyss, blankly.

Thursday 31 August 2017

a one hundred and thirtieth poem ... 'diana memorial day'

Diana memorial day:
Rivers of tiny tears
Flowing away
To the still grey sea
And mean sky above
August thirty one ‘nine-seven
The moment L O V E
Died 
in man, woman
Child and creature
The moment the mawkish
Mail on Sunday 
Soupy-eye feature
Was born.