September 16, 2013

 

 

You’re full of bullshit,

full of lies.

I don’t believe

your alibi’s.

 

You’re full of patter,

full of french fries.

I know the truth,

I have my spies.

 

 

September 8, 2013

 

 

He spoke with words

I never knew,

like pixipummelisation

and amoranious brew.

 

He spoke with words

I’d never heard,

like nudistratum

and matricrapation squared.

 

He spoke with words

that made no sense,

like septojuranic

and insignatious defence.

 

He spoke with words

that went over my head,

like montimountiness

and stigmatatous dread.

 

He spoke with words

just to keep me impressed.

I always knew he’d made them up,

but of course, he never guessed.

 

 

September 6, 2013

 

 

I have no recollection

of your blurred reflection.

I don’t even think you were there.

 

Had I seen the reflection

of your curved perfection.

Damn it, I’d know you were there.

 

Show me a line of perfection

queued up for selection

So true, I’d have a good stare

 

But there is no selection

just the same old reflection

year in, year out – I depair.

 

 

September 4, 2013

 

 

Not a word I say in vain,

with hesitation

or restrain.

 

Not a peep you’ll get from me,

I am discrete,

I have a brain.

 

Not a sigh you’ll hear from me,

nor a stammer,

or a stutter.

 

Not a whisper will I utter-

not a hint

of melted butter.

 

 

 

August 27, 2013

 

 

It’s the bits

that fit in

the slits

that cause

the trouble.

 

It’s the hits

that stay

in the slits

that cause

the bubble.

 

It’s the gits

without

the wits

who grow

the stubble.

 

It’s the nits

who start

a blitz

that cause

the rubble.

 

 

August 16, 2013

 

 

Aren’t we all just

a little bit ancient,

by thinking of

ourselves as hip?

 

Aren’t we all just

a little bit yesterday,

as soon as we hear

the umbilical cord snip.

 

Aren’t we all just

a product of ageism,

when into the pool of youth

our toes we dip.

 

Aren’t we all just

old sods from the sixties,

still trying to do a

backward flip!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

August 7, 2013

 

 

Juxtapose had an orange nose-

an orange nose had he.

So opposed was Juxtapose

to fondling a maidens knee.

 

Juxtapose had a wandering eye-

a wandering eye had he.

So composed was Juxtapose

when tinkling a piano key.

 

Juxtapose had an opposite view-

an opposite view had he.

So decomposed was Juxtapose

when found at the bottom of the sea.

 

 

August 5, 2013

 

 

Recurring horrors

of self loathing now,

can only hinder progress

anyhow,

 

and shyness be

thy enemy within,

restraining talent,

victory ne’er to win,

 

and words, withheld,

ne’er seeing the light of day,

locked in some dusty drawer

to rot away.

 

A line, a verse, a book

or even worse;

an entire life’s work.

Oh t’is a bitter curse,

 

to see them on a page

without a voice,

the writer being struck dumb

without a choice.

 

Standing, shaking,

sweating in a coat;

in readiness to flee

and slit his throat.

 

 A writer, yes, until

the cows come home,

but an orator not,

of any given poem.

 

The spoken word

for actors on a stage,

and other great performers

who may rage,

 

who say their lines with

feelings left to treasure,

and hold an audience

awestruck, with  pleasure,

 

who raise the roof

like Hamlet in a rant;

each word spat out

so touching and tri-umph-ant.

 

The writer wanting only

that his lines,

send shivers down the

congregational spines.

 

So happy just to hear

work come of age,

as singers flick the music

page by page.

 

No lyricist ever sung

his moving hymn,

whilst sitting hidden,

inside some pseudonym.

 

A script, enough, when

written on a whim,

performed with gusto,

giving joy to him.

 

A writer with no tongue

inside his head,

can ever hope to earn

a crust of bread.

 

But no voice, however

real and out of tune,

is due to be released

to this world soon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

July 29, 2013

 

 

At the foot of the bridge

where the junctions met,

and where the sun each night

always chose to set,

sat folks watching their knickers

getting soaking wet

as they gaily chatted

in the launderette.

 

 

July 22, 2013

 

 

Oh rum, that is the sailors tea

that warms his heart

so he merry be.

 

Oh wench, that is the sailors glee

after long and lonesome

days at sea.

 

 

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