Monthly Archives: August 2014




I’m not anti-alcohol by any means, but gone are the days when I could polish off a medium sized bottle of vodka, add a couple of beers, throw in a McDonald’s, and wake up the next morning and face the consequences. This poem is fairly self-explanatory and the word ‘whisky’ could be replaced by pretty much any alcohol with a two syllable name. It just so happens that, while it is slightly autobiographical of a bygone era, I wrote this poem while watching a friend indulge in just a little bit too much whisky. 

Note: The word ‘optional’ in this poem should be pronounce ‘opshnal’ to bring it down to two syllables.


Much whisky makes a man a mess
In optional state of part undress
As in his bloated belly press
The plunders of the day

The morning brings an end to mirth
A misery unknown since birth
As last night’s booze flows forth, a firth
From quivering lips of grey

I am painfully hungover… the back of this chair


The Love of an Ophthalmologist

The Love of an Ophthalmologist


A few years ago, I went for an eye test and was told I was long sighted. Two years of wearing glasses later, I went for another eye test with the same people (rhymes with Necsavers) and was told that, not only am I actually slightly short sighted, the glasses I had been faithfully and obediently wearing for two years had damaged my eyes. 

At first I was angry but then I remembered that everybody is people, and people make mistakes. Even opticians. They make mistakes, they have families, they laugh, cry, and fall in love just like the rest of us. The woman who examined my eyes was probably not an ophthalmologist but I like the word and it’s more or less related. 

The Love of an Ophthalmologist

The love of an ophthalmologist
May not SEEm like a great love to thee
But LOOK behind the white coat for a while
In my EYES is where you’ll find me

I’ve travelled from Israel to Manchester
I’ve looked in the eyes of them all
The weary, the homeless, the taliban tribes
No eye is too big or too small

But two eyes have got me entranced, oh yes!
To be honest, my darling, I think
There would be no two eyes that were lovely as yours
If they weren’t quite so viral and pink

'Hello, I need some glasses.' 'You certainly do, this is a bakery!' 'No it isn't.' 'You're right. I'm sorry. I have crippling dogmentia.'

‘Hello, I need some glasses.’
‘You certainly do, this is a bakery!’
‘No it isn’t.’
‘You’re right. I’m sorry. I have crippling dogmentia.’

A Pulchritudinous Verse

A Pulchritudinous Verse


On the internet, nobody knows you’re an idiot. You can paint whatever picture of yourself you want, in any way you can. Sometimes this works, and sometimes it doesn’t. You can see it all the time on Facebook. Some people (particularly teenagers it would seem) try to sound intellectual and well informed by using lots of long words that end up not really meaning what they think they mean because they just stole them out of a thesaurus. This poem is dedicated, with gratitude for the many, many laughs, to those people.

A Pulchritudinous Verse

I’m feeling elated and strangely loquacious
My means of conversing becomes efficacious
I often repose with an erudite chorus
All since I swallowed that pocket thesaurus

I read intellectual books because I'm deep and brooding. Do you find me attractive yet?

I read intellectual books because I’m deep and brooding. Do you find me attractive yet?



A Summer’s Night in Budapest

A Summer's Night in Budapest


Two years ago, I had the opportunity to go interrailing with friends. I joined them in Prague and from there we went on to several different European cities. The routine was fairly simple. By day we enjoyed the local culture, by night we enjoyed the drinking culture. Every two or three days we would hop on a train and go somewhere else. These days I would probably spend a lot less time and money on drinking and a lot more on exploring the beautiful towns and cities. Anyhow, this poem is a slightly fictionalised account of one particular night in Budapest.

There were a great many homeless people in Budapest and some of them seemed to have quite severe mental illnesses. That being said, most were also very drunk. On the night in question, I had had a wee bit too much to drink and stumbled out of the club my friends were in. I decided to go for a short walk and disappeared for three hours. I was incredibly drunk, and completely alone in a foreign city far from home. It was only when I checked my phone afterwards that I realised people in various parts of the world had been calling and texting me, the general consensus being that I was dead.

While I had no hat or collar, passed no crack dens, and was too drunk to feel the cold, everything after the first two verses is a more or less truthful account of what happened to me on that walk. 

A Summer’s Night in Budapest

A Summer’s night in Budapest
I walked the streets alone
A bitter wind blew through me
And it chilled me to the bone

I turned my collar up
I turned my hat down low
I walked on past the crack dens
Where the lonely people go

Muttering a curse
And mumbling a prayer
I strode about a corner
But a horror met me there

As I rushed between the columns 
That held up a balcony
I spied a lonesome wanderer
Who had not yet seen me

I spun around and hid myself
And watched him walking on
‘I’ll stay here for a while,’ I thought
‘Until this man is gone.’

His ragged jeans were dirty
His face bore a scraggly beard
His shirt hung on him loosely
And what happened next was weird

He moved towards a door
I was bemused and unaware
Of what was now to meet my eyes
He dropped his underwear

I looked round for salvation
I saw to my surprise
Ten feet back, a lady
With terror in her eyes

We shared a single moment
We shared a silent tear
We shared a sense of helplessness
We shared a crippling fear

The homeless man bent over
And spewed from his behind
A spray so rank, so dark, so foul
I prayed to be struck blind

The torrent was unending
The flow could not be stopped
He grabbed his chest and groaned in pain
Then to his knees he flopped

I stood there paralytic
Couldn’t bring myself to run
I realised that I was trapped
Til this dark deed was done

I can’t say how many minutes
How many hours passed in this way
By the time the man had dressed and moved on
I could just see the first light of day

I emerged from my seclusion
To face the sordid mess
The stench hit me, I wretched, I gagged
I wept in my distress

The lady stepped towards me
I looked at her and smiled
But saw in her a darkness
Her eyes looked black and wild

I thought we’d shared a moment
Nothing too complex
But she placed her hand upon my arm
And boldly asked me: ‘Sex?’

My head by now was spinning
My stomach tied in knots
The terror and confusion
I have never since forgot

I brushed her cold hand off me
Her grip was only slight
I turned to the horizon
And I fled into the night

I'm a big fan of travelling

I’m a big fan of travelling




There’s no worse sound in the early hours of the morning than the tell-tale whine of one of those leggy flying bug weirdos. I don’t really know what they are. Are they mosquitos? Who knows. All I know is that they’re nasty and creepy and make an awful noise and need to die. All of them. This poem was written a couple of weeks ago at about four in the morning which probably goes some way to explain the quality.


Horsefly, mosquito, whatever you be
Have you no mercy for young men like me
Who seek only sleep at this hour of night?
I’m sure you’d be happier out in the light

So yes, I’m impressed at the distance you’ve flown
But this bed is my bed and my blood is my own
If I hear your high whining come drifting by me
I’ll leap from my bed and I’ll hunt ceaselessly

I’ll lure you with light and I’ll stand very still
And when you emerge, I’ll move in for the kill
I’ll strike with a book or a shoe off the floor
And leave naught but a smudge on the back of the door

Another member of the LLL (Long Leg aLliance)

Another member of the LLL (Long Leg aLliance)

A Science Fiction Extravaganza

A Science Fiction Extravaganza

I’m a big science fiction fan. The return of Doctor Who with Peter Capaldi as the Doctor this Saturday is one of the most exciting upcoming events in my calendar! But this poem was inspired, not by a television show, but by a series of science fiction books known as the The Culture Series. The Scottish author Iain Banks wrote science fiction under the curious pseudonym of Iain M Banks. He passed away last year but is remembered as one of the finest British authors in like… ages or whatever. This is my tribute to Iain M Banks, even though it bares very little resemblance to his writing.

A Science Fiction Extravaganza

A spaceship drifted, deep in space
Towards the planet Xalistase
Where Broge would meet his destiny
In battle with the Obructsee

The Obructsee was slimed and slick
It’s jaliprons and protes were thick
But with a cry of ‘Tesajed!’
Broge shot the beast til it lay dead

Broge never claimed to be a Dars
A merchant of the Hinsuz class
But on the seventh day of Greep
They crowned him Ak of Yannaleep

Every child's favourite  ethnic cleansers

Every child’s favourite ethnic cleansers

Lana Del Rey

Lana Del Rey


I have recently come to love Lana Del Rey‘s music. It’s just so very different to anything else out there! However much I enjoy it though, it can’t be denied that it’s fairly miserable given that her usual topics involve domestic violence, greed and death. I’m not convinced though. I think ‘Lana Del Rey’ is a semi-fictional character, just like Ziggy Stardust was. This is my affectionate tribute to Lana Del Rey

Lana Del Rey

I’m Lana Del Rey
My mouth is real big
My honey punched my kidneys
And he’s smoking a cig

Don’t forget my name
I’m Lana Del Rey
I like to get high
And pout all day

I’ve got a lot of money
I’d like a lot more
I’m Lana Del Rey
And my life is a bore

My honey broke my spine
But babe it’s ok
‘Cause I love you to death and
I’m Lana Del Rey

I think my picture got a good likeness actually

I think my picture got a good likeness actually

The Snail

The Snail

Ours is a society obsessed with image. We are fed images of beautiful people and told that we must look like them to be successful. But it doesn’t matter what you look like if you’re genuine. A beautiful personality is far better than a beautiful body. But before I get too cheesy, here’s a poem about a very popular snail who, though slimy and disgusting, forges a very successful political career for himself.

The Snail

Who could fail to love it?
Who could not be charmed?
No man alive or dead and gone had ever met a snail thus armed
Each eye a glistening stalk
Oh, and listen to it talk

No match for it’s seduction
Drawn in by tender words
Now many men and women love it so completely it’s absurd
And nobody refuses
It’s hermaphroditic oozes

A snail with real charisma 
Who had an awesome brain
It slimed it’s way to Downing Street and made Great Britain great again
Such power in it’s shell
But the war to come was hell

The snail flew into battle
Armed only with it’s teeth
It’s softly spoken image gave no token of the wrath beneath
Til it was trodden on
And ‘sploosh’, the snail was gone



The Rise and Fall of the Atom Bomb

The Rise and Fall of the Atom Bomb


I thought long and hard about how to introduce this poem, but the truth is I really don’t know what I was thinking when I wrote it or what it’s about. I certainly don’t remember where the name came from. It’s a fairly old one so the meaning is, unfortunately, lost in time.

The Rise and Fall of the Atom Bomb

Get in the loft man
Dustin Hoffman
Better tread lightly
Keira Knightley

We'll be safe in here

We’ll be safe in here


I Am A Tree

I Am a Tree


If trees were actually animals, they’d be the most relaxed animals ever. They live for ridiculously long times and are quite content to stand around enjoying nature. I wonder what they would say if they could speak. What does a tree worry about? What does a tree think about itself?

As Jaden Smith (Will Smith’s son) once tweeted ‘Trees Are Never Sad Look At Them Every Once In Awhile They’re Quite Beautiful’. He did also tweet ‘Most Trees Are Blue’ though so I’m not sure how much we can trust him.

I Am a Tree

I am a tree
I have bark
And I can’t make my food in the dark

I am a tree
I have roots
When I’m fully grown I get some fruits

I am a tree
I have leaves
Carved into my skin is ‘Sue 4 Jeeves’

I am a tree
I have moss
The beetles in my trunk make me awfully cross

I only write poetry at the moment, but I'm thinking of branching out

I only write poetry at the moment, but I’m thinking of branching out