Monthly Archives: February 2015

Talk To The Hand

Talk to the Hand

This is similar to today’s other poem, The Tiny Chocolate Man, in that it tells of the plight of another non-human man in a world of humans. The similarity ends there. This is about a hand-man. Literally a man who is just a hand. With hands. It’s probably best not to think about it too much.

Talk To The Hand

Talk to the hand
‘Cause he’s got his own face
He’s the very first born of a brand new race

He’s working the land
‘Cause he wants a new glove
And to shower his children with tickly love

You can’t understand
‘Cause you’re merely a man
So you can’t do the things that a uni-hand can

Next week on Homes Under The Hammer

Next week on Homes Under The Hammer

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The Tiny Chocolate Man

The Tiny Chocolate Man

This is the tale of a small man made out of chocolate. It is not clear where he comes from or how he came to be. A normal sized, non-chocolate person offers to love and take care of him. At first it seems a tempting offer but he can’t help but feel that the answer to his existence is out there somewhere. He turns on the extended hand of friendship, exploiting their trust, and flees. The poem is told from the perspective of the human who only wants a companion in this cold cold world. It’s desperately sad.

The Tiny Chocolate Man

I took a tiny chocolate man and set him on the ground
The raptors and the antelope were startled at the sound
The tiny chocolate man then screamed and raised his chocolate arm
I gently touched his hand and said ‘I’ll do to you no harm’

He seemed quite moved to hear these words and said as much to me
He told me that the everglades were where he’d like to be
He mugged me for my compass, then he set sail to Japan
And with a tear I watched him go, the tiny chocolate man

Perhaps he went on to have a successful career in television?

Perhaps he went on to have a successful career in television?

The Man With A Head For A Towel

The Man With A Head For A TowelThe Man With A Head For A Towel is a sequel of sorts to a previous poem of mine, The Man With A Towel For A Head. As ridiculous as the concept is, it suddenly occurred to me that if one man’s head had, for some bizarre reason, been swapped with a towel, then doesn’t it make sense that somewhere, someone’s towel was swapped with a head! How completely awful would that be? In keeping with the previous poem, this is another limerick. I’m still quite new at writing limericks but I quite like this one, if only for it’s sheer stupidity.

The Man With A Head For A Towel

The man with a head for a towel
Was drying himself with a scowl
The head in his hand
Said ‘Your belly is bland’
Then disappeared into a cowl

One of these things is not like the other

One of these things is not like the other

Bottoms, Bellies, Eyelids

Bottoms, Bellies, Eyelids

I was pondering the names of body parts a while back, and it occurred to me that many of them are really quite strange and there is rather a lot of inconsistency in the naming. This poem highlights just three of the many issues I have with the way body parts have been named. I’m considering writing to the British Medical Journal, or maybe starting a petition to have them renamed. I’ll let you know how that goes.

Bottoms, Bellies, Eyelids

Why is your bottom your bottom?
When it’s only halfway down?
Surely, your bottom’s the soles of your feet
That carry you round town!

Why is your belly your belly?
When your back has a literal name?
Surely, your belly should be called the front
If we’re going to treat both the same!

Why are your eyelids your eyelids?
When your lips aren’t considered lids too?
Surely, these parts were all named by a numpty
Who fluffed it, but though ‘That’ll do!’

My bottoms, ladies and gentlemen.

My bottoms, ladies and gentlemen.

My Heart Felt You

My Heart Felt You

I like to explore love from different perspectives in my poetry. I’ve written love poetry from the viewpoint of a stalker, a medic, an ophthalmologist, an immortal universe hopper, a bottom, and many others that I hope to post here some day. This particular poem is written as a cannibal who has fallen in love with his dinner. Think Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling. It’s short and sweet and was originally written as part of an experimental collection of poems entitled ‘three lined, rapidly escalating, violent poetry’. I have no plans to post any of the others as they got a bit grim after a while. I consider the experiment a failure but I quite like this as it was the first and, I think, the greatest.

My Heart Felt You

My heart felt you
My nose smelt you
My oven melt you

I'm having a young lady for dinner

I’m having a friend for dinner

The Bridge to Butt Lane

The Bridge to Butt Lane

Today is Valentine’s day. That may fill you with joy, misery, or indifference depending on your relationship status and how satisfied you are with it. Whatever the case, it will be almost impossible to avoid the cheesy shop displays everywhere full of cards with nauseating messages, cheap chocolate, and so very many roses. In honour of the day, I have decided to post two romantic poems.

This first poem/song was inspired by a small town in Yorkshire called Howarth where the Brontë Parsonage is located. While visiting the Brontë Parsonage over the Christmas holiday, I was very amused to find that, as you walk over the small bridge that leads you out of Howarth station, you arrive at Butt Lane. At the top of Butt lane, where it meets the high street, is Purvs corner.

This poem tells the tale of a couple who were brought together, torn apart, and then ultimately reunited by Butt Lane.

The Bridge to Butt Lane

Did we go walking hand in hand
Across this bridge, so small but grand?
And is it known in all the land?
The beautiful bridge to Butt Lane

You said your parents went there too
Some years ago, they went with you
Your sister and your brothers too
Crossed over the bridge to Butt Lane

Oh would you know me if we met there in Butt Lane?
If we went sliding in the Autumn in the rain?
If we departed and left only skids again?
Oh the skids that we would leave there in Butt Lane!

How many others through the years
Have crossed that bridge with joy or tears?
And did they then, with hopes and fears
Cross over the bridge to Butt Lane?

And did a house on either cheek
Draw up the window, try to speak
Some words of comfort to the weak
Who crossed the bridge to Butt Lane?

And I still think of how we laughed there in Butt Lane
The steam engulfed us as it rose up from the train
And then I wiped away my tears in the rain
Oh how I wiped there in Butt Lane!

But once Butt Lane was far from sweet
The locals loathed the sound of feet
With angry words and scowls they’d meet
Those crossing the bridge to Butt Lane

And even we, it’s sad but true
Were not made welcome, not us two
The townsfolk came and pushed us through
The narrow bridge from Butt Lane

Do you remember when they pushed us from Butt Lane?
When we surrendered to the heartache and the pain?
And when we thought we’d never see that lane again?
Oh we were pushed out of Butt Lane!

I marked the passing of each day
And waited ’til I heard them say
All bitterness had blown away
Had blown out of Butt Lane

Crowds gathered tooting horns with glee
Such beauty in Butt Lane to see!
Among them tooted you and me
We tooted in Butt Lane

And if, by chance or fate, we came to own Butt Lane
Then we would never let it leave our sight again
How we’d go up it so! No matter what the strain!
Oh we’d go up our own Butt Lane!

The Butt Lane Crack

The Butt Lane Crack

His Last Voyage

His Last Voyage

This poem is another curiosity dredged up from the vault of things I really shouldn’t have bothered to write down. It tells of the effect love can have on people. Love drives people to do strange things, dangerous things, things they know are way beyond them. In this short story, a man is devastated to see his wife sad and attempts to cheer her up with baked goods. It does not end well.

His Last Voyage

His wife was quite distraught
What could he do to mend her?
He tried to bake a cake
But he fell into the blender

He obviously didn't carry out a proper whisk assessment.

He obviously didn’t carry out a proper whisk assessment.