Monthly Archives: January 2016

Feet

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‘Feet’ is about a man whose feet have a mind of their own. It has terrible, terrible consequences. I wrote this in my second year of university when I was on placement. I was probably suffering from exhaustion.

Feet

Feet feet, in shower they meet
Walk me down a gloomy street
Walk me to a grimy bar
No my feet! You’ve gone too far!

Feet feet, two socks of meat
Dancing to the crazy beat
Dancing on the table top
Come now feet! It’s time to stop!

Feet feet, ten toes complete
Take me where the barmen eat
Take me right into the pie
Get me eaten by some guy

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Into a pie? Sounds like quite an impressive feat!

 

The Bluekelele

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Last year, I started teaching myself to play the ukulele. I bought a cheap, blue ukulele off my friend and named it the Bluekelele. This poem is not a true telling of my time with the Bluekelele. I just liked the word so I wanted to use it!

The Bluekelele

A ukulele player brought
His instrument around
Bright blue, of wood and plastic wrought
It made a tinny sound
My Bluekelele’s singing
Do you hear the words it’s saying?
Do you hear the chords I’m Playing?
Do you feel the joy it’s bringing?

‘Bluekelelist,’ I replied,
‘Get gone, get lost, get packing
Aught in which you should take pride
Your instrument is lacking’
My Bluekelele’s crying
Do you see the tears it’s shedding?
Do you sense the dark it’s dreading?
Do you see the death it’s dying?

‘Enough of that,’ I swiftly snapped,
‘No need for melodrama!’
Upon the instrument I rapped
‘My words  aren’t gonna harm ‘er’
My Bluekelele’s grieving
Do you hear the noise it’s making?
Do you feel the heart that’s breaking?
Do you see that we are leaving?

And just like that, the man was gone
The Bluekelele too
And yet, as he was walking on
I thought I heard it coo
By all you hold above you
Don’t you know what you’re declining?
Don’t you care that I’m resigning?
Don’t you know how much I love you?

I chased, but of my own accord
When offered love, I’d sinned
All that remained, a fading chord
A whisper on the wind
My Bluekelele’s screaming
Do you hear it’s torn apart?
Do you see you held it’s heart?
Do you see the tears still streaming?

Months on from this, I made amends
I bought a Newkelele
I gathered all my dearest friends
And took them to a ceilidh
My Newkelele’s singing
Do you hear the words it’s saying?
Do you hear the chords I’m playing?
Do you feel the joy it’s bringing?

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It’s ok. He’s a glasses half full kinda guy

 

This Slab Of Meat

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While looking through my poetry notebooks recently, I discovered that I seem to have written rather a large number of poems about meat.

This Slab Of Meat

If I could eat
This slab of meat
I’d be a  bungalow on feet

Instead I’ll bite
On something light
If such a thing should meet my sight

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The phrase ‘You are what you eat’ has never been so terrifying.

The Meals On The Bus

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I was on a coach leaving London a few weeks back and was staring out the window. As I nodded, half asleep in my chair, I saw something that I thought, for a moment, was a dream. A double decker bus pulled up full of people in smart clothes. They were all sat around tables enjoying their dinners. They were having a proper, formal dinner on a bus which had apparently been adapted for this exact purpose.

I imagine that this was a very expensive, special event, but what if you could kill two birds with one stone and grab a meal on the bus to work?

The Meals On The Bus

Do you often find you’re late?
Your disposition sours?
Can’t recall when last you ate?
Prioritising showers
You cannot eat for hours
Isn’t that too long to wait?

And does your stomach ache and groan
And grumble awkwardly?
Is your entire being thrown
For lack of toast and tea?
In silent agony
You suffer all alone

Well, now at last you needn’t miss
Your three square meals a day
You’ve never had a meal like this
At least, not in this way!
Available all day!
It’s too good to dismiss!

We put the fast in your breakfast
The bus in belly buster
Don’t let the breakfast bus go past
And leave you in your fluster
The best that we can muster
The variety is vast

The meals on the bus go round and round
The people on the bus say YUM!
The bacon’s crisp, the coffee’s ground
And ready for your tum
It may cost quite a sum
But you’ll soon come around

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They still haven’t solved the problem of actually getting up in the first place…

Onto The Ice

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Over the Christmas holiday, I visited my girlfriend in Yorkshire for a few days. Despite the fact that neither of us had been anywhere near an ice rink in years, we decided that ice skating was a good idea. It was all very jolly and funny for a while, but things soon took a very painful turn.

I rather dramatically fell onto my bum and bruised my tailbone. I’m sure it was very funny to watch but it still hurts to sit down nearly 2 weeks later. I should clarify before you read this poem that, so far as I know, I haven’t actually broken anything but I like to exaggerate things for comedic effect.

Onto The Ice

I’ve got cold feet I thought, as we stepped onto the ice
Some weasel face went weaving right between us with a slice
I slithered on in horror as my legs went weak and numb
But I never would have dreamed I was about to break my bum

The sliding scene was carnage, children tumbled to the floor
And I’m sure my buttocks quivered like they knew what lay in store
I longed for some way out of it, but knew it wouldn’t come
But still I had no inkling that I’d shortly break my bum

A group of fellow amateurs were huddling round the side
They hauled themselves around by hand, not caring for their pride
They stumbled out in front of me, collapsing in a scrum
I wobbled, but it wasn’t this that broke my tender bum

A flurry of obnoxiousness flung ice into my eyes
But the warden went on drifting, unresponsive to my cries
I never had seen such a hive of villainy and scum
But the straw that broke the camel’s back? The ice that broke my bum

The moment came so suddenly, I slipped and tumbled back
I flailed in desperation before landing with a crack
The shockwave shook my body, I sat dribbling and dumb
Then screamed in abject agony, and clasped my broken bum

You dragged me to the barrier and begged me not to shout
But I cried that if I stood up all my insides would fall out
A waddling toddler sniggered seeing me looking so glum
As I slowly rose onto my feet and off my broken bum

Impromptu colonoscopies and mercifully rare
But the pain that wracked my buttcrack was far more than I could
I hobbled off the ice rink, my face bright as a plum
But I couldn’t use the benches, couldn’t strain my broken bum

Some injuries are proudly worn, the stories often spread
If fatal, well at least we say nice things about the dead
A sprained wrist or a fractured leg might earn a hug from Mum
But you never get much sympathy when it’s a broken bum

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Yorkshire. A treat for the eyes, the bane of my bum