Monthly Archives: June 2016

The Kraken Wakes

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I can’t quite remember where the idea for this one came from. Not my most inspired perhaps, but I found the concept amusing so there we go.

The Kraken Wakes

Three young men on an ocean rover
Opening a chest and taking something from inside
Lift the set of speakers out and lob them overboard
They undertook a mission no one else has ever tried

The speakers blare a sound that I have no words to describe
The men are on their feet, with a look of trepidation
A ripple in the water indicates something approaching
A harbinger of evil, a lord of devastation

The men are armed with nets and knives and even a machete
The water now is bubbling, there is something there below
The boat begins to rock and something pushes from beneath
They’re here to fight the Kraken but they’re caught up in its flow

The beast flies from the water and leaps up on to the boat
The men look disappointed with their wriggly little foe
Why is it so tiny? All the legends say it’s huge!
Well, people were a fair bit smaller in those days you know

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When will our gigantification, and subsequent dwarfing of all other living beings, end?

Floyd

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I felt it was about time I posted another poem about Floyd the Dog! Floyd, my dog, is now five years old! He becomes a bit calmer, and a bit more sensible, every day. The thing is, that’s not saying much for him. Floyd remains a complete lunatic of a dog, to my utter joy.

One of the lessons Floyd has learnt the hard way is that not every animal is his friend. He has been chased off by cats, dogs, and birds galore. However, he never lets this affect his love of life and his determination to befriend or eat everything he comes across on the common has only grown.

Floyd

Floyd’s tongue hung down like wallpaper
And quivered in the heat
He rattled like a tambourine
With one too many feet
A flock of pigeons saw him
And departed as a fleet
Floyd turned aside and tumble on
He crossed a bridge and thereupon
He hurried to harass a swan
That waddled through the peat

Floyd fluttered round the swan awhile
Inviting it to dance
It prowled around the water’s edge
And looked at him askance
Floyd watched the swan patrolling and
Recoiling from his prance
It raised its wings, he ducked his head
Floyd waved his bum, the swan saw red
Floyd’s owner just looked on in dread
He didn’t stand a chance

The ducks departed swiftly
As the swan rose to full height
And the fishermen were fumbling
And trembling with fright
And even Floyd the dog could see
That something wasn’t right
The swan exclaimed and wildly flapped
Floyd turned and found that he was trapped
Over his eyes, his paws were clapped
All bark is Floyd, no bite

Floyd waited for destruction but
The beating never came
It was only now he stood again
Responding to his name
His owner cried You eejit!
If you die I’ll get the blame!
The swan forgotten, Floyd skipped off
To dig up something foul to scoff
Perhaps a stagnant pond to quaff
Or some small plant to maim

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Widely and inexplicably loved, but entirely useless. He is the Bob Dylan of dogs.

Pins and Needles

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This is another haiku used to fill a space in my notebook.

Back when I was in year 7, we always had assembly in the morning and we had to sit on the floor for the whole thing. Every morning, without fail, I would lose all feeling in my right foot. When I stood up, I would have to half hop, half wobble my way towards the classroom. However, before I ever made it back to my class, the most excruciating pins and needles would completely incapacitate me. I would stop in the middle of the hall, resigned to my fate, and wait for them to pass.

Pins and Needles

Sat down awkwardly
Lost all feeling in my foot
Guess I live here now

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Me and my right leg went our separate ways years ago

Digbeth Dining Club

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This is probably my favourite recent poem of mine. It was written in the early hours of the morning after coming back from a night out. A friend of mine is getting married soon so, for his stag do, he had a few different celebration type things over a weekend. On the Friday evening we went to something called Digbeth Dining Club (DDC for short) which is a cool event in Birmingham full of what is essentially very nice street food from all over the world.

While we were there, one of the guys went to use the bathroom. When he returned he brought with him a terrible tale. It was independently verified by myself and another friend. This is the story of John’s visit to the DDC loo.

Digbeth Dining Club

The streets were clear in Digbeth, there was something in the air
A disturbance in the urban urgency
Mothers cradling their children closed the windows, whispering
Some dark wonder grew there under DDC

Underneath a certain staircase, in the corner of the bar
Lit in passes by the glasses glistening by
Was a toilet, wet and soiled and stained and yet, this was the place
That a tragic kind of magic came to lie

No one heard the clatter in the chat, so no one knew
In the smell, a small cup fell down from a face
The door slid slowly open and a figure fled in shame
Gone and been to set the scene, prepare the place

John entertained, regaling us with strange and sickly tales
Nature rang, so up he sprang in usual mirth
And I could have sworn the planets were aligning as he left
All assembled felt a tremble in the Earth

As he passed, young women shivered, as he entered in, men shook
Through the gloom, across the room our hero edged
A storm by now was growling in his bowels, he checked the bowl
In the rim, all slick and slim, a cup was wedged

Something in him felt it then, foreboding, second sight
In any case, he took his place upon the seat
And for a while he reigned upon his fickle, faecal throne
Then deposed, the young man rose up to his feet

As he turned to his creation, bent to look into its face
What he found would have astounded anyone
Only paper in the water, not a submarine in sight
Then he saw, with dropping jaw, what he had done

All John’s ghastliest constructions hadn’t made it to the loo
His emissions took position in the cup
In ignorance he’d sat there, as his temperamental guts
Poured their malice in the chalice, piling up

He looked on, not believing the relieving of his waste
Could produce so dark a juice infused with wee
It was hard to break his gaze away, his self-made dirty pint
No, this potion of bowel motion couldn’t be

Retreating from the miracle, returning to his friends
Off his feet, into the eating booth he slid
He leant across the table, grinning proudly as he said
You are never gonna guess what I just did!

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This picture was not taken in Digbeth Dining Club and there is no poo in it. But there’s only so much one can do for art.