Seeing as today’s other poem was a bit cynical and miserable, I thought I’d upload a sillier poem about another date with my girlfriend. This one was still a bit disastrous but for much more innocent and amusing reasons.
I had my arm twisted by a friend who worked in a coffee shop and ended up biting off more than I could chew.
This is only slightly fictionalised.
The cashier heard we’d come to take
One piece of cake to fuel our break
He said Take three for goodness sake!
And so we did
A big mistake
And so I bought, not one, but three
A cup of tea (to make it twee)
My girlfriend raised one brow at me
But I was happy
As can be
The first: A sponge cake, as a team
We pushed through cream, the moistest dream
My girlfriend chuffed, I saw her beam
But things were not sweet
As they seem
Our second piece: A brownie slice
Ooh this is nice was whispered twice
We’d gambled and the rolling dice
Disguised our doom
Last of all, and with a sigh
We turned our eye to honey pie
We felt our organs twist and tie
And boil and burst
And fail and die
We sat unable to digest
Each lung hard pressed inside each chest
We fell to cardiac arrest
Were carried out
And laid to rest
So, I was thinking about how to explain this poem and, to be honest, I don’t really think explaining is going to help all that much. But I’ll try. I wrote this very short poem a few years ago when I was listening to Steven Wilson’s then-new album The Raven That Refused To Sing.
The title track (which you can listen to here (and I highly recommend you do)), is a stunningly beautiful exploration of death and grief (I’m selling it really well). I wondered if there was a way to channel all of that profundity and beauty into a poem about something really ordinary, like a glass of milk.
When milk is skimmed, the fat is trimmed
When semi-done, it’s much more fun
But when it’s whole, it heals my soul
I honestly don’t even like whole milk…
I know I’m stretching the link to Valentine’s day now, and this poem has an extremely tenuous link but just go with me for one more week.
This is not quite a love poem. It’s a poem about love gone wrong. It’s about several men who fall in love with meat. Sadly, it’s how some men seem to view ‘love’ these days anyway.
My simple brother Jack caressed
A juicy, dripping chicken breast
And tender lure
Resistance: Hard at best
But watch my cousin John appoint
This governor: A gammon joint
A sumptuous feast
Of scrumptious beast
But tell me, what’s the point?
Then lastly, Uncle James has wed
A sirloin steak, cooked rare and red
So soft and sweet
His lawful meat
He’s taken it to bed
There’s something fishy about my housemates new girlfriend
Ok, it’s been a while since Valentine’s day but I’m sticking with the theme for this month. Last week, I compared and contrasted a lady and a sea monster. This week, I’m comparing and contrasting a lady and a slice of bread. I’m nothing if not a hopeless romantic.
Shall I Compare Thee To A Slice Of Bread?
Shall I compare thee to a slice of bread?
Thou art far more compelling when I’m tired
Bread is embellished with filling or spread
But you need no such thing to be admired
Bread is too soon forgotten in it’s bag
Becomes a moldy mess if it’s left out
But you, I want to show my friends and brag
This is the girl I told you all about!
Bread is made more appealing when it’s toast
But you need never change for me at all
Between the two options, I like you most
Because you won’t turn sticky if you fall
But most of all, and this is not a sin
I’d never, ever put you in the bin
You’re like pasta. If you sit in my cupboard for too long, I’ll probably forget and replace you.
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
The phrase ‘You are what you eat’ has never been so terrifying.
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?
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
They still haven’t solved the problem of actually getting up in the first place…
This is a very immature poem about chocolate.
Chocolate melts like sticky glue
Through my body, turns to poo
Chocolate crumbles into pieces
Through my body, turns to faeces
This chocolate log will shortly be a… er…