This is a poem about the procrastinational convenience of tomorrow.
Tomorrow
Tomorrow is just a word
Designed to give us one last way
One more wedge of grace
A way to delay
To say, yes I will
Just not today
I’m going to regret this… tomorrow
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!
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.
I do most of my travelling by Megabus. It takes longer than getting a train, but you don’t have to make any change overs (usually), the seats are more comfortable, and it’s much cheaper. Those are the reasons I usually give if asked why I choose to travel in this way. The truth is, the main reason I continue to use the Megabus is that it’s such an entertaining way to travel. I’ve seen many strange and/or hilarious things on my journeys. One such experience inspired this poem.
To Fall Asleep
Emphatically
Repeatedly
Agreeing
With sleep
She slipped into a shallow
Megabus shaken slumber
Tumbling over potholes
Swaying with the sudden turns
Until
Gliding sideways
Starting slowly
It only took one sudden bump
To displace her face
Freeze frame
In the split second before impact
She was, in fact
Awake
Just in time to process
Her short lived motion’s impending end
But far too late to escape it
And we’re back
Smack
On the side of my chair
Ashamed, she hung her head
And I hope
Oh, how I hope she didn’t notice
My barely perceptible tremor
As I turned my face away
You should always travel with a V-cushion and a bicycle helmet
This poem was written during a week where I had to get up at varying early hours and work all day. I’m rather prone to insomnia so I was suffering slightly by the end of the week and my first emotion, every morning when the alarm went off, was rage at the world. One evening, as I worked late into the night, I decided to channel some of my anger into a poem. I started it in the evening and finished it in the morning. The result is an angry but quite silly poem. I’m sure people will sympathise with the feelings expressed here.
Unusually for me, this poem was written more to be spoken out loud than read off paper. Hopefully it won’t lose its impact being written. Try reading it out loud or sounding it out in your head to get a picture of what I was aiming for.
Good Morning
When the alarm sounded
A sudden, profound, and all consuming
Fuming and festering thought
Wrought an almost indescribable change in me
The deep seated sedation
Though well within its expiration date
Was devastated
The enduring security of bed’s allure
GONE GONE GONE GONE GONE
Slipping from the summit
I plummet and crawl
And I can’t help but think
Of that very first fall
Seeing that it was good to eat
Sinking her teeth into the sickly sweet
Go on, indulge a little, sinful treat
Feeling the world tremble and rage
And rue the rebellion, and break
Beneath her feet
Perhaps, in that moment
What she felt, in the fear
The new weariness wracking her bones
And the tears now running
Still stunned by the sudden dysfunction at play
In ways she could never have dreamed
Perhaps, what she felt
Might be close
To the flood of emotion
The long, lord help me
Self reflection
Self deception
Self defence
Deflection of the inevitable knowledge
That all is not as it should be
All summed up for me
In the earnest and agonised cry of my heart
Expressed in a faintly heard
But aggressively stressed
Four letter word
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
I spent much of this week stewarding at a Christian festival called Word Alive. I had to guide crowds, set up venues, tidy up etc, and, to be honest, it was quite a draining and difficult job. There was, however, one absolutely wonderful duty. There was a gate on to the site called the ‘Beach Gate’ because it led down to the beach. Every couple of days, I had a 30 minute shift at this gate.
There was a small, one person hut for the on duty steward to sit and and check people’s wristbands as they entered. There was colouring in to do in the hut, someone had hung balloons up, and it was generally a nice escape from the noise and busyness of the festival. I spent much of the time in the hut singing Paul Simon‘s new single Wristband and writing this poem.
Beach Gate Hut
Hut by the Beach Gate, secluded escape
At the nape here of Pontins, the steward’s retreat
A small grey oasis, a warm bottleneck
For the checking of wristbands and resting of feet
It’s clear of the clutter of any marquee
And it’s free of the bustle of crowds in the hub
So rest in the nest of this wanderer’s crib
And inhibit pedestrians not in the club
30 minutes are yours, til the next guy gets here
But don’t fear, you’re in charge for the next half an hour
The authority’s yours, do whatever you choose
Til you lose all control and go mad with the power
A tattered remnant of my fallen empire
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.
Tender Lure
My simple brother Jack caressed
A juicy, dripping chicken breast
Its curvature
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.
I was trying to write a thank you card to someone and it was very hard to find the right words. So I wrote some that rhymed.
Gratitude
I’m so very, very grateful
Gratitude? I’ve got a plateful
I could sing your praise for weeks
But I should really post this soon
This picture kind of has an inbuilt caption
Most people have played the ‘would you rather?’ game at some point in their lives. One question I have been asked a few times is ‘Would you rather have hands for feet or feet for hands?’ This got me thinking. What if my hands and feet were swapped? Would I be an outcast? Or would my uniqueness attract people?
Hands For Feet
If I had hands for feet
And my legs were really arms
I would cartwheel down the street
And seduce you with my charms
My knitting is awful but my gymnastics are on point
It’s February, which means it’s Valentine’s day soon! This month, I’ve decided to post some valentinesy poems.
The first of this month’s poems was inspired by a Kate Bush song called Hounds of Love. Kate Bush describes love like a pack of hounds, hunting her down. I decided to write something along a similar lines, except that the protagonist describes love as a tapeworm that feeds off him. Exceedingly romantic, I know.
The Tapeworm Of Love
When I was a child
Making waves in the bath
I gave no thought but to having a laugh
Yes, when I was a child
I was too young to see
The tapeworm of love is tasting me
I lived for myself
And the things I enjoyed
I didn’t need friends, I was otherwise employed
Yes, I lived for myself
Too self-centred to see
The tapeworm of love is tasting me
You changed all of that
Occupying my mind
To what seemed so important before, I was blind
Yes, you changed all of that
And I started to see
The tapeworm of love is tasting me
This parasite’s grown
Now it takes up my time
And my energy too, but it isn’t a crime
Yes, this parasite’s grown
But at last, I can see
The tapeworm of love is tasting me
The tapeworm’s distant cousin, the tapesnail
Ben's Bad Poetry 