Sample Poetry

Here is is a selection of my poetry, most of which can already be found on the web. This poetry is more suited to an adult audience for various reasons. Please note that some of my poetry is most definitely not intended for children.

the culinary

puffer fish as metaphor

for my cutting words


The Japanese word

‘sushi’ means ‘it is sour’

sometimes it’s lethal


blowfish or puffer

by another name fugu

often is fatal


prepare for repast

take out prandial peril

tetrodotoxin


deadly delicious

clean cuts render edible

go gall bladder, guts


bile free and spineless

sound bites edited; souped up

vitriol punctured


unsayable truths

filleted for consumption

in palatable portions


raw cyanide, sliced,

diced, redesigned, redefined

‘that’s nice’, served with rice


Published on Jim Bennet's 'The Poetry Kite' blog

http://poetrykite.blogspot.com/2006/11/heln-thomas.html


The following poem was created especially to accompany a backing track by the musician Pouff

Pouff sent me the basic beat and I wrote the lyrics; Pouff only had a few words in mind 'funk the funk, junk to junk' and suggested something reminiscent of the rap in Blondie's track 'Rapture'. I'm no Debbie Harry, but these are the lyrics I came up with.


Funk the junk spark up the motor

Major Tom’s gone to North Dakota

I know you lost the note I wrote… yer.

couldn’t give a damn, a dime or iota.


guzzling’s a gas on a wild road trip

gulp it down, never sip

grit in your eye and bee stung lip

told like it is; shot from the hip

tin can alley cats dance and spit

bott’s dots lie aligned and lit

flame quick felines living on wit

claim the fast lane from cockpit


Junk the hunk, that dead bit of wood

no moving parts under the hood

ditch the schmuck stick in the mud

roadkill lizard with stone cold blood


roll with the lows and glide on the highs

who knows, I suppose what might arise

a leaner demeaner’s a keen disguise

I’ll surprise the guys with my demise

fortune smiles on those who try

you need to believe if you want to fly

sly way the high way, ice and dry

never did get to say goodbye


Funk the funk, junk to junk

You don’t need to know what’s in my trunk

Dump the drunk, click the klunk

Lifestyle a haircut monk to punk.


I then emailed these to Pouff and he set them to the finished track and gave it the title of 'Junk Motor'. You can hear the final product via the soundcloud widget below.

Useless Medusa

Medusa Minutiae: alopecia sufferer,

No fork tongued sizzling serpent scalp for her,

But nano-sized nematodes, slithering unseen.

What use this see-thru swim cap without sheen,

To a mythical snake-hair who’s meant to be mean?


Should she, Medusa shun shampoo or use less,

Hairspray and products; should she brush and mousse less?

So she summoned a stylist: Perseus so called,

Who on reflection claimed he was appalled,

By useless Medusa whose scalp was quite bald.


Percy was scissorless but he was not dismayed,

With his shimmering, talon sharp, shiny new blade,

Determined to snip and trim what simply would not grow:

Medusa’s worm weave with its wriggling go slow,

Received from his salon hands, one final cut and blow.


'Useless Medusa' appears on Todd Swift's 'Eyewear' blog.

http://toddswift.blogspot.com/2006/01/poem-by-heln-thomas.html


Cuni Verse: Goddess and Poet

and not of this Earth

She wears baad ass batik

And a velveteen sash

Looks like a sad acid trip

That’s been out on the lash


She’s a poet and a deaconess

Her talent is transparent

Diaphanous in her address

Orally she’s arrant


Bisexual in the sixties

She’s the high priestess of weird

She believes in elves and pixies

She’s got stardust in her beard


Her lexicon’s homespun tie dyed

She weaves her words with woad

And woe betide those who’d deride

Her deftly knitted odes


She’s ventured into voodoo

And she’s sampled stuff that’s Sapphic

She’s shown her arse in Burton’s window

And halted all the traffic


She chatrooms on a ouija board

With people who are dead

Drinks ‘shroom tea from crafted gourds

And then she goes to bed


Where she dreams of ancient loves

Mindful of incarnations

Brief encounters, cherubs, doves

Rendezvous in railway stations


Waking up in purple PJ’s

With an urge to cough and spit

Back ache brings on dreams of bidets

As she takes a shit


She wonders where she lost the time

And tree-like gained the girth

As autumn leaves her swirling mind

Composts into the earth


Published in an online edition of 'The Ugly Tree' as part of The Poetry Library's online archive.

http://poetrymagazines.org.uk/magazine/recordb0d9.html?id=22254


The people want bread not circus

Today,

where yesterday's bakery stood:

grease-painted clowns, jugglers, monkeys

and budgies on tiny fire engines;

strings of elephants following the leader;

a moustachioed ringmaster in top hat and tails;

tigers and lions leaping through hoops and rings of fire,

beneath dare-devil trapeze, barking seals balancing balls;

pretty ponies whose bare back riders

are spangly cowgirls who also assist

blind folded knife-throwers who never miss.

And finally: fireworks, balloons and confetti,

with wild applause and open mouthed awe,

then I returned home,

having forgotten what I left the house for.


This poem was published on the now defunct Nth Position website.


Protection

Beware the spores! They are growing bigger, more numerous and better organised,

(except for the ones that are getting smaller; so small as to be invisible to the human eye.)

They attract their victims by emitting a unique bait of pheromone musk-scent that smells

of money and admiration. They are artificially intelligent; they learn from mistakes.

We can sell you goggles.


Tick the box if you'd like to receive a catalogue.

There's an unseen Disney film locked in a vault. It's about a beautiful forest

full of cute animals who all love each other. They can all sing, dance and talk.

They're all vegetarians and their individual foodstuff of choice can be found in abundance,

along with clean spring water, which bubbles into sparkling streams.

The animals frolic joyously and have lots and lots of fun.

Nothing else happens; it's all quite lovely.

They all live happily ever after from beginning to end.

Not available to buy.


There's a worm made of tar. It has no skin or bones. It feeds off plasma and platelets

and wears the walls of your blood vessels as its exoskeleton.

It divides by binary fission, doubling and doubling like time-lapse gothic botulism.

You can see it spreading underneath your skin, filling your capillaries until they creak.

You'll be compelled to rip out those strangling black threads

like faulty electrics or rapacious weeds.

There are procedures: we can arrange to have your veins lined with lead.

Tick the box if you'd like us to send you a catalogue.

Your statutory rights are not affected.


This poem was published on the now defunct Nth Position website. I later set it to music.