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.
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
clean cuts render edible
go gall bladder, guts
bile free and spineless
sound bites edited; souped up
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
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.
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.
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.
The people want bread not circus
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.
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.