Poem: Complication

Are you happy?
Does the face looking back in the mirror smile,
Or frown?
Do you ever feel down?
Can you feel yourself drown?
When you are gasping for breath,
Take a look see who has their foot on your head.
And who is on standby with a towel,
Mopping you down,
Take a jump,
Take a chance,
In control,
End the frustration,
ComplicationIMG_0178

Poem: Complication

Poem: Coats

Coats don’t see the sunshine,
Not without the rain,
As soon as the sun is fully out,
They are packed away again,
Warmth not required,
The Coat will make you sweat,
The good ol sunny shower,
Is the best the jacket will get,
At least until the autumn,
When it’s blustery and wet.

Julius LeBlanc Stewart - Les Dames Goldsmith au bois de Boulogne en 1897 sur une voiturette

Poem: Coats

Poem: Descent

I look in the reflection and try and find me there,
All I see looking back is a strangers vacant stare,
It’s almost like he knew me,
Back when long ago,
My legs were standing straight, well as straight as they could go.
He looks on disapproving at the husk I have become,
How the tyre has grown around my waist were once there was none,
He looks out from inside,
With energy, some ambition,
But I know with any action, now follows a long long intermission.
Frustration. The worst pain to bear.
As my body is ever failing.
That forever there.

SLNSW 13858 Ornamental mirrors for catalogue

Poem: Descent

Poem: Performance

This poem is designed to be performed,
It’s author is shy,
So imagine the pyrotechnics.. now.. and Now,
As I build to vitriolic climaxes,
Word rhythm all over the place,
Occasional rhyme and over effected accent, saves face,
Watch and marvel how I move around “the space”
Moving with as much air and grace, as an elehippo.
A made up thing, my own invention,
Another effort to hide my pretention,
Here I am now, holding the mic like a rapper,
Tryna look fly, tryna look dapper,
Rhymes and rhythm getting, crapper.
I make pseudo political protests,
With sharp,
Rhythmic,
Changes.

To make my point, seem so profound and sincerer,
Fact is my opinion is just a headline from yesterdays Mirror,
Or Sun, The Times or even the Metro,
A point from the 80’s if I’m feeling retro,
I start a revolution that’s already been resolved,
Solve a puzzle, long since solved,
My revolution will be televised,
It’s already gone viral,
It’s only purpose is make my ego spiral,
Out of control, my rhyme rumbles on,
Then suddenly, without provocation,
I scream out,
This is art on the edge,
Nearly 200 words in and I have said nothing,
Building up to nothing at all,
Dry ice fills the stage like I’m wired for sound,
Desperately still searching for the profound,
Now to make up for the content I lack,
A fake middle finger, and cut to black.

Spotlight

Poem: Performance

Poem: Yorkshire Boris

People think this is all we do.
Hang around and wait,
But today I’m out on the prowl,
Looking for a mate.

She doesn’t have to perfect,
And I’m not gonna beg,
It’s a bonus if she has a cracking bod,
And a great set of legs,

No I’m not on tinder,
I’m up here on this shelf,
Watch out you slender legged ladies,
Let me introduce myself,

If I get thrown out in the garden,
I’ll be on such a low ebb,
I’ll have to try online dating,
“Single girl wanted, for hanging out on t’web.”

House spider (8)

Poem: Yorkshire Boris

Poem: Handwritten

IMG_2377

In case you can’t read my scrawl..

Handwritten

This is how I used to write before,
The search engines kept the score,
Spell checks and metatags
Hit Counters Server Lag
Just me, ideas and my scrawl
On paper, fag packet or the wall,
Mistakes there for all to see,
Great plans, the never meant to bes,
Great beginning
Cliched end
Never having to click “Send”
The crossing out
Tippex Pen
Screw it up
Start again!

Poem: Handwritten

Poem: Not far Left

There was a time where left was alright,
It steadfastly led the way,
Right dragged along,
Inoffensively useless, but useless all the same,
It was always left to left to rescue the right,
The right that was mangled achey and tight,

Now time has gone and flown,
All limbs of this being all fully grown,
Left is tired of dragging the right,
Left now achey managled and tight,
Where left once led a valiant fight,
To get me out of the mess, planned by right,
Left now complains, grumbles and moans.
And shoots pains through to the core of my bones,
So I am left to hobble around,
Inbetween frequent trips to the ground,
I knew this would happen to me, as others before,
I’ll dust myself off as I take an age to rise, from the floor,
So as you stride out all stable, to make your choice,
Cast your vote, make them hear your voice,
Whatever result come election night,
It’s always a battle between the left and the right.

Pixie Lott (2009) 02

(Not my legs, my arse though)

Poem: Not far Left