Sunday, 24 January 2010
Friday, 22 January 2010
UNDERPANTMAN
Forgive me now as I may very well offend those amongst us who have Virginia Woolfe posters on their walls and Germaine Greer texts on their coffee table. Now, I’m aware that at any poetry evening the chances of this being a disproportionate percentage of the audience is very high but there is a very serious matter that I need to bring to your attention.
Whilst I am a man, who will never understand the pain of childbirth
Nor the discomfort of your monthly cycle
The imbalances of power in the workplace, unfair wages etc
There is something in our world,
The world of men, that far outweighs the disadvantages of Femininity
Namely, The problems with delicate and ineffective Jizm
That’s right!
There is no excusing,
No refusing,
No declining,
No denying,
Mine (and yours, by the looks of it) terrible plight.
Some of our underpants too tight!
Or, if our boxer shorts are too loose,
We risk doing harm to our kiddie-mousse
Oh, Do not spurn
The damage to my sperm.
As we speak
My semen are becoming weak.
Every future child
Is growing wild.
I can hear the scream
Of each of my baby cream,
So, If you see a man in a funk
Understand he has insufficient spunk
Woman, spare a thought
For his dying white-aquanauts
Have some faith, Men,
Listen well to me,
Throw your undies out
And set your semen free.
Whilst I am a man, who will never understand the pain of childbirth
Nor the discomfort of your monthly cycle
The imbalances of power in the workplace, unfair wages etc
There is something in our world,
The world of men, that far outweighs the disadvantages of Femininity
Namely, The problems with delicate and ineffective Jizm
That’s right!
There is no excusing,
No refusing,
No declining,
No denying,
Mine (and yours, by the looks of it) terrible plight.
Some of our underpants too tight!
Or, if our boxer shorts are too loose,
We risk doing harm to our kiddie-mousse
Oh, Do not spurn
The damage to my sperm.
As we speak
My semen are becoming weak.
Every future child
Is growing wild.
I can hear the scream
Of each of my baby cream,
So, If you see a man in a funk
Understand he has insufficient spunk
Woman, spare a thought
For his dying white-aquanauts
Have some faith, Men,
Listen well to me,
Throw your undies out
And set your semen free.
Tuesday, 19 January 2010
BELGRANO BOY
Excluded from your erogenous zone
For the final time
I turn to walk away in defeat.
With my white underpants
Waving around my arse
Like a flag with no wind
You take aim and fire.
For the final time
I turn to walk away in defeat.
With my white underpants
Waving around my arse
Like a flag with no wind
You take aim and fire.
THERE'S A LITTLE YELLOW JERSEY (to the North of London Town)
I understand it now
As I never have
It's about befriending the wind
It's freewheelin' the downward slope
After the struggle of the climb
It's the still-frames of scenery -
The granite mountains
The yellow-purple skies
The English hedgerows
The cities, towns and villages
The people
The being alone and the people -
That you keep in your mind
Long after the ride is through.
And it's been an Honour.
It's something you buy into
An involvement of the soul
It's the cuts and bruises
Sometimes you ride in their slipstream
And sometimes
They ride in yours
It's the sharing of the glory
A podium of infinite pain and joy
And it's been an Honour.
And I know I can say this now
Before the next race starts
Here's to the man
Who stands on the side-line
But here's love to the man
Who loves to take part.
And
Its been
An Honour.
As I never have
It's about befriending the wind
It's freewheelin' the downward slope
After the struggle of the climb
It's the still-frames of scenery -
The granite mountains
The yellow-purple skies
The English hedgerows
The cities, towns and villages
The people
The being alone and the people -
That you keep in your mind
Long after the ride is through.
And it's been an Honour.
It's something you buy into
An involvement of the soul
It's the cuts and bruises
Sometimes you ride in their slipstream
And sometimes
They ride in yours
It's the sharing of the glory
A podium of infinite pain and joy
And it's been an Honour.
And I know I can say this now
Before the next race starts
Here's to the man
Who stands on the side-line
But here's love to the man
Who loves to take part.
And
Its been
An Honour.
SHIT ON YOUR SHOES (a love poem)
Written on the back of old bus tickets
Is the poetry of our lovemaking.
Scribbled on the front of my school textbooks
Is the script of my emotions.
I have painted murals on palaces,
Drawn in chalk the epitome of my knowledge
On Sunset Boulevard and Tibetan Mountains.
I have hidden prose for you
On the underneath of snails,
In the bellies of Great white sharks.
Painstakingly unravelled the mummified Kings
And written you a three mile poem,
Minuscule messages on the thread
From a silkworms arse.
My love for you gets everywhere
Just like shit on your shoes.
Is the poetry of our lovemaking.
Scribbled on the front of my school textbooks
Is the script of my emotions.
I have painted murals on palaces,
Drawn in chalk the epitome of my knowledge
On Sunset Boulevard and Tibetan Mountains.
I have hidden prose for you
On the underneath of snails,
In the bellies of Great white sharks.
Painstakingly unravelled the mummified Kings
And written you a three mile poem,
Minuscule messages on the thread
From a silkworms arse.
My love for you gets everywhere
Just like shit on your shoes.
BACK-SEAT BRENDA
I was in love with back seat Brenda
We all were.
But I was at that age
Where I still called my friends lesbians
Because I did not know what it meant.
I was in love with back seat Brenda
And how could you not be.
She had a peardrop smile
And eyes that twinkled like gobstoppers
After
Twenty
Minutes
Of
Sucking.
8:15 at her bus stop
And fifty homemade hair-do's
Turn to watch her hipsway
Inhaling the medicated shampoo
And her mothers stolen perfume
Which batted away the heavy smell of boyhood Brut.
I fidget and fumble
(still)
Shifting position of my satchel
From hipside to crotch
Concealing my growing admiration
For that High-school crest
Displayed magnanimously on her heaving chest.
There was an eternity
between
The hem of her bottle blue skirt
And the summit of her knee-highs
That I would gladly suffer.
Her bra strap always showing,
I thank God for the French.
4 o'clock and
We were all in love with Brenda
The world could have been hers,
And silk cuts are the greatest cigarettes
Because her lips are fellating one.
I shift uncomfortably,
Readjust my satchel once more
And allow Alison to sit beside me.
We all were.
But I was at that age
Where I still called my friends lesbians
Because I did not know what it meant.
I was in love with back seat Brenda
And how could you not be.
She had a peardrop smile
And eyes that twinkled like gobstoppers
After
Twenty
Minutes
Of
Sucking.
8:15 at her bus stop
And fifty homemade hair-do's
Turn to watch her hipsway
Inhaling the medicated shampoo
And her mothers stolen perfume
Which batted away the heavy smell of boyhood Brut.
I fidget and fumble
(still)
Shifting position of my satchel
From hipside to crotch
Concealing my growing admiration
For that High-school crest
Displayed magnanimously on her heaving chest.
There was an eternity
between
The hem of her bottle blue skirt
And the summit of her knee-highs
That I would gladly suffer.
Her bra strap always showing,
I thank God for the French.
4 o'clock and
We were all in love with Brenda
The world could have been hers,
And silk cuts are the greatest cigarettes
Because her lips are fellating one.
I shift uncomfortably,
Readjust my satchel once more
And allow Alison to sit beside me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
