Photo Realist Shopping Trolley Supermodel

You are there:
So alone,
Sometimes upside-down,
Silent,
Bruised,
Graceful,
And stoic,
In the thousands and thousands,
Of still photographs,
And documentaries,
Examining, exploring, teasing out,
Certain aspects of urban decay,
And its unchained lunacies.
You're there,
Always,
Photo realist shopping trolley supermodel.

Exposed,
The opening shot,
You always seem to set the scene,
Photo realist shopping trolley supermodel.

Striking your derelict pose,
In the typical urban wasteland:
You and an abandoned pram,
You and a burnt out car,
You and a destitute, toothless man,
You and a disused warehouse.
But you're always there,
Defining,
And,
Defiant,
And,
So alone,
Photo realist shopping trolley supermodel.

And I've looked closely:
Over the decades your profile hasn't aged,
Not a day,
Not at all.
I hope it's not heroin that's mummifying your wiry frame,
Photo realist shopping trolley supermodel?

You travel the urban dystopias,
Of New York, London, Paris,
Oh de toilets.
There you are,
You are there,
Photo realist shopping trolley supermodel.

Classical,
Embedded,
Lame,
Ageless,
And completely blameless,
Beneath an iridescent Kohl mascara sky,
Photoshopped sometimes.
Photo realist shopping trolley supermodel.

I guess you fly first-class by now,
And,
Doubtless you deservedly command,
A very large fee too.
Ushered by limo,
To the camera eye's ground-zero,
Photo realist shopping trolley supermodel.

Your entourage, always out of shot,
While you meditate and twist around in your wheeled ankles,
Balletic,
And so endangered,
Documentary shopping trolley supermodel.

You never do interviews.
Why?
You never attend those ubiquitous red carpet events.
Is it because you're so sensitive to your art?
All that showbiz - it's so not you.
You are the ultimate method actor.
You are an artist, absolute,
Photo realist shopping trolley supermodel.

Once,
I thought I spied you,
Lying down, bent, a bit trashed,
Beside a peeled and emaciated art-deco fountain,
Obviously for a news item,
About the credit crunch,
Or something.
I was too shy to ask for your autograph,
Especially as you seemed so "in character",
Photo realist shopping trolley supermodel.

Regular Fries

You broke my heart,
When you told me you found out,
I'd been cheating on you,
She said.

After a few thoughtful seconds he replied,
I'm sorry.

Then,
They both ordered regular fries,
To go.

I ordered just a cappuccino.

I never saw them again.

That's What Must Have Happened To Colin

This is the fourth floor,
And this is definitely a fourth floor,
Kind of head-space,
I mean,
In the kind of stuff that happens here.

Do you remember when we thought we lost,
The day-glo grey stapler?
Yes! That! My God,
Who can forget that day-glo grey stapler?
I know, mad wasn't it!

And do you remember that time Jack shouted:
Look I've found the day-glo grey stapler,
And then straight away,
He put it on his head,
And said:
It's on my head!
It still cracks me up now,
It never fails to crack me up,
Never!
And that happened, what, nine years ago?
No, maybe it was even nine-and-a-half.
This is the fourth floor of fourth floors,
The mother and father of fourth floors.

You know what I think?
Fourth floors' tread that fine path,
(That's if fourth floors can tread a fine path,
But I'm obviously being metaphorical, obviously),
Between zany and crazy.

You know, to me, fourth floors,
Are where office humour truly can lift the lid,
On its unexpurgated dark-side,
And I suppose, because of that,
It can wreak,
Intentionally or otherwise,
A kind of mind-havoc on the unprepared,
And gentler souls,
That, in extreme cases,
Can unleash that serial killer instinct,
That hides in us all.

That's what must have happened to Colin,
Almost like in one of those "going postal" documentaries,
That's what must have happened to Colin..yeah?

But that stapler thing always cracks me up.
Like I say,
And I've been here ten years now.

You know,
I could have gone,
For a three month secondment,
To the seventh floor two years ago,
And,
I turned it down,
Flat.
I mean, I just couldn't leave this place,
This decompression chamber,
Of fine-line madness.
Leave all this,
For the workaday permafrost route-one humour,
Of the other floors?

This place,
This fourth floor,
It's just bad lyrics,
Bad lyrics..

But Colin,
Boy,
When I saw him,
When I saw him on Crimewatch,
His shaved head.
What he go and do that for?

Dreamstreaming

You know when someone qualifies an opinion,
With "..they say..",
Like:
"There's nothing more boring,
Than listening to someone else's dreams, they say.."
Who are "they"?
The mysterious "they" that hand down to us,
Telepathically it seems,
This carved-in-air accepted wisdom,
That we must all accept as The Truth?

Truly,
I would love to meet,
One of these wise and supreme beings,
Privileged to belong,
To this mysterious cabal,
They.

Personally,
I love listening to other people's dreams.

On the train, for example,
If I'm sat next to a commuter,
Dreaming,
I always try to listen to their dreams:
I upload their dreams,
Using my psychic-dreamstream MP3.
Have you got one?

And for me,
I find,
Japanese students have the most complicated dreams,
Canadians' dreams are,
Controversially perhaps,
The most musical!,
Dutch people's dreams have the happiest endings,
And the French,
Believe it or not,
Have the best dubbing.
Oh, and,
Latin American's dreams are the steamiest,
And Indian people's dreams,
Typically,
Have thousands of erotic dancing vegetarians in.

And,
You've guessed it,
The British dream the most,
About their pet dog,
And if they don't own a dog themselves,
Dream of another's!

Quite recently,
I had a dream with a dog in:
I dreamt I saw a dog washing their car!

And as I stood there,
In this dream,
Completely mesmerised,
Watching this dog,
Washing their car,
The dog caught me staring at it, dumbfounded -
I just couldn't tear my eyes away!
Can you blame me though?
I mean,
If you saw a dog washing their car,
Wouldn't you watch?
Anyway,
After a while, the dog looked up at me,
And sighed,
Actually it was more of a groan,
"Haven't you ever seen a dog washing her car before?"
"..Uh..no..", I replied, somewhat stunned.
" Really? Oh, fair enough then", said the dog,
And with that carried on washing her car.

Obviously,
If it had been a male dog,
Washing their car,
I wouldn't have been surprised at all.

I'll Bring My Special Wand

I have,
An astonishing and enormous secret,
I must share with you,
And it really is of huge import,
And it completely goes against the grain,
Of the current orthodoxy,
The accepted wisdom,
And the common currency..

So I hope you're sitting comfortably,
Are you ready?
You sure?
Okay, because, well..,
Because,
Once you are, as we say, "In The Know",
You will never see things in quite the same way again.

Ready?
Breathe in,
In deeply,
Relax and compose yourself..

All right.
Well, here it is then,
Here it is:
It's. Penguins. That. Cause. Global. Warming..
You look stunned.
Yes, you heard right.
No, I'm not kidding,
I wish I was.
No.
Penguins cause global warming.

There.
I've said it.
Clearly there's no going back now.
And,
Please, don't tell anyone,
Anyone.

I'm entrusting you,
With this highly classified information,
Eighteen levels above Top Secret actually.
Why?
Good question:
It has to be eighteen levels above T.S,
Because penguins are very well connected.
You wouldn't think it would you?
They take no prisoners:
They are utterly ruthless.

Here's the thing:
We think,
Some of the top penguins have infiltrated,
Infiltrated our intelligence services,
Both five and six.
Some are on the inside,
Disguised,
Not wearing their penguin suits,
And when penguins don't wear their penguin suits,
They look just like regular blobby little guys.

Look,
I'll meet you by the river,
That bar beneath the tower,
South side.
I'll fill you in with all the details there.
Can't say anymore now,
I think I'm being tailed.

I'll be the man,
Sat by the window.
There will be a seventy-nine percent chance,
I'll be wearing a fuscia slim-fit collarless shirt.

And what will you be wearing?

I'll bring my special wand,
It's to detect bugs,
That may have been placed on your person,
Whilst you were asleep last night.

Later then.
I'll be there prompt at sunset,
GMT.

Foreign Poem

Recently,
I read this really beautiful and heart-rending poem.
It was in a foreign language.
And even though,
I didn't understand,
The words and meanings,
It left me in floods of tears.
It was written down one side,
Of a salsa sauce bottle label,
Would you believe.
That's the power of poetry,
Right there.
And I'm welling up again right now,
Just thinking about it.

I'm A Secret Binge-Thinker

I'm a secret binge-thinker,
And seemingly,
One of an ever-increasing number in Britain,
Which is now,
According to the mid-brow papers,
In the unrelenting grip,
Of a chronic binge-thinking epidemic.

I started to secretly binge-think about one year ago,
I had to grab a short binge-think,
Before I could face work in the morning,
And, now, it's got so bad,
I must grab a secret binge-think at my desk.

No, I don't think any one's noticed,
Not yet - thank God,
But it's only a matter of time isn't it?

Do you think they'd understand?
No.
I'd lose my job in an instant,
With my discombobulated, thunk,
Head in my hands.
I'm not proud to be a serious binge-thinker,
But what can I do?

I don't even enjoy binge-thinking anymore,
It's definitely not a pleasure, it's a chore..

I sometimes think neat,
On the rocks,
By the sea,
Or sometimes with a bit of cheese.

And it's not unusual now,
For me to mix up my binge-thinks,
I've awoken so many times,
Sprawled, brain-mashed by the library fountain,
And,
Three times now,
The police,
Have charged me with thunk disorderliness,
It means I now have a record.

And, yes, I know,
That if I carry on binge-thinking like this,
I may die..

The Pressure Is On

That's a great poem,
A great poem.

But now,
The pressure is on:
I must think of a title..

Oh, I hate this bit.

Shhh,
I'm thinking..

Beyond Doubt

I think I might change my mind tomorrow,
Then again, maybe I wont,
Although..
Are you laughing?
You are!
You're laughing!

I know, I know..

I think I'll shut up now,
I think you might give me that look..
You know that look that tells me,
I'm beginning to repeat myself.

I'm always like this,
Aren't I?

Ah, look,
You're smiling,
You are!
You always do that!
And I love you for it.

Beyond doubt.

This Bag Of Nuts Doesn't Contain Belly Button Fluff

Thank goodness,
I opened a small bag of peanuts,
And was about to tuck-in,
When, purely by chance,
I happened to read the warning:
"This bag may contain nuts".

I think,
They really should start making bags without nuts,
Maybe,
With paper,
Or plastic,
Or something..

Of course,
I only ate the peanuts,
After I put them safely,
In a plastic container.
You see plastic containers,
Aren't made from nuts,
So I knew I was perfectly safe.

Belly button fluff.
None of the labels on my clothes warn me,
That they contain belly button fluff,
And yet my clothes always,
But always,
Leave belly button fluff on me,
Always in my belly button!
That's probably why it's called,
"Belly button fluff".
Wild guess.

Strangely,
None of my clothes contain nuts!
And my bags of nuts,
Never, ever contain belly button fluff!
Coincidence?
I don't think so.

Gavin From Autoglass Can Fix Your Poetry Blog

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Then call Gavin from Autoglass,
He can repair the holes and cracks in your poems,
With an all-weather special resin,
And,
If your poetry blog is fully comp.,
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Tony Blair At The Iraq Inquiry With New And Improved Alternative Ending*

Mr Blair,
Did you lie?

No.

In that case,
Thank you then,
You are free to go.


*(New And Improved Alternative Ending)

Mr Blair,
Did you lie?

Yes.

Oh,
Well,
In that case,
Thank you then,
You are free to go.