Childish I'm sure
But the way that pavement cyclist
Pedestrian-pranged me his signature
I became his press-ganged human speed-bump
Suffering concrete-kissing discomfiture
Well he certainly deserved nothing less
than the back hand of my pierian
So as the pebble-assed smurf pelted away
Revolving dalek camera on his pompous high viz head
I brushed myself down
Bracing myself for what I am called here to do
So of course I shouted after the piston-peddle ghoul
I'm going to write a poem about you
Yeah you
You
Cab drivers waved and saluted
A high street nun ran from across the street
Just to kiss my hand
A police officer nodded then walked on by
We reached a mafia code-silent understanding
She even threw me her pen
Immature I know
But my annual performance review left a taste bitter
Yet again informed I wasn't short-list-quality promotional candidature
Apparently singularly undermining the rise of the firm's added-value line curvature
And somewhat fazed by another HR ninja
Her reptilian wax-line grin
all herbal teabag voodoo reasoning
Gifted me the spiritual cue as of a dream
So as I turned and strolled out the room
I'm going to write a poem about you
Boom
The shop steward hooted
Offered me exclusive black label vodka undiluted
Two babes at the tea point blinked me the sauciest of winks
A glimpse of nocturnal promise
Probably no methinks
But perhaps a lingering warm embrace
An admiring sloppy kiss
Do earnest-brow rhymes emit such subtle pheromone
Is poetry actually for this
If only at sixteen I had known this
If only I had known this
at thirty-six
On a distant parallel earth I've known
Conflicts are always fought with verse
The only distant shock waves emanate from startling sonic couplets
The only missiles flying are sirens' missives mystic
We listen
They listen
No bullying
No murder
Just rhymes
Or blank verse
Should nothing else work
Not sure whether blank verse or violent death is worse
I pray for the semi-innocent witnesses of performance poetry sometimes
We all know performance poetry isn't always a victimless crime..
The crime scene cordoned off with police tape
The body tagged under the sheets
And that's just the poet
The emcee in the corner pleads with the detectives
A smoked-glass stretch limo snakes slowly by outside
A poetry agent in the back snuffs out his cigar
Observing the aftermath sits back
Whispers something enigmatic to the chauffeur
Who then races away into the feral and starless night..
And once upon a time I said
I'm going to write a poem about you
It was while she tipped tinned spaghetti all over my head
Before magically brandishing
and then smashing my new laptop repeatedly over the bedstead
But it was okay for her to do this she said
As it was her bedstead
Case for the prosecution closed
I was tried and convicted and living dead
I should have fled but instead
I raised with her this terrifying prospect
I'm...going...to...write...TWO...poems...about....you now
All pregnant pause in italics for emphasis
with the TWO capitalised for added dramatic effect
Harold Pinter on the decks
She laughed then
I doubt that she's laughing now..
