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

Do your poems have chips or holes in?
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.,
It's free!

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.

An Almost Spiritual Experience

Without question,
Sans doute,
That, there, is the greatest word of poetry,
I have ever written,
In my entire life!

Come, take a look!
This word came to me in a dream,
An almost spiritual experience,
I think you will agree,
An almost spiritual experience,
Like,
Oprah interviewing herself on Oprah Winfrey.

That,
There,
Down here!
Please take a look,
Don't be bashful, don't be shy,
On this authentic piece of high-grade recycled paper -
Is the greatest word of poetry,
I have ever written,
In my entire life!
My. Entire. Life.
And perhaps,
Much more poignantly,
For me, at least -
This is,
The greatest word of poetry,
I will,
Ever,
Write.

At long last,
I've done it!
I almost feel like crying,
But I'm a man,
So I'll try and hold my tears -
My Tears of Toil -
I'll try to hold them back.

So,
What now..?
What do I do,
Now?

Oh,
I suppose this must be it really.
My journey has ended,
Yes, my friends,
This wonderful, crazy, dangerous and perilous,
Journey has ended.
Oh, What a journey!

This Fire Exit Sign

Dear audience,
Please be aware,
That,
In the event of a fire,
This FIRE EXIT sign,
Will not be damaged,
And will not catch alight.
Neither should any of the fire extinguishers.

However,
If you believe that you are likely,
To develop highly flammable,
Or toxic thoughts,
Please leave,
Right now,
As we really don't want your sort here.

If you do catch fire,
And you don't feel like leaving,
Would you please,
At the very least,
Be decent enough,
To collect the nearest fire extinguisher,
And,
Holding the extinguisher close to you,
Like a new-born child,
Stand under this FIRE EXIT sign,
Without making a fuss:
Please rest assured,
The fire extinguisher and FIRE EXIT sign,
Will remain perfectly safe,
Even when your body is engulfed,
With poisonous and toxic smoke and flames.
So try and relax.

Thank you.

A Realistic Aim

In a way,
I suppose that I must,
Must admire them -
The Legions,
Out there,
So able, easily,
To move on, and away,
From one lover to the new-another,
With an eerily elegant nonchalance,
No fleeting backward glance:
No time to seem,
Their last-lost-love-dream:
Such a waste of emotion: to feel forlorn,
Not part of the function and the form.
So when will I grow up then?
A realistic aim: when I'm ninety.

The thing is,
I still contemplate her beauty.
I have no choice, honestly.
I still contemplate her beauty,
Like a confused bull,
Hiding in a field of iridescent red roses,
In full-spring-bloom;
I still contemplate her beauty,
Much like a king penguin gazing,
And gazing and gazing,
At Inuits,
Dancing ecstatically outside their Igloo;
I still contemplate her beauty,
Like a funeral director,
Sleeping in her secret cryogenic chamber,
Beneath a bright full moon;
I still contemplate her beauty,
Like a confused suicide bomber,
Running towards his life-affirming savior,
As his bomb counts down to doom.

She stands there, other-worldly,
A mermaid's beauty, bespoken:
Hot-cold, human-alien, distant-here.
She's confiding in me,
Even though,
We,
Were a long time ago:
This vortex of perfumed memories,
I have fallen into,
Melts and melds Past Love's Mirror of Perspective,
And, no,
We mustn't get back together,
No sir!

And yet, as I say, here we are,
She's confiding, and I'm listening,
Like a choir,
Singing, listens to the congregation's
pin-drop sound,
I listen because I want to,
Because, really, I have no choice..

New Year's

Please don't -
I gave you another chance.
I did!
But now,
We're over.
And there's no going back this time.
Well, Probably..

See, it's eleven days into January -
Eleven!
So I fear,
We now must bow to the inevitable.
Sadly, that means,
Go our separate ways,
Once again!
So, goodbye then.

And how I tried my best to get along with you,
You know I did,
I did try,
As always.
And just like the last time,
I promised - again - to do things your way,
Because - in your blurb - that word - "commitment",
Would soon reap its amazing self-evident reward -
A shining "golden hello",
That would sing for itself,
Without appearing to try.

Strange then,
How you never mention,
The attendant pain.

It's now painfully, painfully obvious,
You don't understand my complex needs;
The resolution I made with you,
With my heart and soul,
I now realise,
Was not meant to be taken on,
Quite so literally.
Consider me no longer at your side,
In simpatico.

We're sadder but wiser,
I'm a lover, not an exerciser,
So,
Farewell then,
Lateral thigh trainer,
/Abdominizer.

Broken-Heart Transfusion

When will the NHS provide broken-heart transfusion?
Are there any volunteers?
Would you consider being a living-donor?

Your heart will be transfused,
To mend a broken one.
Imagine it as broken-heart transplantation.

The nurses afterwards,
Will give you a nice cup of tea,
And a biscuit -
Two if you like -
As a "thank you" for volunteering,
To transfuse your heart with a broken one.

And let's remember,
Some altruistic souls already,
Donate their blood, bone-marrow,
Or even a kidney!
So I'm sure there are benevolent heart-givers -
Healers, really,
Out there, somewhere,
Ready,
For the laying-on of hearts.

But here's a problem:
Often, the ones who would give their heart most gladly,
Are,
The most vulnerable to having their heart injured - even destroyed.

Such openness profiles them,
As the most likely candidates,
To be hurt, used,
Then rejected,
Or otherwise tossed aside,
By careless or cavalier,
Embittered or predatory,
Heart-breakers.
Only truly compatible,
Only with themselves.

Thus,
Many of the broken-hearted,
Will lock their love in cold-storage - fearful,
And hide themselves away,
As their own heart self-rejects,
And tumbles and ricochets the downward spiral, so harmful -
Feeling at home in the twisted forms and patterns,
Of negative familiarity,
Masquerading as self-preservation,
Also known as,
"Better the devil you know."

I wish the serial heart-breakers,
Would witness their damage,
And have a care,
So maybe they could take as much pleasure,
In nail-breaking instead!

Breaking people's nails:
No loving-souls damaged;
Infinitely less pain inflicted;
And,
So much easier to remedy.
After all,
To heal the broken-hearted,
May take more than a lifetime,
To heal the broken-nailed?
A couple of days.

I Love The Madness Of Shakira's Lyrics

I love the madness of Shakira's lyrics,
I love brandy cream on chips,
I love vodka more than wine,
I love writing poems of nine lines,
Yeah,
Yeah,
Yeah,
Yeah,
Yeah.