Things To Do When Your Heart Is Broken

Things to do when your heart is broken

The second part of this poem is entitled Fridge Magnet Fuck Buddy Poem.
So if you want to skip the first part of this poem
for the more salacious, less spiritually uplifting second part, (or should that be fewer?),
Go ahead.
You should feel ashamed though.
It's up to you.

And just so you know,
We'll know.
(It's not just about fighting terrorism.)

You can save yourself a further eleven seconds
not reading this part too.
Though please note this intense and aggressive build up,
Will help you lock on,
Aggregate and calibrate your audience.
I hope you're not on drugs - or things.

Things to do when your heart is broken

Chuck grumpy glamorous people in hedgerows,
Comb the whiskers of a walrus,
Tickle the toes of a baby mole,
Eat blancmange with gusto.
Don't be surprised if you still feel low,
But at least know,
Baby mole will always love you.
Always,
And forever,
Up to the time,
That baby mole grows up and dumps you a "so long..".

Ah yeah, but you know that will happen, so that's okay.


     ****************************

Moving on.
I'm receiving lots of emails from glamorous women,
Imploring me to desire them as their f*ckbuddy.
Their explicit coyness designed to enchant;
They always send their emails begging me to be their effasteriskbuddy,
Directly into my spam folder;
To shy to fire their amorous missives directly into my inbox,
They fantasise the come-hither thrill, testing my detective skill, the cyber silken sheet chase.
James Blunt.

These comely ladies are from all over the world.
They really must support my poetry.
I suppose I can't blame them.

I reply to all:
Dear LusciousLips, HornyBeijingGirl, LatinMinx, etcetera,
Thank you for covertly approaching me to be your,
ahem,
Effasteriskbuddy..
You obviously enjoy my poetry
A Lot.
However,
I have to decline your passion offered.
You see, I'm celibate,
I live in a tree-house,
I only talk to owls,
And my best friend is a crazy witch that lives in the forbidden forest, (just by the motorway).
Cheers anyway!

And you'll be shocked by how many replies I receive, typically:
"Oh don't worry,
Just help me with my visa,
Pretend we're a couple and we want to marry,
And I promise to leave you alone,
I won't force you to be my effasteriskbuddy..".

I just ignore them;
I know they are lying.
At their first opportunity they will taunt me,
Tie me up to the bedposts for the rest of my days.
I'll be a man enslaved!
No way!

They must think I'm stupid.
And think of the poor owls!

Please note -
You can save yourself another two minutes of time,
By not reading any of the above.

Don't believe in conspiracy;
Be in the matrix.
Indeed, be,
Be the matrix. 

I Am The World's First Selfie Poem

I am the world's first selfie poem,
Held aloft by the world's first selfie poem stick,
A look-at-me wordsmith pic,
Here I am fluttering beside Tower Bridge.

So here I pose on the left bank;
Here I'm by the Eiffel Tower,
Here I selfie seductively next to the shower.
Ignore the bidet -
Admire my framed parchment hanging above a plastic flower
pot.

Here I am analysed by a poet I barely know,
Here I repose at a jazz festival amid falling snow;
Fractal flake dew blushes my paper skin,
Ink suggestively oozing, blotting,
Have I been crying or exercising?

Here I am tender and damp,
Here I am sunbathing, drying beneath a lava lamp,
My words florescent and glowing,
Quite becoming, a little knowing.

Do my words look big in this?
Are my right words in the wrong order
a hit or a miss?
Am I a PUA verse,
Or a try-hard blow-hard piece of doggerel, cursed?

Here I'm a selfie poem looking for love,
Not a one-night-stand performance poem only read once,
Then abandoned, carelessly tossed away, orphaned on the street,
Clasped by a refuse collector with his selfie poem collecting stick,
Torn,
Unshared,
To be recycled, reincarnated, cared for, repaired..?

Hidden Meaning

Acrostic 
Poem

 

An Oblong Table, An Oblong Space

this particular table is too big for my lounge
do you have any others?

well we have this one
the problem with this table
if it is a problem
is
it's oblong

why is having an oblong table a problem?

this is an up-and-coming area
people don't like oblong tables here now
it denotes something

oh i like oblong tables
and the table is definitely the right fit for my lounge
i think i'll take it 
thanks
so when can it be delivered?

sorry we no longer deliver
do you have a car?

yes

you can pick it up any time you like

i can't drive

i don't understand
didn't you just say..?

yes but the car was stolen for me

don't worry i won't tell anyone

no the problem is i can't drive
and the man who is taking my driving test for me is still in prison

when will he be released?

in nine months with good behaviour
it was only one bank he raided
and the kidnapping of that politician
was just a misunderstanding

no problem sir
i'll wrap it up for you
and your nominated doppelganger can come and collect your oblong table in your stolen car
once he has passed your test for you

that's great
do you take stolen credit cards?

yes but only because i like this poem

i'm glad you recognise this as a poem
most would say this isn't a poem at all
but a weird comedy sketch

ignore them sir
they are philistines
i recognised this as a poem immediately
no capitalisation no punctuation
the amazing white spaces..

you are a man of good breeding
in fact i stole this credit card from the kind of person
that wouldn't recognise this as a poem

serves them right sir

i'll also leave some glorious white space under this poem
as all great poems have virgin space under them
a huge oblong space

yes sir
it denotes something

•  beginning of oblong space

•  end of oblong space

Granny Farm For Gatsby

And those rare observational gifts
justify your estate agent's fee:
"So,
   This is the kitchen,
     That must be the bathroom..
       Yeah, that dude outside is
   your genuine solar-powered garden gnome..
So, we'll throw the solar gnome in gratis..
[Smiley face]
Delightful..
AspecttoSaturncrecheleaguetables
                Upcomingareagenuinelampposts
                           Rareopportunitybargainbuyorlet
                                     AB1respectableneighbourhoodpets
                                                   DIYgardencentregastropubdentist..
                                                             So made your mind up yet?
                                                                        Floordoorceilingconifersofthoroughbredbreeding..

                                                So,
you've had my five minutes,
So,
please give me my fee,
So,
thank you goodbye,
Exit stage left me"
So,
There you now are -
So deep inside the mortgagee kill zone;
You've dished up your bank a wage slave-loving home.
Your soul gravy shall drizzle commuter zone decades,
Tumbleweed eyes glaze,
Your plaintive rockstar days sand-blasted away,
dinnerware-damned and betrayed.
A lobster on simmer-to-boil-to-cold,
So here's your keys,
And here's a sweet strychnine flavour of rope,
And how about a glass of champagne to soothe your soul's mini-stroke?

Just think, it'll all be paid for - in forty-four years,
And then it's the granny farm for Gatsby,
If
  you're
still
here.

What a bargain - Fear.
Wherever you are in the universe, you're here.
You're flipping fish-headed coins beneath the stairway to starfish.
You're a lifer, you're a hamster -
A hamster stunned on the careering karmic wheel dealing 6 billion other lap-dancing tap dancers..

Watchful -
The Great Sardines are blaring above the broiling Tiggers of Spam.
I'm mixing my metaphors as fast as I can;
I understand.

Ison floored into the sun.
Will Planet X be closer still on its fun run?
So cheer up,
You're one of the lucky ones:
Your solar-powered garden gnome will help you take command,
For this castle of sand is your castle of sand.
So if you're happy and you don't know it,
Clap one hand.

The Horrifying Zen Of Jimmy Savile

Now then
 now then
now then now
then now
now now nowthen then then

Interview With The Commander Of A Western Suicide Bomber

We gave thanks
He was blessed from above,
After all, he died doing something he loved..

He flew in, just like they did:
But they invaded, he defended.
They cluster bomb, we behead.
He was good, he was disciplined;
He was no tearaway, he was a good kid.
He was funny, loved his playstation he did.
Oh, what was his name again..? 
You know, it was two weeks' ago,
And as you know
a lot has happened since then..

I Had To Write This Poem

I had to write this poem 
because I thought of this one great line,
What do you think -
will it stand the test of time?

Well, I had to write it down
to deter other poets stealing this idea;
You know lines are clutched from the atmosphere,
Or they fall like apples, spill over like beer.

I had to write this poem,
Because I thought of this one great line;
Like a beat messiah,
My acid milk turns to wine.

And now I feel fine, and your pleasure
in my one sparkling line.
I had to write this poem,
Hidden in this gem of a line.

Official Merchandise (Shut Up And Sing)

The only thing we learn from history:
We rarely learn from history;
The nihilists know a thing or two;
The hereditary privilege we deserve?

So face the morphing lineage,
Will the next generation be so different?
Carnivalising ancient lore, truth to power.
More graves, more public inquiries, more sellophane towers.

The Power learns their history:
Feed the believers a simulacrum of history:
Fine myths, folklore, official documentaries,
And a thank goodness we have our culture preserved.

So musical chairs plays you again,
Tuned to reflect the diffident muse-godheads.
Inside numbness outside sound:
The rolling parades;
The phoned-in outlines of revised promises of greatness.

And yet more memorials to more sacrifices.
And fresh blood trades shiny medals, praise and prizes.
And the kings and the queens and the presidents salute the fallen.
And the minute of silence silenced by an anthem.
And some trapped doves released escape a now Kitch Athens.

And the lead marionettes tightened heartstrings snap in the aisles;
And the anointed default-heroes' kids urged to shut up and sing:
It's the least we can do,
What's the hell is wrong with you?
Can't you at least join in?
They died for you, for what we must believe in.

So the only thing we learn from history:
Keep your blessed eyes on your crown,
But please move on, you won't fall down;
Chant reflexively item-listing hymns:
Tradition, Family, God, Country, Freedom, Loyalty, Liberty.
And Sacrifice, make some noise!
This new history has some history.

Softsoftloud

A brisk twenty-minute walk everyday,
Means you are up to eighty percent less likely to die early from coronary heart disease, 
diabetes or cancer.

Whereas,
If you stay at home snuggled all comely and lovely and very becomingly sultry
in your TV dinner chair,
Avidly reading my poems,
You are, excitingly, one-hundred percent less likely
to be killed by a vicious pavement cyclist, 
Meaning you won't die early either;
You'll probably die late,
Which is better than never.
Or is it?

I think your choice here is..
There are no guarantees in life.
But that's your choice,
Which is no choice,
And your only guarantee.

Look, it's quite possible a really vicious pavement cyclist might even appear an unbidden subject of my graphomania,
But would this be your choice?

If a vicious pavement cyclist rides unbidden on one of my free verse spaghetti motorways,
Please don't worry;
They'll probably be immersed into the depravity:
The vicious pavement cyclist might awaken in my Poe-like dreamworld
Himalayan flesh-pot-deep in empty and meaningless sex with the Yeti, 
Which according to nature programmes
is the worst kind of empty climactic sex you can have with the Yeti.
(I obviously wouldn't know, having never done that kind of thing.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.)

Or the vicious pavement cyclist, Camp X-Ray style,
Might be force-fed a lobster through their nose via a pair of tights -
A disturbingly unwashed pair of tights previously worn by 
celebrated and legendary theNeoconstrademark sticksman, Dick Cheney. 
Allegedly..

Or the vicious pavement cyclist could be gently encouraged, inverted commas, 
to sing a Coldplay song backwards
while bathing in a jacuzzi of porcupines who are all in a really bad mood.
(That's the porcupines, not Coldplay)..

Or the vicious pavement cyclist might end up in a forced marriage
with a bidden, totally bidden, squeezed and empty bottle of tomato ketchup..

And no ordinary squeezed and empty bottle of bidden tomato ketchup either.
No, not that kind,
But a squeezed and empty bottle of bidden tomato ketchup with a terrifying superiority complex,
A passive aggressive personality,
And a not entirely healthy interest in grandmothers who smother themselves
in living Anunnaki jam,
Then dress up as pirates to ambush and kidnap naturists astir in the woods attacking carbon dioxide and Cliff Richard songs, Softsoftloud,
As if Cliff Richard is in Mogwai,
Which he isn't, never has been.

No, there's nothing wrong with Mogwai,
But there's definitely something wrong with Cliff Richard being in Mogwai.
But not as wrong as, say,
Mogwai being in Cliff Richard, unbiddenish, Softsoftloud or otherwise.
Or is it?

Curve Ball

A burglar stole my debts.
So, now that I can afford counselling
I have nothing serious to worry about. Hmm..
Now isn't that, in management-jargon, called a curve ball?

I hope the burglar doesn't have a crisis of conscience,
And return my debts back to me.
I'll change the locks on my door,
Make sure the bastard doesn't get in..

Maybe he'll be worried that as he's stolen my debts
I'll worry about having nothing to worry about.
I'll live.
I'll soldier on.
Don't give it a passing thought Mr Benign Burglar.

Can you get counselling for that:
Worrying about having nothing to worry about?
Maybe on the west coast of the USA,
Near some New Age practice in Yellowstone.

And if he goes to prison,
He should receive counselling.
Although these days, things still being the way they are,
The newspapers would have a field day,
Things being the way they are.

I wonder has there ever been a time,
When things weren't the way they were?
There's a conundrum for existential historians to worry about.
Not me though;
I have nothing to worry about,
Except worrying about a burglar returning debts that he stole from me.
What a selfish world this is.

Redacted Charlie Hebdo Haiku