These Words Aren't Mine

Guess what?
I don't think these words are mine,
Have I ripped this poem off?
Will I get sued,
And thrown in jail?
Such Humiliation!
Perhaps I may never return,
To my flat again,
For I reside,
In the nonsense poetry quarter,
There will be posters,
Of my disgraced face all over this place.
What if these thoughts aren't mine?
Should we be held accountable,
For our unconscious mind?

Standing at the bus stop,
I mentioned to a cute girl,
Next to me,
The bus is late again,
And she screamed back,
Excuse me!
Did you just say the bus is late again?
Did you? Did you?
Yes, I replied,
Why,
Do you disagree?
She turned deep crimson,
Disagree? Ha! Ha!
She exclaimed,
Those are my words,
Actually,
I said them just yesterday,
And you were standing,
There,
Right beside me!
You better watch it,
'Cause my boy friend,
Or ex boy friend,
If you must know,
Has mates,
And they are extremely,
Extremely vicious poets.
You've been warned,
Don't you steal any of my,
Creative juices again,
I'm from the left bank of the Thames.

Lesson learned.
I hope to never, ever,
Make such a stupid mistake again,
But, you know,
There is a part of me,
A small part,
But a part none the less,
That almost enjoyed it,
Now what does that say about me,
And my subversive unconscious?

Actually,
Thinking about it now,
I think it best,
If I throw away this poem,
So you can never read it,
So you can never know,
Because,
Living in the nonsense poetry quarter,
You can never be too careful,
The daffodils gossip like triffids,
Round here.

Those French Poetical Asylum Seekers

The prejudice,
Against so called blog poets,
Really is,
In my book at least,
The last acceptable form of racism,
It really is.

So where are our human rights,
Then?
It makes my blood boil,
It does.

Political correctness gone mad,
We're not girly and artistic enough,
Oh no.
But I suppose if,
If I was one of those French poets,
Who spoke,
And wrote,
In that,
If you please,
And I visited brothels,
And so called houses of ill repute,
And I contracted shag-syphilis,
Or some other sex fiend,
Degenerative brain illness,
You know what would happen don't you?
That's right,
The government,
Would give them free groupies,
On the N.H.S.,
Yes!
That's what would happen.

And this is why we invaded Iraq?
I'd like to see those,
French symbolist poets,
Take on suicide bombers,
With their frilly shirts,
And decadent tresses,
And eye liner.

You know they,
Shat out their,
So called windows,
Don't you?
And if they came here
To this country,
To claim some poetical asylum,
If they weren't still dead,
We,
The British blog poets,
Would have to write their poems for,
Them!
Probably in their lingual too,
Translations paid for with,
With your council tax,
You know what I'm saying?

And you know,
And I have to say this,
This really makes me laugh.
Really. Makes. Me. Laugh.
Is that,
I'm not allowed to say,
What I've just said,
Because,
Apparently,
That makes me,
Some kind of racist.
And,
As for the Pharaohs,
Don't even get me started on them,
With their parchment pyramid cats.

The Scream

Looking at the gorgeous women,
Is more dangerous that staring at the sun,
You get blinded,
Needles twist your eyes,
Many good men become undone.

Crashing off into a ravine,
Falling into a manhole,
A manhole!
Sleep walking onto a busy road,
Or we just turn away,
And sigh,
Everything spins, swirls and melts,
We're their rabbits frozen,
In our own headlights.
It just isn't right.

One time,
I walked smack into a wall,
For example.

Another time,
It was a Christmas tree,
In Stratford Shopping Centre,
The little children,
Around Santa's grotto,
Didn't seem to mind.

More recently,
I saw a man bang into a lamp post,
Stealing a furtive glance,
At his girlfriend's behind.
There's fidelity in action!

Gorgeous women -
The kamikaze distraction.

Politician's Farewell Speech

Thank you s'very much.

It's been a long night,
hasn't it?
for all of us,
an amazing journey,
with a purpose,
we had that blue sky dream,
together with the greens, purples and yellows,
and,
together,
we almost,
almost,
made it,
and for that you should feel justly proud.

Almost isn't gonna do it though,
and so, I,
with a heavy heart have decided,
to step down..
no please, please, allow me to finish..
to step down,
so a new leader,
can reignite the flame,
and,
then,
with firmness of thought,
thrust that flame,
into the engaged mouth,
that is the yeti of hope,
eternally,
the dragon's breath,
in a glorious new spring time,
like flowing bees,
mounting the flowerpots,
to pollinate the new honey dew,
of positive ambition,
and to cast aside,
the broken ankles of negative penguins,
as we dare to dream,
like a successful vacuum cleaner,
that sucks away,
the exhaust pipe of negative negativity,
and as it extinguishes,
that,
a phoenix fridge-like in its furnace,
that's a pregnant woman with a small child,
inside it,
we will unite again,
we will beget those lost sheep,
like the cage-ed flower,
untamed,
like a holy cow with a gun,
but in a good way,
with love,
with compassion,
with healing,
to deliver on the promise,
of a brighter tomorrow,
and a day after tomorrow,
and after that,
and after that too,
and so on,
so that there shall,
never again,
be,
never again,
no yesterday's for everyone,
like today will,
tomorrow.

So, then,
as I leave you tonight,
as we spill away,
off different bridges,
as we sigh on the vegetation below,
smiling sadly,
like an upside-down rainbow,
smiles sadly,
under its gainful cloud of moonlight,
I'll take my leave of you,
and thank you so much,
God bless you all,
God bless you all,
thank you, thank you,
goodbye,
and thank you again.

Corporate Plants

A new contractor,
has taken over,
the maintenance,
of corporate planting.
Entree Plants,
have noticed,
that in some areas,
plants are being watered,
in between routine contract visits.

With immediate effect,
then,
staff are requested,
not to water corporate plants,
or,
pour tea/coffee,
or other refreshment dregs,
into the plant pots,
we will smash your face in.

The Heart Break Line

Sinking into place,
On the Heart Break line platform,
Still waiting for the delayed train,
To arrive,
But it doesn't arrive.
How strange.

Dawdling near the edge,
Kicking soul heals,
Through this fog,
A distant signal steams red,
Still,
Why the delay?
Strange,
So I turn away.

Bam!
I'm sucked in,
Hit.
By what?
I'm under.

Was I looking the wrong way?
Again?
My heart bursts open like a cluster bomb,
As dazed gargoyles in Club Class,
Morris dance though me,
Like phantoms in a fountain.
This must be The Heart Break Bullet Train,
With my name on it.
Choo choo

Luggage is reminded,
to keep passengers with you.
Please familiarise yourselves,
with the safety notices,
pinning you under your train.
In case of emergency,
please wait until a few seconds,
before your train crashes,
before you pull on,
the emergency cord of prayer.

Be warned,
The Heart Break,
runs on Devil's Mean Time.
And when delayed,
if you look away,
you will pay.

You will pay.

..Still here..

Until

Warning.

Please don't read this message,
Until..

Until..

Until..?
So sorry,
I've forgotten the nature of,
The "until".
I'm sure you'll be okay,
If you've read up to here.

I work such strange hours,
Writing these helpful warning notices.
In years to come,
I believe,
This time will be regarded,
As an era, golden,
A golden era,
In other words,
A golden era of helpful warning notices.
Just like the Shakespearean era.

What I mean,
Is,
It was such a great time for him,
Wasn't it?
Bet he counted himself lucky,
To be born in Shakespearean times!
Can you imagine,
If,
Instead,
He was born in,
Say,
Dickensian times,
No one would have heard of him.
Not even Charles Dickens.
Crazy!

Oh,
I'm going to interrupt myself again,
Sorry, but,
I remember now!

Okay.

Warning.

Please don't read this message,
Until,
Tomorrow.

Can't believe I forgot that.

Cheers, then.

Chocolate Beer Flavoured Tandoori Pizza

Chocolate beer flavoured tandoori pizza,
That can help you lose weight,
Is that really too much to ask?
And who will send the first granny,
To knit a cardi in space,
China, Russia, U.S.A.?

As sideways I drift on this tube,
I dream up such thoughts,
And miss my stop,
To,
A zero gravity knitting pizza,
Fired into space,
And a chocolate beer flavoured,
Tandoori nanny,
That can help you lose weight.

This AstroTurf

This is the best simile,
In the world,
There is absolutely,
Nothing else like it,
Metaphors in our dreams,
Make sense in themselves,
Like a gardener vacuuming AstroTurf.

She Said

She said,
"You provided me with the most spectacular,
Oral,
Within the M25 orbital,
You fed and watered my garden gnomes,
Like they were your very own,
But now I need a man,
Who can provide for me,
Shiny bespoke ultra organic vegetables,
From those boutiqu-ee type farms,
To mop up those free radical munchkins,
Really,
This career girl needs a sensible man,
To settle down.
So thank you for blowing..,
My mind,
For listening,
For being so kind,
But now it's time to say,
Thank you,
And.."

"Yeah,
I know,
"Fuck off."..."

Three Poems about Mad Cows' Disease

"Three?"
Her eyes swivelled
a dinner lady's,
Whose loose false teeth
boldly declared U.D.I.,
And jettisoned atrociously,
Like a depth charge,
Into an unsuspecting
boiling vat of industrial sink estate school custard.

"Thu..reeee!"
She exclaimed,
Again,
Shaking with the almighty shock,
Of an elderly nun,
Confessing to experiencing her first,
And might the blameless sister add,
Hopefully last!,
Non induced,
And completely unwelcome,
Multiple orgasm of three,
(Or was it four?).

"Three?
Why have you written,
Written,
Three poems about,
Mad Cows' Disease?"

People around us shuffled uneasily,
And turned to each other like daleks,
The barman dived below the bar,
And the D.J. jumped into
one of those erotic dancer cages,
The gyrating Romanian dancer shrieked.

I circled my right arm,
Gathering in the appalled throng,
Swaying with the lascivious dread,
Of a lap dancer,
At a footballer's stag night.

"I've written three poems,
About mad cows',
Because.."

"Because?"
Her eyebrows levitated,
Like a raised Tower Bridge,
The loved-up dalek dolls,
Sashayed ever closer,
With the studied coyness,
Of the Bollywood-style temple maid.

I waved my empty glass,
"Barman!",
The crouched being hiding by the steam washer,
Suggested,
"Don't you think you've had enough sir?",
I shrugged,
And drained the last of my milk stout,
Wiping my left purple sleeve across my lips,
"I've written three poems,
About mad cows' disease,
Because,
Because,
I have yet to write my fourth."

There.

Artistic Integrity - A Parody (Revised)

parody - noun

1.A literary or artistic work that imitates the characteristic style of an author or work for comic effect or ridicule

2. The genre of literature comprising such works.

3. Something so bad as to be the equivalent to intentional mockery; a travesty.

Your latest album has caused,

Well, lets be honest,

A hosepipe amount of controversy,

Especially your last single:

Proud to be Celibate at the Global Capitalist Gang Bang.

I mean,

That was pretty angry,

I mean,

It's great,

But, wow! what inspired you guys to..?

..Oh, you know,

Wasn't one thing,

More a combination of everything,

Merged together:

You know the bankers' bail-out,

Unbelievable,

All those free marketeers being saved by,

Irony!: A collapsing banking system that had to be socialised!

All that,

That's what the single was about.

It really seemed to touch a nerve..

I'd say!

More nerves than a brain neurologist!

The lyrics,

What is it?:

"You said that greed is good/

But It's Karl Marx whose got the morning wood/

Your reign is full of acid/

Your eyes are flaccid.."

Whooh!

Yeah, there's definitely anger there,

I'm no Marxist, but I was making the point...

Sometimes you have to get past their defences,

Go straight for the arteries.

It's dangerous:

You attack the system like that,

You attack yourself..

How do you mean?

Music is like a psychic sieve,

My thoughts drain out into society,

And if they're subversive,

Especially if not articulated politely,

Can be frightening.

You're putting yourself in the firing line,
.......
Like you or I eat pies.

Do you think that there is any contradiction,

Then,

When,

You allowed,

Proud to be Celibate at the Global Capitalist Gang Bang,

To be used as the theme tune to the Bloonex toilet roll advert?

God, no.

No?

No.

Why?

Why? Because it's another way to get our message out there,

It appeals and pulls in a different consumer demographic,

That's central to us enablising -

if that's a word -,

Our musical product,

But I mean that it an obviously positive way,

To an otherwise discluded -

if that's another word,

Brand identity,

And thus,

Revitalise our base.

It's no use playing to a stadium that's empty.

As long as you keep your artistic integrity.