King Baby Fairy

Hey little Tommy,
Can you come here and sit down?
Your mother and I need to talk to you.

No,
Don't worry,
You've haven't done anything wrong,
It's just that your mother and I,
Believe that it's about time,
You knew about,
The Real Facts of Life,
You know:
About where babies really come from.

Tomorrow Tommy you are twelve,
And we have to admit,
That everything we told you so far,
Up to now,
About babies,
And where babies come from,
Was not strictly true Tommy,
We're sorry..

Mums and dads make these stories up,
To protect little children,
So they can enjoy their childhood in innocence,
Believing that little babies,
Are conceived,
In fairy tales:
You know: drunken but loving one-night-stand relationships,
That kind of thing..

Maybe you believe Tommy,
That you were conceived one winter's night,
When Father Christmas,
And a Premiership footballer,
Had a spit-roasting session with your mother,
In a cordoned-off v.i.p area,
Of an exclusive nightclub.
Is that what you think Tommy?
Is that how you think you were made?
Oh, you do.
Well no Tommy, that's not strictly true,
That didn't actually happen I'm afraid..

So here are the real Facts of life Tommy:
Adults do not conceive children,
By having ecstatic, rampant, meaningless and sordid sex.
Ha! Ha! No.
The truth is Tommy,
In the real world,
Sex doesn't really exist,
It's a totally made up thing:

It's never happened.
In fact you Tommy,
Like all children,
Were actually delivered to us by the King Baby Fairy,
Yes that's right:
The King Baby Fairy.
The King Baby Fairy.
The King Baby Fairy.
And one of his little helpers,
Will visit you tomorrow,
To explain,
As you will be twelve.
You see the King Baby Fairy's helpers,
Always visit children when they are twelve,
To explain everything to them,
About The Real Facts of Life..

Now Tommy you look a little stunned:
No, that's right Tommy,
Sex doesn't exist,
Not at all.
Premiership footballers and celebrities,
Don't exist either,
Are you disappointed?

Now obviously,
Your mother and I realise this is a lot to take in,
So don't be shy Tommy,
Ask us anything you like..

Xanadu

Why aren't you networking?
Why don't you have any profiles?
Where are all your pictures,
Your legends?
You're not proving anything you know.

Ah, maybe you're in love?
Are you,
In love?
Oh,
But how long will that last,
Realistically?

Come on now,
Join the communities:
Almost billions of them.
You never need make new friends,
Messily,
In the old-fashioned, in-your-face way, ever again:
Time-wasting!
Recruit via inner space,
Gracefully,
Situationally:
The beginning and the end.

Once sited,
You will never be deleted,

So,
Inoculate yourself against mortality,
Personalise your existence.
Widget your apps,
Snoop on yourself with our maps,
Select up to ten thousand friends:
Reply,
Reject,
Ban,
Resend,
Report,
Pretend,
Ineluctable friend,

Click,
Open:
Xanadu.

Daffodils (post-modern slight return)

I wandered lonely,
As a mixed metaphor,
Blowing candles sentimental,
Breezily in the wind,
Waiting for Diana,
To roll the cake in,
Faster than a cannon ball.
Then,
Hostess,
I came upon some daffodils,
And tore them from their roots.

Then,
I foisted them into the wax-works I made,
Of Morrissey's anus,
Carefully strewn on the gallery floor,
And I stood around my art installation scene,
Fluttering for the Turner.
Excuse me? What does it all mean?
Well, what do you mean?
That's,
So beyond,
So beneath,
I say: Float your own meaning,
For me? There is no frame.
Strange questions!
Anyway..

The Dynamic-Anti-Perspirant Paradox

Dynamic men,
Lead,
truly dynamic lives,
DEMAND,
Dynamic t.v ads,
Advertising,
Dynamic-anti-perspirants..

Look at that man,
There on the screen,
As you stuff your face with crisps,
And processed cheese..

Look at him:
He's a truly dynamic man,
Running,
Just running,
Because he feels like running,
Because he's dynamic..

And,
Now,
He's in a very dynamic meeting,
Dynamically pointing,
At dynamic flowcharts.
God he's dynamic, isn't he?
I bet you wish you were that dynamic, don't you?
But you're not are you?

And now look at him,
In his dynamic power-shower,
Sponging himself dynamically,
With that dynamic shower-gel soap foam,
With its dynamic moisturisers,
Bathing his uxurious skin,
Dynamically.

look at him!

Now in slo-mo:
He's spraying himself moodily,
With his dynamic anti-perspirant,
Because he means it!

And now,
He's playing dynamic squash,
Because,
He's a work-hard, play-hard kind of guy.
Because,
He's,
Dynamic!

And now he's dynamically eating pasta,
With his dynamic-looking girlfriend,
Because,
He's a work-hard, play-hard,
And,
Eat-hard kind of guy.

Wow!
This dynamic anti-perspirant,
For dynamic men really works.
I'm more than impressed!

Question:
When will they sell an undynamic-anti-perspirant,
For undynamic men,
Leading,
Truly,
Undynamic lives?
Pointing at undynamic flowcharts,
In truly undynamic meetings,
Undynamically eating undynamic sloppy pasta,
With truly undynamic girlfriends?

I mean,
I've never even seen a dynamic flowchart,
Let alone point at one!
Dynamic meeting?
Do they really exist?
So where are our undynamic-anti-perspirant consumer rights?
Well,
The truth is,
If we demanded undynamic anti-perspirant,
For undynamic men,
We would then - by definition - be acting dynamically,
So,
In that case,
We would have to spray ourselves with,
Dynamic-anti-perspirant anyway!

Who'd have thought,
Choosing the correct anti-perspirant,
Would be so complicated,
And present such a paradox?
Only someone with a dynamic imagination,
Is capable of that,
And he's probably,
Right now,
Pointing at a dynamic looking flowchart,
In his dynamic meeting,
Etcetra.

Romance?

A mattress,
A pair of sheer satin tights,
One large rubber duck,
And a crimson stiletto shoe,
Lie dumped on the pavement outside my flat,
Glistening moonlight asphalt dew.
A note sellotaped on top of the mattress,
In black felt-tip:
THANK YOU!!

Show-offs!

And His Blog

He was a blog-standard, slightly misunderstood genius,
But somehow he just died,
He was a blog-standard, slightly misunderstood genius,
And yet,
Somehow,
He just died.

He led a tragic double-life:
For by day he kept up a soul-destroying job,
But by night he held down a soul-destroying private life.
And he nursed,
Secretly but lovingly,
His blog,
Sometimes.
And alas,
No-one in his life knew.

"Oh he was all right.."
An ex-girlfriend mused,
"Yeah I definitely remember him..
He's dead?
Oh, it's always such a shame when that happens,
Isn't it?"
Yes.
Yes it is.

And,
His blog.
That poor blog of his,
No-one knew.
No-one.
Well no-one except a blog administrator,
Who deleted it.

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.