“The Internet of Things” novel coming soon!

Murder. Intrigue. Anthropomorphic construction vehicles and bloodthirsty elevators; The Internet of Things, a real British blockbuster of a book has it all. They said that curiosity killed the cat, but they left out the part about the blender…

In a world where everything is connected to the internet and even your toaster is smarter than you, things begin to go wrong and Bruce von Toose, private detective, is caught square in the middle. Will he be able to solve the case of the disappearing rapper before Bristol, or all of Great Britain is razed to the ground by rampant, rioting machines? Will anybody be left alive to care or, more importantly, to pay his fee?

FINAL The Internet of Things Cover  - Artist Jamila Walker 300 dpi

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Blockbusters, Abridged





The Fast and the Furious



Some people go fast

in Hot Wheels cars.

Vin Diesel sports

a grappling hook.



Legally Blonde




 

A blonde woman

isn’t stupid;

she is instead

an attorney.



Moonwalker




 

Michael Jackson fights

drug gangs and Joe Pesci

to save kids; he turns

into a freaking robot.



Lethal Weapon




 

Riggs!

He’s crazy!

I am too old

for this shit.



Titanic




 

Leonardo Di Caprio

fucks Kate Winslet;

I think we all know

how this one ends.






Image from: www.msbnana.blogspot.com

Not Strictly Entertaining

“This is dumb” grumbled the celebrity chef

as he attempted a clumsy bald-headed plié,

and, mugging shamelessly for the cameras,

he announced he had never danced before.

 

“It’s mad, I’ve never danced before” he revealed,

rubbing his head proudly to a waxen sheen

with his sweaty, torn cuff; he liked it rough,

as his publicist had briefed him he should.

 

“My wife thinks I must be gay!”                                silence,

cut to a sequence of trialled pink sequinned shirts,

a nonsensical statement left to hang in the edit

like a homophobic fart in the prime-time lift.

 

Then cheers as he and his partner hit the dance floor,

hands on bums, pumping their hips with fixed grins,

stiff, like over-sexualised animatronic mannequins

lurching along painfully to Tom Jones’ “Sex Bomb.”

 

One judge liked it, he always does, flirting in his verdict,

one judge hated it, he always does, flinging verbal excrement,

one judge wasn’t sure, she never is, she liked his swinging hips

the last judge was too busy flogging frozen food (like he always is).

You’d Need a License Anyway

 

Press keys to appease your employer,

tap tap tap like a rat for your tea,

maximising and minimising windows,

it’s important your colleagues don’t see.

Twitch-clicking becomes instinctive,

a spasm that covers your tracks

so that you can read the BBC website

or look at amusing pictures of cats.

 

Stand up, sit down,

it’s your own choice.

 

That’s right, I might surf incognito

with a polyester seat at my back,

smuggling time like a cyberspace pirate,

exchanging minutes of my life for cash,

but doing it in style, on my own terms…

Yeah right, how pathetic is that?

Writing rubbish like this for my sanity,

lamely rebelling for fear I might crack.

 

Stand up, sit down.

it’s your own choice,

but get your work done,

don’t eat a shotgun.

 

HA HA HA! Have you seen that meme?

HO HO HO! Look at my screen!

HA HA HA! See what I bought!

HO HO HO! Isn’t life short?

 

Tap tap tap, like a dancing bear,

don’t you know that nobody cares?

Don’t you know we’re all the same?

Don’t you know that this is no game?

Don’t you know you’re just a name?

Don’t you know we built this cage?

Don’t you know we made this maze?

Tap tap tap, suppress your rage.

 

Stand up, sit down,

it’s your own choice,

but get your work done,

don’t eat a shotgun.

 

Of course you’re bored,

it’s fucking boring!

Of course you’re bored,

at least you’re not dead.

 

Do It Again! Do It Again!

Do It Again! Do It Again!

by David R J Sealey

 

I’ve heard that some poets were so blessed with time

they could spend whole weeks reworking a single line.

I work in an office and, though I’ve seen printed mine,

I have seen not a penny, not a nickel, nor dime,

 

and I know that my words are not groundbreaking

or classically poetic like Thomas or Constantine,

but just imagine if Jagger or John Lennon did just sing

All Shook Up wearing the blue suede shoes of the King,

 

or Picasso just painted pictures of bowls of fruit,

or the Coen brothers staged a Casablanca reshoot,

or Hendrix played Greensleeves unplugged on the lute,

or the Fat Duck served up slabs of salmon en croute,

 

or we all lived in round houses raised from the mud,

or foreign armies invaded, borne on rivers of blood

and we all died of syphilis or the black plague;

don’t you just wish for those good old days?

 

I just wish that one day I’d get paid

for words that I have so carefully laid,

for all of the cards that I have played

without resorting to rhymes so staid,

 

and I am sorry if you find this derivative,

but I fear I have plagiarised the dictionary

and the internet in the course of its creation;

 

only poetry prays for the death of innovation.

 

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