National Poetry Writing Month/NaPoWriMo 2017 – 08/04/17

 

Off We Go to the Circus

 

Polished Spam beneath a cloud of hay,

full of grubby dollar bills, shit and piss,

gargling garbage, stinking like a drain

grabbing at pussies and licking his lips.

 

Full of grubby dollar bills, shit and piss,

he’s made of bacon, baking up hate,

grabbing at pussies and licking his lips,

sweating primal musk in your cornflakes.

 

He’s made of bacon, baking up hate,

swaggering about, bragging about his,

sweating primal musk in your cornflakes,

rubbing greasepaint straight on to his tits.

 

Swaggering about, bragging about his,

gargling garbage, stinking like a drain,

rubbing greasepaint straight on to his tits

polished Spam beneath a cloud of hay.

 

 

Image result for trump lookalike bird

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National Poetry Writing Month/NaPoWriMo 2017 – 07/04/17

No News is Good News

Jack Wagon stared out of the window as hills and rivers rushed past, meandering busily alongside the track. He wore a purple zoot suit and a pair of wombat skin brogues and carried a newspaper strewn haphazardly across his tiny lap but, to his great shame, he did not know how to read it.

“Seat taken?”

An uncaring voice interrupted his landscape enjoyment. A small bald man was leering at him from the aisle. He was dressed in a sort of trench coat and may have been nude underneath. Certainly he had his knees out. Jack formulated a response.

“Well, I think that…”

“Cheers, mate.”

The stranger plonked himself down, already too close for comfort. Jack detected a dirty citrus tang in his nostrils. The invasion of his personal space continued unabated.

“This weather, eh?”

“Yes.” Jack answered, immediately wondering if he had been too terse. The man did not seem to notice.

“What are you reading there?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“The paper, is it the Mail?”

“Aren’t they all?”

The conversation was veering into uncomfortable territory but luckily, greed intervened and the lemony cue ball revealed his true motivation.

“Done with that? Mind if I have it?”

Relieved, Jack handed it over, glad to be rid of the wretched thing. The man snorted his gratitude, rolled the paper into a tight tube and bent over the hand rest staring back knowingly at Jack. He pulled up his coat to reveal his hairy cheeks as the train crashed violently into a Volvo dawdling on the level crossing and Jack was spared from witnessing the act by a swift and fiery death

        the paper phoenix

           fluttering into the flames

emerges unscathed

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A Man. A Plan. A Canal: Panama

Hello! Welcome, welcome, come in. It’s nice to see you. You can leave your shoes on, don’t worry, I’ll take your coat. It’s horrible out there, isn’t it? Well you’re here now anyway; you made it. Let me take you on the tour. This way; watch out for the step into the… oh dear, are you ok? What do you mean, why do I own an ironing board? And a coffee table? Don’t you? Anyway, this is the lounge, we just redecorated. Can I get you something to drink?

The preceding paragraph is a demonstration paragraph, brought to you by the Swedish Modular Furniture Company, and is used to illustrate the manner in which the author (being me) would welcome you (being you) into his home. Note that his tone is chipper and warm; perhaps you feel as though you have returned home after many years at sea, or that this man would make a good father-figure. Perhaps you know a guy just like him. Continue reading

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.

 

The Never-ending Economy

 

“Queue Here” reads the sign

underneath the old railway bridge.

An arrow points towards the wall

networked with ivy, tracing mortar;

the road map of the industrial age picked out

in dark green with white-flecked veins.

 The line begins to form, men and women

arguing amongst themselves, exchanging evils,

totally oblivious, so terribly ill at ease

in polyester uniforms and crumpled suits,

virgins to hand-outs clutching at tickets,

early birds to an imaginary worm.

 

Eventually they begin to die, they fall

at the wayside and lose their position.

“Someone’s on the way soon,” they moan

insidious bankers walk amongst them,

nudging out their pockets into invisible sacks,

grimly extracting their pounds of flesh.

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