Showing posts from February, 2021


The govt started disowning anyone they weren't quite sure about.
The sort who'd fly to those confusing sandy countries.
They had agents at airports pickpocketing passports.
Ordered the planes to fly back without any passengers.
They'd get together at night and burn the documents.
The flames summoned Pritt Stick.
Her face doubled in size as she grinned through the fire.


The gang changed a lightbulb.
Celebrated appropriately.

The February Batch (feat. Theresa)

February. A confusing month, to be sure. There aren’t enough days in the thing, but we’ve long since accepted that, apparently. I find it hard to believe, myself. Some guy slapped ol’ Febbo up on the board, told everyone it has 28(ish) days, and people just agreed. That ain’t right, is it? You could never get away with that sort of thing in these current days and times.

Whatever, we’re here now. Here two years ago, of course. Still back in 2019 you see. I’m beginning to think writing about months that happened two years ago might be one of the worst ideas I’ve had. I have absolutely no idea what was going on, and this poetry doesn’t seem to contain any relevant prompts to jog the memory. Theresa May was seemingly still Prime Minister, no doubt having the time of her life. There’s a haiku about her in here.

Anyway, here are the top 10 poems from February. Just to confirm once again, that’s the 2019 February, and not the most recent February. Keep clinging on and hope for the best.

Adam's leaf fell off and blew away.
He was too embarrassed to bend over and pick up another.
He cupped his balls and hoped no one wanted to shake his hand.

Only fans of the bible will get this poem. I'm not, which is why I don’t understand it at all. Must have been some sort of divine intervention going on when I wrote it, or something like that.

A woman shifted in her sleep, knocking over the toaster.
A man had misunderstood her request.
She brushed the crumbs off her morning flesh, called him an idiot and departed.
The barely warmed bread had fallen out of the toaster, he palmed it, melancholy.

Breakfast in bed repulses me. I am to crumbs in bed as Anakin is to sand everywhere.

Surrounded by the sights of Paris,
She awaits a kiss atop the Eiffel Tower.
He takes in the view, oblivious.

Love is confusing, etc.

Doctor Strange was delighted with his cloak.
It would give him cuddles upon request.
He thought that was lovely.

Sue from the tennis still reads out questions.
They laugh at nothing.
She feeds on crumbs that have fallen from cricket Phil.
I'm not sure anyone knows they are still there.

I wrote this on the day I learned ‘A Question of Sport’ is still on television. I just googled the show and apparently Sue Baker is leaving or possibly has left. One of those two things. In any case, this poem should probably be printed out and stored in a museum for historical purposes.

To be a muscular kissing man
Is the greatest challenge of all
These weights are all so heavy
He feels his knees crumple

He tries and tries and tries again
To lift above his head
These weights that are still so heavy
His arms snap and now he's dead

He looks upon his fresh new corpse
At least it's easy to carry
The scrawny, weak, delicate frame
Of a man no one would marry

This one rhymes! How did that get in here? Perhaps an experimental day. A terrible day. A dark day of poetry.

He admired the brickwork while walking by the house.
People don't really do that these days.
It's more about the shrubbery.
He thinks to himself unsure if it's true.

Back in the good old days, when we were all allowed to go on aimless walks. These days of course (lockdown times), we’re only allowed out for exercise. Determined, focused exercise. I think everyone should be forced to wear blinkers, so we can ensure they’re not enjoying the scenery.

Listening to a symphony a poet feels some feelings.
It writes about them in the past.
Yesterday at the very least.
Now the verse cannot be found.
And the feelings felt were fleeting.

Look at Theresa
How does she remain so still
May be a robot

It’s that poem I mentioned earlier.

A poet roams the morning grass.
Filled with morning dew.
A walk enjoyed significantly more.
If they hadn't forgotten their shoes.

Another one of those aimless walks. February 2019 must have been filled with them. What a time to be alive.

That’s the February 2019 summary done, check back frequently for more things, or start scrolling through the website. I recommend both.


Frankie now ate bananas with a knife and fork.
She regretted her loss of innocence.
Everything just seemed so much more suggestive now


Someone stole the princess!
Two brothers hatched a plan to save her.
Chased her around the world.
The villain of the piece left them a note.
Told them they were playing to tropes and it all seemed a bit sexist.
The brothers felt guilty.
Apologised on Twitter
Spent a few weeks getting hammered on a beach instead.


Boris Johnson clattered through the hefty wooden doors.
"The plan's all here, folks!"
He plunged deep into his cavernous pockets and tugged on some notes.
They fluttered from his greasy fingers and scattered across the podium.
He cursed at his appendages and shuffled the notes back together.
Began to ramble incoherently through the jumble of pages.
Saturday was curry night!
He did one of his favourite impressions while delivering that news.
People were allowed to order pizza on Tuesdays.
Restaurants then had to close to disinfect the pizza boxes and hang them out to dry and things like that.
McDonald's could keep drive-throughs open, but only with permission to serve people weighing over fourteen stone who were riding bicycles.
Haircuts were being rationed to fifty strands a day.
And finally, of course, the schools were back.
Children would be sealed in unless they all promised to hold their breath.
For homework they'd be given three coronavirus test kits to complete every evening.
Boris threw his notes on the floor and barrelled out of the building.


Alan picked up a spoon.
Shortly after he picked up another.
He tried to come up with a relevant joke before silently placing them back down.


A lighthouse keeper lay in bed.
He'd turned off the light.
Found himself soothed by the sound of ships crumpling.
The coast was chaos.


A fly invited itself into my home.
I tried to hook a mask around its face.
It swerved my attempts.
I tried to explain how irresponsible it was being.
I printed out graphs and charts.
Slapped away at them with my telescopic pointer.
Explained how it wasn't just risking our lives, but thousands more.
Briefly I felt important.
The fly landed on one of my graphs.
I could feel it.
It was trying to undermine me.


Davis woke at 5:30.
Wondered if anyone else knew this time existed.


Ralph chased down Bessie.
Her lumbering frame was deceptive.
It was a challenge, but Ralph loved the hunt.
He hacked away at her legs until she crumpled.
Gorged on her remains.
Fed some of her to his family.
Sort of smiled, I suppose.


A referee headbutted one of the players.
They banded together and started chasing the referee around the field.
They tugged at his pockets.
Tried to retrieve his cards and send him off.

Delia's Pancakes

Delia Smith arrived and insisted on teaching pancake recipes.
I bolted my door and screamed "covid" at the top of my lungs.
She was smashing on the windows.
Recipe book in one hand, frying pan in the other.
She turned towards the door and charged headfirst.
Her sieve helmet crumpled.
The bolts held.
Delia hauled herself back to her feet and resumed clubbing the windows.
A spatula had found its way onto the flower bed.


Vince the carpenter had a go at making a sword.
Some blacksmiths arrived.
Began pulverizing him with their poking rod things and also those hammers they use.


The government came up with a new scheme for Valentine's day.
They would issue one lucky couple with clear balls to meet up and roll around in.
Everyone tuned into the BBC for the big reveal.
The lucky couple couldn't believe it!
They plugged in Zoom, planned the big day, and waited for the military to fly in the meet up spheres.
Ben wore his cravat to mark the occasion.
Daisy mounted a beret upon her head.
They both wore shoes with good traction to help with rolling, as per gov recs.
Suddenly the balls thunked against the ground outside their front doors.
Ben and Daisy were blasted with disinfectant as they clambered into the orbs.
Both set off at the same time, rolling to their arranged meeting point in Stratford.
News networks filmed it and people cried and cheered.
Some were enraged by the display, of course.
They pelted the orbs with eggs as they rattled by their windows.
The military's helicopters had water jets on them to deal with that sort of thing.
Daisy spotted Ben approaching and gathered some speed.
She tripped attempting to mount a kerb and Ben laughed at her, but she let that go.
It was just like real life all over again.
Their balls clacked together and they kissed through the Perspex.


"Fifteen millionish jabs administered!"
Boris applauded himself.
Gurned awkwardly at the camera.
He ordered Matthew to cheer as loud as possible.
Started muttering about accidentally issuing them all to the same person or something.
Matthew was whooping away like nobody's business.


An Italian also sat in their house not really doing much.
Waiting for this all to blow over I suppose.
But it just looked so much more exotic.


Wallace wanted some cheese.
He took advantage of the dog to resolve the situation.


Agnes cultivated plants.
She looped them around her plate.
Plopped down a steak and tucked in.
The plants mocked the slab of meat.
Cheered as the blade sawed it in two.


The Queen slapped on her big stupid hat.
Her neck craned forward.
She gawked at the documents.
Stooping ever lower.
Pens shuffled into her hands.
Her tendrils wrapped around the biros and she went to town scribbling over the details.
Cackling to herself.
Suddenly Queenie found herself clamped to the papers.
The crown was heavy, she couldn't move an inch!
She jingled some Land Rover keys and the slaves came running.
They prised the monstrosity off her head and hauled her back into the throne.


Bruce started living in someone else's house.
He didn't tell them this was going on.
He tried to keep quiet and only ate little bits of things from the fridge.
Some nights he'd tweak the thermostat.


Eugene slipped into his bat-gear.
"I'm Batman!" he rasped.
"No, you're not" said Laura.
Eugene sheathed his batarangs and grappling hook and got in bed.


Riley assaulted the lad carrying testing kits.
Scooped hundreds of the rods into his tracksuit and fled home.
Slapped at the air as he went.
He began conducting hourly tests on himself.
His cavities were raw.
He felt so alive.


The Royal Ballet started performing on Zoom.
They were all slightly out of sync and some of the dancers kept stuttering to stay in time.
One of them tripped over a cat.
Another had shattered her foot after kicking her desk.
The chief dancist was fuming.

Major Clapping

The government issued another clapping.
Some old chap had died.
Everyone had to bundle out of their homes otherwise they'd be executed.
The neighbours hadn't seen each other in months, they all started gossiping.
Some suggested that maybe the government's advice was what killed him in the first place.
Boris Johnson appeared on big screens and over newly installed loudspeakers.
He insisted the proles clap louder to drown out any such nonsense.


Boris Johnson juggled a couple of syringes.
He guffed to make the British flag flutter in the background.
"Good old British humour, that"
He blathered on about how the British invented comedy for half an hour and continued trumping towards the flag.
Suddenly everyone forgot half of their families were dead and started clapping along and tousling his hair.

The January Batch (of poems)

On January the 2019th, I embarked on a journey to publish a poem every single day. At first the idea of bulk poetry may seem like a rather terrible concept, but then you remember that Primark exists, and that’s proof enough that people love quantity over quality. I also expected to give up after a month or so, so really, it wasn’t that much of a commitment. I didn’t though, and now the whole gosh darn thing is a colossal, and indeed confused, unorganised mess. 

There’s far too much content for any but the most ardent fans to keep track of, and, let’s be honest, some of it is a bit crap. I knew it would be going in, despite my talents, I can’t be publishing a masterpiece every day. That’s almost inconceivable. I of course gave it my best shot, and I think I just about hit a 50:50 ratio of masterpieces to absolute rubbish. That’s quite good, isn’t it? One good poem every other day, some people don’t even write a single good poem in a lifetime, yet here I am, masterpiecing it up.

Back to the matter at hand, I've decided to write a few things like this in order to solve the aforementioned confused mess. So, here we go, travelling all the way back to January 2019, digging through the faeces to drag out a few champions of the poetry world. I pulled together 10 of them, so I could say it’s a list of the top 10 greatest poems of all time. Published on this website. In January. The 2019 one. I hope Google likes that, and Bing, etc.

The poet and his partner sit atop a hill in the Lake District.
Looking to the sky she points out a bird.
"Two birds" he says, spotting another in the distance.
"Yes, two birds."
They hold hands, clammy due to the effort exerted so far and continue on.
Thoughts drift towards man's inhumanity to man.
Neither mention it.

Ah, a poem about the Lake District. Never been. But I have plopped myself there via Google Maps, which is the same sort of thing, just without any of the effort.

Uri Geller invited his friends over for soup.
His mother handed him a wooden spoon.
"I'm sick of it all, Uri" she sighs.
Uri runs to the cutlery drawer in search of metal spoons.
Scattering its contents across the kitchen floor. 

In case you are unaware of whom Uri Geller is, he’s a person famous for pretending he can bend metal spoons with his mind. In this poem, his mother, like the rest of us, has clearly had enough of him. I have no idea what their relationship is like in real life.

The heroic knight rode fearlessly into battle.
He fought a mighty dragon.
The dragon ate him.

Mark began to regret nailing himself to a plank of wood.
He didn't feel anything like Jesus.
And his feet hurt quite a lot.

Braving some religion there. It's daring, boundary smashing poetry. That's what the people like.

Spider-Man ran straight into the glass door.
He felt like such an idiot.
He considered it a failing of his Spider-Sense for the lack of warning.
He didn't really know what to do about it.

I was never really sure on the legality of this one. I figured if Marvel wants to come after me then at least it’ll be fantastic publicity. Not that I have any idea who Marvel is, of course.

Standing naked dread enshrouds me.
Powerless to appreciate the remnants of my shower.
I realise on this cold winter morn
My towel lie forgotten in a frosty room.
Help I cry, help, and help once more.
Nobody replies for I am alone.

Just a little dramatised showering. It probably was cold that day though, this is January after all.

She entered the darkness and her imagination raced.
Light filled the room as the switch was flipped.
There was nothing worth seeing anyway.

Donald Trump tries to look compassionate.
He kills some children,
Gurns and departs for golf.

Ignore me, I have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about. No child has ever died due to decisions made by politicians, and they never will. Who would even suggest such a thing? Perhaps this is one of those positive killings. He killed it with his wit and charm. Yes, that must be it.

The pirate always felt undermined by his parrot.
When he issued orders his companion would often remark snidely.
Being unsure if the parrot meant what it said really affected his confidence. 

A woman discovers a bite on her arm.
It feels rather itchy.
She sits back and appreciates that something wanted to be close. 

There you go, a collection of 10 poems from January. The first few months might be a bit of a struggle to be honest.


Edison rigged up his doorbell to ring intermittently.
He enjoyed the surprise of the tone.
The feeling that guests were arriving.
Sometimes he'd unlatch the door to make the occasion feel even more authentic.