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Showing posts from September, 2021

Cool Dudes with Skateboards

One cool dude
Met another cool dude.
They traded skateboards.

Fuel Crisis

The military arrived.
They camouflaged as BP signs and petrol pumps and set up camp in Wild Bean Cafes.
Rifles were waved at motorists who dared drizzle more than two pounds worth of fuel into their tank.
A sergeant shot a ditz who got a bit too eager at £1.99.

Going Up

A grasshopper jumped too high and ended up orbiting earth.
He wasn't equipped to get back down and had to adapt to life in space.

Angling

Stan's face dropped.
This was angling?
He folded away his protractor.
Threw himself in the river.

The Slug and the Snail

Dave (a well-to-do slug) bought Paul's (a snail) house.
Paul was banished from the community.
He had to go and live with the slugs.
Dave wasn't feeling very welcome in his new home either.

Coffin Doors

A retirement home built trap doors into their beds.
They'd store coffins underneath and yank the lever when one is the oldies popped.
It saved a lot of time
But the families thought it was a disgrace.

Mucking In

Luigi hooked his arse up to some gas pipes.
Ate an unbelievably large plate of beans.
The family gathered by a radiator
Cheered on Luigi as he devoured the mountain.

The Beat Goes On

Linda worked in customer support.
She hated every single one of them.
Except a guy called Kevin.
He had a genuine complaint.
She spoke to him for about an hour
Wrote down his number
Learned he had a wife.
Eventually she managed to convince her they'd slept together.
Anyway, the point was Linda hated these customers.
She hated them so much she learned how to beatbox.
She learned horrendous tunes and started spouting them out over the line.
The customers would tire of being on hold and hang up
And Linda would smile to herself.

Poetry from the Beach

Kate went to the beach.
She just didn't agree with it.
The wetness of the water
The dryness of the sand.
It simply didn't make sense.
The whole thing infuriated her.
She began stomping around kicking over sandcastles.
Telling children to stop celebrating the monarchy.
At one point she was briefly distracted by a dog.
One of the children managed to erect a flag before she pelted his creation.

The Best Poetry Collection of September Past


A man prepares his bowl of Shreddies.
He curses Nestle.
Then sits back and enjoys the Shreddies (Frosted) anyway.

I’m not one for cereal, so I’m really stepping out of my comfort zone writing something like this. My general dislike of cereal would explain why I wrote about a man eating a bowl of Frosted Shreddies, and not about me not eating a bowl of Frosted Shreddies. It sort of shows my range. In any case, I can’t be bothered to carry you on a crusade against Nestle, in fact, I care so little about the company that I can’t even be bothered to add that little flourish above the e. Perhaps it’s best to pretend I’m doing that out of disdain. Yes.


A curious man picked up a rock.
He thought about how old it might be.
He rolled it in his fingers,
Weighed it in his hand,
Waved it about a bit.
Chucked it in the air and let it fall to the ground.
"A good 10 years on that rock" he said to himself, satisfied.

This is just a little poem about some rocks, or a man who enjoys them, I guess. Maybe a bit of both. I tend not to pick up rocks as rocks tend to find themselves in mud. This is, yet again, showing my range as a poet. My ability to stand back, observe, and place myself in the shoes of others.


The delivery driver caught the homeowner staring through a window.
He sat in his van waiting, anxious.
For 10 minutes he pretended to eat a sandwich.
They wouldn't stop watching.
They wouldn't stop waiting.
He gave in and sauntered out casual as you like.
Drop kicked the package onto the roof.
Shoved a note through the door and retreated rapidly.

Far too frequently I’ve glanced out the window the moment a delivery driver has pulled up. I don’t want to look desperate when the doorbell gongs, so I like to hide for a few seconds to make it look like I’m a busy person getting on with my busy life. Sometimes I am a busy person going about my busy life, this poetry doesn’t write itself, you know. These things take time.


Bruce Grobbelaar held the ball tightly.
He sat in the thinning grass and curled around the ball.
Everyone was asking Bruce to give the ball back.
Bruce refused and insisted he wouldn't let go of the ball.
Everyone was getting upset and men were blowing whistles and gesticulating.

I’ll be honest with you, I only know who Bruce Grobbelaar is because he was on a Pog I found. Here’s the relevant information: Bruce Grobbelaar was a goalkeeper for Liverpool Football Club, referees carry whistles and blow them when things happen. Here’s some less relevant but still interesting information: Bruce Grobbelaar had a moustache.


"What about Paul Potts?" they said.
"What about Paul Potts?" he replied.
He didn't know who Paul Potts was.
He hoped he didn't give the game away.

I’ve decided this is the ‘People I Don’t Know’ section. I recall absolutely nothing about why this came up, but I remember looking up Paul Potts and finding out he was the winner of some talent show. Britain’s Got Talent, I’m reliably informed by Wikipedia. Hopefully he’s doing well. I hope he enjoys the poem if he ever finds it. Paul Potts was played by James Corden in a film I’m not sure anyone knows exists. Harvey Weinstein’s production company was involved.


A man sat twiddling his thumbs as he waited for his moustache to grow.
His thumbs got tangled in his moustache.
He was very good at growing his moustache.

I’ve known a few people with moustaches in my time. I can only assume, based on the timeframe, that this poem wasn’t inspired by any of them, but by none other than Bruce Grobbelaar. What a guy, what a moustache.


Barry stares at his timepiece (watch) for what feels like a good 30 seconds.
"Yes" he squeals "I've finally done it!"
He strips right down to the flesh and blasts off on a nudie run.
Things are flapping about everywhere.
He returns home ashamed and clutching a new battery.

If I could stop time, and everyone knew about my ability to stop time, all of my excuses for being late to everything would no longer be valid. I don’t think I’d like that.


"Surprise!" shouted the guests.
It was surprising.
The birthday boy was terrified.
He whipped the rifle off his shoulder and mowed down all of his friends.
The guests apologised.
They were leaking all over the floor.

I wrote this before anyone got shot at a surprise party. I’m fairly sure shortly after I wrote it pretty much this exact scenario showed up in the news. It wasn’t me.


The man threw punches at the air.
At least a dozen solid jabs so far today.
He'd had enough of the ghosts.
He hoped to show one who's boss.

People were very angry.
They held up signs.
They shouted quite a bit.
Some of the signs even had angry messages on them.

I’ve been to a few protests in my time, admittedly this was largely in an accidental capacity. You tend to stumble upon those things when wandering through city streets. If they’re carrying some agreeable placards I might make a beeline for the gang and stroll alongside them while they traverse in a convenient direction, hoping someone takes a picture so it looks like I actually made an effort, then it’s off to do musing for poetry.


The clown plugged his nose into his nose.
Applied his hair to his hair.
Then stared into the mirror and began to practice his laugh.
It was an evil laugh.
He'd had enough of the children.

I can’t recall a second of my life in which I thought clowns were fun. I remember random encounters with them, during which I always placed a trusted adult between myself and the odious character. There was one time a clown managed to breach the wall, I cried for about two weeks after he managed to get close to me. Clowns deserve all the hate they get, and then some. They’re all, without question, creeps.


Buzz hopped in his brand new spaceship and flew all the way to Mars.
The journey gave him plenty of time to enjoy several bags of crisps.
His landing kicked up a lot of dust.
Everything got dusty!
He sighed and began the trip back home for a vacuum cleaner.

Edith boards the bus and grips the handrail firmly.
"Drive"
The driver plants his foot and whizzes through the streets.
The bus leans through the corners and scrapes against parked cars.
She beams at the driver and whoops and cackles with joy.

The wizard mocked his friend.
Waggled a magical twig about.
He zapped his friend by mistake.
His friend turned into a frog!
The wizard apologised profusely and vowed to seek aid from a woman.
Adjusting his drooping spectacles he tried to recall the last woman he'd encountered.

Wizards are nerds. I once had a pet, that pet had a water bowl, that water bowl once had a frog in it. Frogs are quite repulsive, so I alerted housemates and evacuated. I have no idea what happened to the frog after that.


A man grabbed two fistfuls of sand and massaged them into his hair and face and chest.
"I want to be sandpaper"
He slathered his back and stared at the bottle.
"I want to be sandpaper" a third time "I want to be sandpaper!"
It was at that moment that he did not turn into sandpaper.

Peter squints hard at the cardboard box.
He closes his eyes and tries again.
Still just a box!
He was positive that thing used to turn into a racing car.

Imagining things doesn't really seem worth the effort these days. Imaginative people invented the television so no one else has to. And obviously even they'd had enough, otherwise they wouldn't have invented it in the first place.


The man jogged to the shop for some doughnuts.
He ate all the doughnuts on the walk home.
Occasionally sucking the sugar from his finger and thumb.
He waddled back to the shop to pick up a screwdriver
So he could remove the front door from its hinges and squeeze in.

My local supermarket sells doughnuts by the bag. It's a dangerous offering and I like to live life on the edge. Those doughnut bags and I have had many encounters.


Douglas belted out some Elvis Presley at the wedding.
The attendees gasped and desperately plugged their ears with bits of sausage and cheddar cubes and torn up shirt sleeves.
‘Clearly they're concerned all other voices would pale in comparison’
Thought Douglas.
He yodelled on powerfully into the microphone.

I once went to a wedding and I think I just about disliked everyone there, I'm not even sure how I ended up at the thing to be honest. I was served a fixed meal which contained none of what I wanted, and the bar was always rammed with people. All in all, an awful experience. I certainly won't be going to that wedding again. Although, now that I think about it, they might be divorced, so I suppose it's a possibility.

Emotional Support

Ed's head fell off.
He looked up at his body and noticed sparks and bits of wires hanging out.
A robot, he knew it!
He tried to feel sad about the situation.
He wasn't programmed to support that sort of emotion.

A Blurry Situation

Willy lost his glasses.
He tried to adapt.
In his confusion he accidentally kissed his boss
Who just so happened to be about two hundred pounds heavier than his lover.
His lover was furious.
Willy had to sleep on the couch that night.
He planned on checking between the cushions again.

A Poem about War

Two nations
With broadly similar views on things
Went to war with each other.
A few thousand people died
And Tom
Who was one of the luckier (more cowardly) ones
Had a really sore leg at the end of it all.

The Stash

Mark's lover found his stash of women.
She couldn't help but be impressed.
And a little upset, to be fair.
Why hadn't she been included?

Promiscuous Hound

Gibb's dog had, owing largely to his own ineptitude
Humped more girls than he'd managed.
Gibb hated his dog.
And he knew the girls wouldn't laugh off the antics if he tried it.

Numbers Guy

Edwin was too clever for his own good.
He became the numbers guy.
Whenever anyone wanted sums doing they'd approach Edwin.
Edwin never had time for himself after that.
He was always busy doing sums.

Taxi Driver's Scheme

A taxi driver started weighing his customers.
He'd input their data into his taximeter.
It charged more the heavier they were.
Newspapers picked up on his scheme.
No one was happy about what was going on.
The Mayor of London got in touch and told him off.

The Best of Aug. '19 Poems


A magician shuffled his deck of cards.
He inspected the cards and shuffled again.
And again.
The magician panicked.
He'd picked up the wrong deck.
The children were getting restless.
They began to throw paper clips, elastic bands, and freshly sharpened pencils.


As a child I spent some time at school, while there I encountered the unfortunate circumstance of having the head of the operation grow a magician for a child. This was unfortunate for both of us, of course. Not only did the chief of school have to deal with a magician being forced into their life, I was burdened with it too. I’d be sitting there, cross-legged in a hall, watching this magician knock out his inane tricks, and the head would be there in the background, wondering how they fumbled the whole parenting thing so badly. It’s no surprise my life hasn’t turned out particularly great if you think about it, that person who raised a magician was charged with operating a school. Absolutely hopeless.

A couple went camping in the forest.
The ordeal started off fairly romantic.
Days passed.
Squirrels began stealing their supplies.
They began to blame each other.
They began to hate each other.
They began to stink.


I gave camping a shot once. I wouldn’t describe the event as spectacular. I spend most of the time missing running water, and toilets. I learned a lot about myself while camping. Things like I’m not great without access to clean running water and toilets.

The jockey buttered his horse.
He wanted it to glide over the jumps.
He buttered the wrong side!
His saddle slipped off at the start gate.
The jockey sat on the grass sobbing into his buttery legs.


Frankie Dettori famously buttered his horses before all the big horse races everyone knows about in his career. Post-race he’d often source a baguette, bisect the loaf, and encourage his winning horse to mount the bread before attempting to take a bite. Thankfully handlers always got there before he achieved his goal. As a result, Frankie Dettori has never taken a bite out of his prize winning horses.

The village made everything as bland as possible.
They feared the devil.


This poem is too clever for its own good, really. I don’t think anyone should like it, but people are allowed to like whatever they want these days. So if you like it, that’s fine, I just don’t think you should. But again, to reiterate, you can like it if you want to.

The man came to the bridge.
He wasn't too sure about all of this.
He decided to take the long way instead.


Another one of those.

Biscuit guy finished a whole load of biscuits.
The crumb filled plate attracted a bird to the window.
The bird pecked at the glass.
“Give me all of your crumbs there buddy” the bird spoke.
The fearful man stared right into the bird's beady eyes.
These eyes were held in place by a colossal feathery body.
“I said give me all them crumbs” its squawks were being translated through a curious voice box.
The bird kept pecking away at the window.
Its friends were starting to join in too.


I don’t like birds. I do like biscuits. If someone offered me a plate of biscuits, I would accept without a second thought, but questions would fly if they approached with a plate of birds. I have no time for the beasts, and birds seem to have little time for humans. That’s why they have wings and we don’t. We can both go about our lives while keeping interactions to the bare minimum.

The pet owl escaped.
It was out and about hooting all night.
People could hear the hooting through their windows.
They couldn't get to sleep.
They weren't pleased with the owl's owner at all.


I’m reasonably confident that owls are also birds, so much of what I said above applies to this. Should it turn out that owls are not birds, I’ll come back and fill this in later. I don’t own a copy of Encyclopaedia Britannica though, so it might be a while.

The receptionist sat at her desk.
Her name was Ariel.
She cried herself to sleep that night.


This is a sad poem about a woman named Ariel who isn’t particularly happy with her life at the moment. The only other Ariel I know is that mermaid from under the sea, I don’t think they have desks under the sea, not unless a cargo ship has had a particularly bad day anyway. Suddenly, I find myself remembering the Titanic, which probably had a few desks on board. Anyway, this Ariel is of no relation to that mermaid one.

A woman twisted some paper.
It formed into the word ‘love’.
It was all very meaningful.
She looked at it and cried.
She twisted thousands more.
And sold them on the internet.

Robert gazed into Paula’s eyes.
They were framed beautifully by her glasses.
Hair framed the rest of her face too.
Her nose pointed down to her lips.
They were nice lips.
'Yes' Robert thought, pumping his first in celebration.
'She has a face.'

Percy told Helen she was the best.
His fingers were crossed.
He looked into her eyes.
He knew he was the best.


I knocked out a few poems about love there, or love adjacent goings on. You know that sort of stuff. Real life stuff for real people.

Santa slumped in a crusty leather armchair.
His beard was unkempt and filled with crumbs.
He was getting more and more irritated by how late people were leaving their requests.
The elves were complaining about the yearly crunch.
Rudolph sat in the corner licking the woodchip wallpaper.
His antlers clacked against the television.


Poor old Santa, his job sounds like a nightmare. I wouldn’t have signed up if given the opportunity, I don’t care if I get free access to houses out of it, the thrill of the snoop just isn’t worth the effort.

I’m going to leave you with that little christmassy number, which hopefully gets you in the mood for the season. In keeping with tradition, I’m also going to recommend you, maybe, if you like, take a look back at August 2019 with your own eyes. This time I mean it too, I left out quality poetry, there’s at least a couple more good ones dwelling back there in the old Aug of 19.

A Cushioned Landing

'Whoops!' cried Paul.
He staggered forward and landed face first in Mary's chest.
He closed his eyes and rested there for a moment.
Hoped the fall looked convincing to the rest of the office.

The Poetry Collection of July 2019


Welcome to another poetry collection. Dive in and ruminate amongst the words, before swimming back to the surface with a new perspective on, well, life perhaps. Share with your friends, your loved ones, your hated ones, and give back to the community that shaped you. 

Let’s go.

"It's a bit like playing tennis" she remarked as she smashed his balls to pieces.
"Yes" he grunts "is Tim Henman still going?"
He was bent over the kitchen table.
"I think he's an analyst now" she replied "he seems to enjoy it."

There’s a solid chance the BBC was covering Wimbledon when I wrote this, and it wouldn’t surprise me if Tim Henman was talking at the camera. Grunting probably occurred between his interruptions. I don’t mind tennis, to be fair to it. I don’t watch a great deal of it either, I suppose it rests in the place that could be described with “I’ll watch it if it’s on”. On this day, I imagine I did exactly that.

Sue escaped the studio.
She followed the crumbs.
Now she basks in the sun.
The men rally round.

Sue Barker would've also been involved in the coverage, which explains this little number. Sue probably had a solid conversation with Tim Henman about hitting balls. I like to think Tim enjoyed the occasional sip of his cordial, too.

I hated you.
Then I loved you.
Because I'm materialistic.
And you showered me with gifts.
But then the gifts stopped.
Now I hate you again.

"I have a plan!"
The guy said it with such conviction that everyone believed he had a plan.
He didn't but enjoyed the attention so much he went with it.
Things didn't end particularly well.

A man shook his sack and winked at his wife.
"Not now dear."
She looked at him sternly and continued filling in forms.
He sighed and packed away his Scrabble board.

If anyone's up for a game of Scrabble please get in touch. You can call me on [number redacted], thank you. Also, bring a Scrabble board, I don’t own one. And those tiles to go on it, and the bag the tiles are in. Maybe keep the whole thing in the box so it's easier to carry.

He loved to remain mysterious.
Which explained the balaclava.

He saw a switch.
He smiled.
He flipped the switch.
He didn't know what the switch did.
His smile widened.
He flipped the switch back.
Just in case.

Ah, mystery and intrigue. Two key ingredients in any good piece of poetry. I've seen a few mysterious switches out and about, but I'd never be so bold as to toggle them aimlessly. That's the sort of thing that causes ships to burn down.

The poet walked for miles.
They saw indescribable views.
Then they walked for miles more.
Listening to indescribable sounds.

Being incapable of describing things would be considered a hindrance for some of the great poets. Not me though. Let the reader’s imagination fill in the blanks, I say.

A man bought some wraparound shades.
He put them on.
He instantly turned into a twat.

Mildred blew him all night long.
She even carried on when he fell asleep.
He felt like the coolest guy in the world.

Mildred is still knocking about. Some rather hot July nights must have surrounded those two poems. Will wraparound sunglasses will ever look good on anyone? I can’t imagine it. Their only use, as far as I can tell, is to adorn the faces of Olympic quality athletes as they pedal their bicycles through towns and countryside.

The eyes followed me around the room.
I didn't trust them.
The gallery was displeased.

I’m an artist, I’ve been to a gallery or two in my time. In a gallery I appreciate high quality art and a good bench. The bench is the most important part, to be honest, and the art a distant second.

The bacon was still attached to the pig.
The whole situation was very inconvenient.

I went to a wedding once, and while I was there they had a pig rotating above a fire. I must admit, I wasn’t much a fan of the ordeal. Pigs are, in my opinion, best served pre-sliced in supermarkets.

A man considered going for a run.
But then he thought,
No I won't go for a run.
That kind of commitment really made him appealing.

A man couldn't find his shoes anywhere!
Thankfully he had taken a picture of their last location on his phone.
He couldn't find his phone either.
Thankfully he had taken a picture of that on his disposable camera.
Which he could find.
But he forgot to get the film developed.

Futility or something? I don’t know.

Robin Hood forgot his bow.
He forgot his arrows too.
He decided to shoot everyone with a machine gun instead.

There you go, top ten poems for the month. The end.

Catch of the Day

A fisherman threw his wife out to sea.
He hauled her back in.
Declared her the catch of the day.
She was coughing up salt water.
Fish slapped at her torso as she tried to untangle herself from the netting.

Boxing

Bill got on the internet.
He ordered some tiger eyes off one of those shady websites.
He had them installed and took up boxing.
From then on life took a turn for the worse.
For a start he struggled to really see anything.
He tripped over children as he walked down the street.
Bought the wrong chocolate bars.
Bit into Twirl he thought was a Twix.
All of his worst nightmares were coming true.
Issues compounded when he climbed into the ring.
Fists were thrown at his face and he had no idea when to dodge.