C H R I S T M A S - an acrostic poem

C rap in wrap a
H appy chap in
R eindeer trap has brought us.
I n his burlap
S anta sack there's
T acky pap for all us.
M illions flap
A s money's sapped and
S anta's lap grows fat with stacks of cash from shit that bores us.

Xmas Time

Fucking house is like a grotto
Fucking dad is fucking blotto
Fucking lost the fucking lotto
It's fucking xmas time

Fucking sister's fucking here
Her fucking brats a-fucking-ppear
Her fucking fella stinks uh beer
It's fucking xmas time

Fucking brother fucking rings
He's fucking doing other things
I fuckin wish I'd fucking wings
It's fucking xmas time

Got my mum some fucking chocs
Fucking dad gives me a box
Fucking 'ell, it's fucking socks
It's fucking xmas time

Fucking cabbage, fucking sprouts
Fucking nephew fucking pouts
Fucking sister fucking shouts
It's fucking xmas time

Fucking mum is fucking chuffed
To see her fucking family stuffed
Wha's tha' stink? Dad's fucking guffed
It's fucking xmas time

Fucking mum says raise yuh glass
Thinks she's fucking middle class
Fucking dad falls on his arse
It's fucking xmas time

Fucking house a fucking sty
Fucking children fucking cry
Fucking time tuh say goodbye
It's fucking xmas time

Fucking xmas, fucking tree
Fucking food, tee-fucking-vee
Fucking shit if you ask me
It's fucking xmas time

(with thanks to John Cooper Clarke)

A sorta quick-written simple (for kids?) poem what I wrote:

Close the door and come to me
Sit yourself upon my knee
Let me tell ya
‘Bout this fella
Called himself the Bear

Great an’ grizzly, way too wide
Stooped so he could come inside
Fierce with fury
Face all furry
This fella called the Bear

Lived up in that mountain shack
Hail an’ snow rained on his back
A mountaineer
Who know’d no fear
That’s why they named him Bear

No family, he lived all alone
Ghouls an’ ghosts filled up his home
Memories
Of family trees
No more, haunted the Bear

Those who knew called him a beast
What he’d done to those deceased
Wife an’ daughter
Brought to slaughter
By that big bad Bear

In the village, whispers, rumours
Bear was sick, all full of tumours
Alone up there
But no-one cared
Or dared to ask the Bear

Grizzly, lonely, middle-aged
Living like a beast that’s caged
Enraged village
Chose to pillage
The home of that poor Bear

Went up there all full o’ fight
Wanting to put that Bear right
All the town
And burned it down
His family home they set alight
Let it burn down to the ground

And only later did they find
Not by him his family died
But by causes
Natural, forces
Not ruled by the Bear

Now up there
Without a care
That star they call the Bear

I Am Born (or, All the World's a Stage!)

My mother broke birth to me,
And there I was:
A silent lump of flesh and blood,
Entwined in afterbirth,
Wearing the placenta as a hat.

And immediately I started
Entertaining the doctors and nurses.
“Burble burble waaah!” I said,
(Which translated to the audience
As a scream)
“In the next thirty years,
I am here to entertain you!”

My mother lay quiet on the metal bed.
I had ripped her badly.

I shimmied a blood-red boa
And smiled. But then,
The doctor picked me upside down
And I hung mid-air like a joker
And I realised:
I’d left something backstage.
But I couldn’t remember what.

And then I screamed for real
As the doctor sewed and sealed the
Red curtains I’d rag-tagged through;

And the nurse measured me
With pincers;

And there was no happy father there.
And despite my initial confident
Entrance:

I was filled with stage-fright.

Poem for Pentwyn

Pentwyn (pron: pen-twin) is an area of Cardiff. It is on the outskirts, physically and in other ways. It's not all bad, but being a misery guts I have zoomed in on the sadness and dilapidation of the area, rather than its more positive points. This be the result:

Poem for Pentwyn

This is where the houses look like weeping heads
This is where the children sleep in unmade beds
This is where the washing hangs itself on lines
This is where graffiti obliterates the signs
This is where you find discarded clothing in the park
This is where the daytime’s just as dangerous as dark

Pentwyn
Twined with no-one
Pentwyn
A place penned-in
Pentwyn
Pent up with sadness
Pentwyn
More lose than win

This is where the bluebottles breed inside the bins
This is where the beer bottles lead to other things
This is where the lampposts blink like frightened men
Then black out when young girls shout beneath their gaze again
This is where the ragged woods are all choked up with cans
This is where the boys in hoods steal from each others’ nans

Pentwyn
Twined with no-one
Pentwyn
A place penned-in
Pentwyn
Pent up with sadness
Pentwyn
More lose than win

This is where the gardens grow busted-up TVs
This is where the needles that you find don’t fall from trees
This is where the sun beats too hard upon bare backs
This is where the rain falls down broken pavement cracks
This is where the women have one too many kids
This is where the kids end up in those ‘most wanted’ vids

Pentwyn
Twined with no-one
Pentwyn
A place penned-in
Pentwyn
Pent up with sadness
Pentwyn
More lose than win

Top Tips for Travellers

(1) Starbucks, to the weary traveller, with its air con, Earl Grey (with soya milk), and washroom facilities, is a godsend. Starbucks RULES! There can never be enough of ‘em.

(2) If waiting in a queue, try to stand behind Indian people (they are used to lining up, and seem to get ahead quickly – you can follow in their wake) and in front of Japanese people (they never push – if they try, look them in the eye, and they will fill up with shame and stop).

(3) NEVER stand in front of Russian people!!! Pushy buggers.

(4) The best hostels are the ones with free breakfast and cheap laundry/internet facilities. These ‘extras’ usually mean that the essentials are AOK.

(5) If you are walking about in America (say, NYC), and see a lot of very attractive, beautiful people, do not be disheartened. The ‘real’ people are in work! This lot are merely failed/wannabe actors/models.

(6) Try not to speak when buying items that have no price marked. Once they hear your accent, the shopkeeper will double (or even triple) the price. Give a confident smile and you will be fine.

(7) ‘Salad bars’ are the best thing in the US. They are made up of self-serve salad/hot food/fruit. You can try lots of different food in a plastic bowl. There is no excuse for not getting your 5-a-day.

(8) Speaking of which: never declare fruit to customs officials. Unless you WANT to spend an hour in ‘agricultural inspection’ just so they can dispose of it (‘it’ being that apple you took off the plane, and were only given cos you couldn’t eat their wheat-filled cake dessert). Just put it at the bottom of your bag and you will (probably) get through.

(9) If the fruit is discovered, say (in your primmest, plumiest Queen’s English accent): “Oh dear! I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise! Oops!” And, flutter your eyelashes. Again, you’ll probably be alright.

(10) Remember, outside of Wales you are a Brit. Do not confuse matters with talk of “Wales”. Unless you like explaining yourself over and over again to looks of total incomprehension. Which I don’t.

TUESDAY 14th July

Am in Toronto. Took the night bus here from NY but the bargain fare wasnt quite worth it in the end: I tried to sleep, but cos my neck kept getting bent/crooked, and the bus took some twists and turns, at 5.30am I woke up - and spontaneously vomited over myself.

Things I Have Done & Enjoyed Recently (In No Particular Order)

(1) Bicycle ride to Great Falls in Maryland state (yes, I cycled 14 miles! My thighs thanks me)

(2) July 4th fireworks in the capital (Big Bird & Obama onstage was a cheese-laden high!)

(3) Visited the Native American Museum in Washington

(4) Ate crab cakes at Dupont Circle, a cooooool place

(5) Saw fireflies!!!

(6) Went on twilight bus tour of DC

(7) Saw Obama!!! (Yes, I really did!)

(8) Saw lots of houses with bars on the windows (Washington outskirts)

(9) Saw some Amish people (at Reading Terminal Markey, Philadelphia)

(10) Visited East State Penitentiary (that's where Im off to now....)

Fun! :D

RADIO!

I will be appearing on BBC Radio Wales at 7pm on Sat 4th July (tomorrow!). Please listen in for a new poem about my experiences in America! :)

http://www.bbc.co.uk/wales/radiowales/sites/celticheartbeat/

SYD: Day 4

Yesterday (fourth of the festival, I think) was a weird/good un. I had a bad dream in which I was cutting off my own arm (my writing hand, as I later realised) and woke up with a really bad crick in the neck. Walking slowly sideways to breakfast, I discovered I also had (1) a blister, from new flip flops (2) sore legs, from gym OD and (3) general bodily stress, from not having my boy about to give me impromptu massage, and from the daily performance-ing, I guess.

So, I went to see a little Chinese man who massaged me to within an inch of my life (including arse area - Ive heard this is normal) then used the whirlpool, angling my body so that the jet stream hit my neck (as well as fatty bits - to help reduce em, like). To no avail, so I then took some medicine at the festival site. I told the audience at our afternoon poetry stomp that I was under the weather, and, perhaps because of this, won the stomp, and consequently the use of a rather un-fetching plastic fake-eisteddfod "chair". Joy.

After the meds had kicked in, I was feeling a lot better, so I decided to go to Artomatic (www.artomatic.org) - an unjuried art show covering 5 floors over by the river here in Washington. Wow! A brilliant standard of work on show, some really amazing artists. Since Lady Luck likes me, there was then a poetry slam on the 6th floor of the building by Busboys & Poets, the cafe/poetry group that us Welsh lot will be performing with next week! So, I met the MC ("Two Deep") and listened to their work... Wow again. A VERY high standard of stuff, kinda confession (to the point of discomfit - "my daddy dont come into my bedroom no more like he abused to") but, still, and maybe because of this, VERY powerful, captivating...

On the way home, then, I had discovered that my drink had slightly leaked in my bag, causing my name (nothing else) to be wiped off from the front of the notebook (writing book) I was carrying with me. Added to the dream of cutting my writing hand off, I wondered if my subconscious was trying to tell me something... (???)

I got home at 2am, anyway, and that was my day done. Am now to wash out some pants and then off to the festival site again. Tally ho!!!

THE KING IS DEAD

I wrote this poem yesterday after hearing about Michael Jackson's sudden death. I then read it to an American audience a few hours later - it went down well. This is very definitely a spoken piece, as the rhythm changes several times (I have tried to indicate change by keeping space between sections). I hope you like it.

THE KING IS DEAD

Michael Jackson's dead
What a taxing life he lead
All that moving and shaking
But now the pigs will have his bacon
All that dancing and singing
But now his false friends will be grinning
All of those world tours
But now those lawyers are licking their jaws
All that money he made
But now there are vultures who need to be paid

Blood hounds lying in wait
To pounce and devour Michael Jackson's estate
Leeches waiting to suck
The death of a star to them's a stroke of luck
Wild dogs sniffing about
To get what they can from this, while I don't doubt

That Michael Jackson was strange
He never acted his true age
He had a very squeaky voice
He liked to hang around with boys
He had a monkey for a friend
Called Bubbles
Still now in the end
His troubles

Were no more or less than ours
He did not have super powers
Like us, he felt pain and stress
Like us, yearned for love's caress
Like us, he was full of feeling
Like us, just a human being

Son of a mother and brother to others
He had some children and he had some lovers
In bed at night he would pull up the covers
And dream.....
.....like us
Of what might have been.....
.....like us
Of what is, and what will be, and what was

"Wacko Jacko"'s just too easy
Like a pack o' wolves the sleazy
Media will take his life
In his death and with a knife
Like a chef cut it up finely
To sell papers speak unkindly
Of his capers, what a thriller
Now that Jackson's in the chiller

And they'll beat it, just beat it
Now Mike's not here he cant delete it
They'll take his odd personality
And add to his inhumanity
By pointing out his impiety
And giving him notoriety
Immortality, maybe even
But whatever you read, dont believe em
The press will impress just to sell
If there IS a heaven or hell
Then its not up to us to make judgement or say
If Michael Jackson went this or that way

All human beings get confused
All human beings make mistakes
We never walked in his shoes
We never knew his heartaches
In Neverland this Peter Pan
Who never quite became a man
Mightve been happy, mightve been sad
But we'll never know all the feelings he had
Except that he had em
And we have em too
He was a child of Adam like you
So although the papers will run his heart through -

I wish his troubled spirit well
I hope his heart's now free
That Michael Jackson is up there relaxing
With angels and our deity
Because life CAN be too taxing
So I hope that he WILL R.I.P.

SYD: Day 2

There are lots of differences and similarities between Wales and the US, and I am making new discoveries daily. Here are some things I have noted so far:

(1) American toilets have bigger seats, and the water level is much higher up (so, more danger of "splash-back"), than our own. Logically, I guess this means (a) that Yanks have larger bottoms than ourselves, and (b) that their detritus is - a different density (!?)

(I am sorry to put this first, but it IS the first difference I discovered when I got off the plane!)

(2) When you enter a store, staff will say "hello, how are you?" - but, you are not expected to answer.

(3) Americans are more curious, and more friendly, than I would have supposed :)

(4) If you say something funny, Americans will say "you're so funny" - every time.

(5) Americans are very fond of wearing 3/4 length trousers, a little bit like combat trousers, made with quite thick material, and ofter khaki coloured. Its like a sort of summer uniform.

(6) Americans DO understand irony!!!

(7) They have bigger everything here, and more variety - people, plants, animals, etc. I have eaten yellow watermelon and chicken thigh as big as my own, so far.

(8) They are very polite here, and even young people will move out your way saying "I'm sorry", without any trace of resentment/sarcasm. (wow!)

(9) If you express even a slightly negative opinion, then you are "cranky". Positivity rules aok.

(10) People tend to follow the rules. They dont break them for the sake of breaking them (unlike me). However, the rules in many instances are more relaxed than our own eg in art galleries, where there are less "watchers" (staff) and you can go closer to the exhibits. Everyone assumes the art work will not be touched. But, they assumed wrong...

Im off to the National Gallery now, frends. See ya!!! x

Sporadic Yank Diary: Festival Day 1

Since internet time is limited here, I will be writing about each day after it has taken place, the following morning. Today is the first day of the festival proper, but I will be writing about the "prep-day" we had yesterday.

Most people here are very busy. All craftspeople/demonstrators have to be in their tents for the whole day (11-5.30) - so, thats like a REAL job. Next, musicians have several performances each day. Then, there's the poets/storytellers - we have maybe one or two (sometimes 3) slots per day, of 20 mins up to an hour. So, either we are the least busy - or, we are the most relaxed - both I think, and of course this means we will get to see all of the festival for ourselves, unlike the poor cooks/Welsh teacher/clog-maker etc etc

Yesterday there was an orientation in The Dragon Tent for all participants. This took about half an hour. The rest of the day was our own! I spent some time talking to this really interesting guy, Pat McGee, who is a veritable knowledge of offbeat, quirky knowledge. I now know about Manchester comic poet Les Barker and understand the Scottish drinking phrase "a wee drop of the creature". Awesome stuff. :)

Later on I DID sample said creature - a reception/party took place on the top floor of our lovely hotel (s'posh, like) and first minister Rhodri Morgan flew over to join us. Apparently, there is a "trade mission" riding on the coat tails of this here Folklife Festival - 80 Welsh companies are over here right now, making presentations/contacts/sales/propositions... Not sure where they are exactly, but they are here. Apparently.

Speaking of propositions - it was free booze at the reception, and I spied more than a few participants participating in some improprietous behaviour... Naming no names (though I COULD if I wanted to; or even start up a profitable blackmail sideline) but, due to the fact that they dont seem to understand the concept of "spirit measures" here, quite a few people took a tiny tot too much of the demon drink. As I did myself, in fact - I then ended up drunkenly chatting with some near-7 ft tall submarine engineer who was wearing enough gold and designer linen to suggest he was bloody LOADED (plus the fact that this IS a swanky hotel). I - think I scared him off with my quantum physics rant, however - "everything is made out of ENer-geeeee". I then made some new "friends" amongst the other participants, and they were deadly impressed with my psychic abilities, the greatest of which is the power to tell people how old they are, "spiritually" - "you are 11"; "youre 12, you are"...

Oh dear. :(

Needless to say, this morning I was a bit Nevada-mouthed (desert - geddit) and a lil cactus-bloom-cheeked. But! Live and let live. And, I intend to.

More to follow!

My (Sporadic) Yank Diary!

As some of you may or may not know, I am in America at the moment, taking part in something called the Smithsonian Folklife Festival in Washington DC. It's an annual festival that focuses on a different culture each year - this year, that focus will be on Wales.

The festival itself receives about 1.5 million visitors and runs for a total of 10 days (spread over 2 weeks - it closes for 2 days in the middle). It's a very big hoo-hah, and I am one of 6 poets representing our country.

WAAAAAAAAH!!!!!! *gulp*

I arrived here yesterday and am in the hotel lobby now waiting for a shuttle bus to the festival site. The festival proper begins the morrow, today there's an orientation in "the Dragon tent" on the site. The site is the size of several football pitches stuck together, which will undoubtedly assist in the acheivement of one of my current mini-aims - firmity of thigh and "middle area".

I was told by several people not to worry, as Americans generally are overweight. So far, I am unable to confirm this as per my own experience. All I CAN say, is that I had a very cliche-type mind image of what a Native American person would look like. And then I saw one, standing outside the elevator in the hotel lobby. She looked to weigh at least 20 stone - in no way the slender Pochahontas I had been expecting (or, hoping for - I dont HONESTLY take Disney characters as anything close to resembling reality!).

In any case, that is one "want-to-see" ticked off in my mental book. There are a lot of other things I want to see too, and so far there have been myriad small happenings that I could fill whole pages of writing with.

What has happened so far? Well, the flight itself was only 8 hours, and most people representing Wales were on there. If the plane had gone down, that'd have meant no festival what so ere - luckily, it didnt and we got to Tulles airport just outside DC safely.

Safely, but not sanely. Some of us were pushed almost beyond a healthy mental state by the huge queue we then had to wait in to get through US customs. I had accidentally brought an apple and an orange off the plane (I put them in my bag, remembering how they'd been put ito the toe-bit of our mum's-tights-turned-into-stockings at Xmas)- unfortunately this meant another half hour of waiting for me as I was re-routed into Aggricultural Insprection just so they could dispose of the fruit "safely" (?!)

Poor Clare Potter (fellow poet) was subjected to an actual interrogation due to the fact she still had her permanent residency card/status from when she lived in New Orleas some years ago. Of course, terrorism comes in many guises, and poetry itself can be pretty political... but the "interview" they gave Clare was apparently a bit heavy-fisted, and I was glad my American visit began only with the fruit-related palaver rather than anything more serious.

It was cool seeing Gillian Clarke on the plane. Since she is national poet of Wales, I had decided to keep a vague eye on her as I was slightly worried about getting lost. Gillian, I thought, is going to be a priority - if I follow her, I will get to where I need to be. And, sure enough, I did.

She has no idea who I am, but then, most of the time, neither do I.

The weather here is hot, though not as humid as I expected. I think living in Japan (temperatures up to 40 degrees) meant I was maybe more prepared than the average Welsh person (by which I mean, my Ely-based, havent-travelled-much, Tenby-is-our-favourite-holiday-destination family - bless em).

The meals here have been, as I anticipated, HUGE in size and calorie-heavy. My thighs are only slightly bigger than the chicken pieces we had for dinner last night (and, I have BIG thighs!). On the festival site, there will be special places where we can get food: two places in the Welsh section (which is the main focus of the event) but two others also, one in the African American Spoken Word section (wow!!!) and another in the Latin American Music section. These are the smaller programmes showing this year.

Really, everything has been v v V exciting so far, and Ive only been in the US less than 24 hours! It was great to meet so many artists, poets, musicians, craftspeople etc on the plane... There are no big-heads or full-of-themselves sorts in those Ive met, and Ive met most due to a pre-festival gathering we had in Llandrindod Wells some months back. Everyone is open, friendly, positive... My dark heart feels actually gladdened - the creative spirit, it seems, is not a stingy one. Everyone is talking, collaberating, sharing stories and information. Despite the slight grudge Ive always felt towards the (to me) insular-seeming Welsh-speaking community (and, yes, most people here speak Welsh, and everyone knows everyone)Ive had some lovely chats with people, and havent felt excluded at all. I - might even learn the old mother tongue when I return (the Welsh language, I mean - my actual mother's tongue is a foul-spouting beast of a thing...).

So, am beginning (and ending)on a positive note. Am off to the festival site now, and will write again shortly!

You can find out more about the festival here:

http://www.festival.si.edu/

Sod's Law

(in a Cardiff accent)

Bratcher and Bestie and Boppo and Biff
Went down the drope for a beer an a spliff
It was July they was all sweating conkers
Cos they was still wearing shell suits the plonkers
An Bratcher was wearing a Burberry cap
Thar he got down Bessemer Road
An Bestie fake filas he bought from a chap
Who said he had come by a load
An Boppo a chain thar he nicked off some bloke
When he beat him up outside the legion
An Biff just had acne but he liked a smoke
An dealt all the blow in the region
So Bratcher and Bestie and Boppo and Biff
Smoked up the grass till their eyes went skewiff
An drank down the beer an smoked a bit more
An soon they was all out of carling an draw
An lay on the grass an talked about stuff
Like who of em got Hayley Jones up the duff
And which one done Kayley an which one done Kelly
And did they all fink tha tha Laura was smelly
An who raped Shanice did she call the police
A pie or her pasty, which had more grease?
And should they all go up and do her again
They'd teach her to be more respectful to men
They'd slap her the slapper and kick wiv their Kappas
And rape to the rhythmic rhymes of their fave rappers
And then they'd nip off down the Knap for a nap
And hope that the cow hadn't give um the clap
Tho if she had least they'd all have it together
They was good mates and would be mates for ever
In a world full uh sluts, they was firm butts
And so saying that they lay down on the grass
And slept, in such a way that they all had their nuts
Facing the crack in their firm butt's firm arse.

But as they slept -
From over the woods and far away
Came an elf sprite bright and gay
A fairy with a magic wand
That liked young boys brunette and blonde
It sprinkled moon dust in the eyes
Of these macho mashed up guys
Or maybe it was Martian dust
Or from Uranus, for with lust
It filled each lad, each loyal brother
Not for birds - but for each other...

When Bratcher and Bestie and Boppo and Biff
Woke from their nap they was all feeling stiff
Not in their arms or their backs or their necks
But down in their white low-slung bri-nylon keks
They had this weird feeling, a strange sorta itch
They looked at each other and started to twitch
They was block up on drugs and block up with juice
They'd lost all their senses - their shell suits come loose
Stark naked they stood, down Ely wood
And their own Ely wood was soon up to no good
As they fondled and thrusted and twisted and kissed
For years they'd repressed, now they couldn't resist
They forgot about Hayley and Laura and Kelly
They forgot about raping that slut
For they had discovered the best kind of cherry
Is covered in dark chocolate
And it tasted good, and they all chose to swallow
The first course was semen, with chocolate to follow
And Bratcher buttered the baps of each boy
And Bestie snacked on each sweet saveloy
And Boppo found that a finger of fudge is good enough to eat
And Bratcher discovered he did like salami
And with Bestie's white bread made a nice sarnie
And Boppo turned all of his fingers into a chocolate-y treat
And when Bratcher and Bestie and Boppo and Biff
Was all fulla fluid like bottles uh Cif
Their itches all scratched, their urges unblocked
They broke like a jigsaw, their bodies unlocked
And they all fell asleep on the grass once again
And into sweet dreams, four satisfied men…

But of course some hours later when they awoke
They couldn’t believe what they done
The spell had worn off, they all blamed the dope
They put on their shell suits and run
Away from the Drope and back to their mums
Four shell-shocked blokes with very sore bums
And got in their beds and all sucked their thumbs
And cried, cos inside, each of em knew he was homo
But if you are tough, then being a puff, is always a definite no-no
So all four repressed it and never discussed it
And in fact never spoke they was all so disgusted
They all blamed the fairies, the goblins, the elves
They couldn’t accept they was fairies themselves
And they married or moved as soon as they could
And forgot what they done that day down Ely wood

And the moral is this: the most macho fellas
Who usually treat women like slags
Will often turn out to be real Cinderellas
Lady boys, homos and fags
If gays make you feel queer then you’re queer
If they don’t then you’ve nothing to fear
But sod’s law dictates, if you feel strong distaste
Then that fairy will, one day, appear

The End

I was watching television
When the picture went astray
And there came a strange transmission:
“The government is sad to say
That there’s been a nuclear fission
In this land we love today
So we’ve made the swift decision
To leave you here and go away.
We bring this message, in our wisdom
Hours later – as you lay
Asleep we were already risen
And halfway on our holiday.
Yes, there’s been a cataclysm
And yes, we would’ve liked to stay
But we thought the best thing isn’t
To remain, and like you pay
The price that radioactivism
Will wreak in your DNA.
Take heart, dear United Kingdom
Tho of sunshine there’s no ray
(Literally, for the frisson
Of the fission caused a grey
Mass to mass up, and all vision
Is, inside a fiery spray,
Lost thanks to this foul emission -
It rose just like a blown ashtray
Or a sudden apparition)
We would still like to convey
Our sorrow, and we do envision
Our return some future day.
Until then, it is our mission
Still to rule the dear UK
Tho we’ll do it from a distant
Base out near the USA.
T’will be hard, but do not listen
To what cynics will convey;
It’s not time now for suspicion,
But to face this sad melee
With the guts befits a Briton
Fighting in a fresh foray.
Challenges there’ll be, so kiss ‘em,
Embrace suffering we pray;
Do not stoop to pessimism -
It’s too late now anyway.
Forgive your local politician,
Think him not a popinjay;
In such times we turn tactician
And must prevent our own decay
In order to aid your condition:
Which we’ll do from this far bay.
Be of cool, calm disposition
And try not to feel dismay
If your skin’s in poor condition
With huge blotches on display.
This is fine, in your position,
And, if you have time, survey
The other people in your vision:
They’re mottled in a similar way.
There might perhaps be a physician
Who, with poultice, can assay
The pain that this swift demolition
Of the skin will cause, but they
Cannot cure it; no magician
Could, so, like a flesh bouquet,
Let each bloody acquisition
Flourish in a red array.
In short, against our own volition
We left, but we did not betray
Your trust: we recommend submission,
Do not make cries of “foul play”.
We have here some ammunition –
So before you speak please weigh
Up your verbal composition;
Every school, house and café,
Has, by a council technician,
Been fitted with a hidden ray
Device, which picks up with precision
Every word; so if you sway
A little left of our petition,
We’ll turn your bodies back to clay.
Now, I must make an admission -
I am late for a soiree.
There will be a fine musician
And a freshly made soufflé.
I leave you then to your new prison.
Please don’t cry, you’ll be okay
As long as you accept tradition:
Us to rule; you to obey.

CAP'N COLEMAN, TO HIS LOVE

A poem written in 1569 by the famous pirate, CAPTAIN COLEMAN, only just discovered in an attic in Pentwyn

CAP’N COLEMAN IS MOY NAME
BEIN’ A POY-RUT IS MOY GAME
OY’D LIKE T’MAKE YOU WALK MOY PLANK
CEPT THAT ALL THAT RUM OY DRANK
HAS MADE MOY PLANK A LI-UL SHOY
GIMME AN HOUR AN’ THEN OY’LL TROY
TO PLUMB YOUR DEEP, OY’LL MAKE YOU WEEP
WI’ PLEASURE, TREASURE, THEN OY’LL SLEEP
COS FIVE MINS IS ENOUGH FUR ME
DON’ PULL THAT FACE, MOY LOVE, YOU’LL SEE
THAT IN FIVE MINS OY’LL MAKE YOU QUIVER
MY TIMBER, LASS, WILL MAKE YOU SHIVER
FUR OY’M A POY-RUT WHO HAS GOT
A MAP, LOOK ERE, “X” MARKS THE SPOT
THIS ERE MAP’S SHAPED LIKE YOUR BOOTY
AND IT IS MY POY-RUT DOOTY
TO FOLLOW THE MAP, OY WILL NOT REST
UNTIL MY ‘ANDS ARE ON YOUR CHEST
I WANT YOUR JEWEL, OY WILL FIND IT
YOUR SECRET CAVE, OY’LL GET INSIDE IT
AND THEN OY’LL TAKE THE WHOLE DAMN LOT
COS, MY DARLIN’, YOU HAVE GOT
JUST WHAT OY WANT, MY SEXY SLUT
LET’S PUT THE “RUT” INTO “POY-RUT”
SO WAIT A WHILE AND LET US SUP
AND THEN THIS POY-RUT WILL “POP-UP”

Ode to Middle Class Poets

The poets of the middle classes
Can kiss the working classes arses
With their sonnets and their farces
Written on soft vellum

Their empty drivel fills the bookshop
They churn the fucking shit out non-stop
Any educated posh fop
Can write crap books and sell um

Their subject matter’s really serious
The style employed is dry and tedious
These posh pricks are so imperious
Thanks to their cerebellum

They think because we’re not so bright
Is why we shun that poetry night
No, it’s cos your work is shite
Is what I want to tell um

There still exists a class division
Your dad’s a teacher, mine’s in prison
The working classes work, your jissom
Won’t ever compel um

But I doubt these poets would listen
And so I make it my own mission
With words to repel um
And here’s the first word:
CUNTS

I Am a Comic Poet

I am a comic poet
A comic poet am I
I’m not a proper poet
In another poet’s eye

I like my verse to rhyme
A proper poet don’t
I try for laughs each line
A proper poet won’t

A proper poet’s published
They won’t publish me
Not because I’m rubbish
But cos comic poetry

Is looked upon as low-brow
And so just doesn’t count
In fact I’ve got more know-how
Than many poets about

I could write a sonnet
A serious epic verse
But then I just think sod it
Can’t think of nothing worse

Than being so pretentious
I’d rather eat dog shit
If I could beat them senseless
For all the shit they’ve writ

Then that is what I’d do
I’d punch em in the head
I’d beat em black and blue
I’d hit em ‘til they bled

I’d run this through their heart
Their serious little eyes
I’d tear their bowels apart
And kick em ‘tween their thighs

I’d stamp upon their faces
I’d bend their knees right back
I’d cut em in weird places
I’d rip em a new crack

I’d like to see them suffer
To watch their eyes grow dim
Okay my verse is rougher
But in a fight I’d win

And as they lay there weeping
I’d read my poetry
And watch their black blood seeping
Oh, what comedy!

Jam Bones

Ladyboys and gentlemen, whores and girls -

Apologies for my long blogspot absence. This has been caused by many, er, causes, not least of all the fact that I have now set up my own events organising group, name of JAM BONES. Here is our blurb:

Jam Bones is a new n original organising organism which promises a sexciting n sintittilating soup of performance poetry (meat), as well as stand-up, sit-on-it, musick, magick, n more (veg).

Basically bi-monthly, but with the odd inbetween happening, Jam Bones will offer unique n unusual one-off events: events that put the come into comedy and give the word "funny" an unmistakable capital "f", whilst simultaneously placing a pinky into the pulsating poop-shoot of our poetic capital shitty.

With a preference for "finales" rather than "headliners", and with a definite anti-PC ante, each event will be a thematic theatrical spectacle, succulently suckable and unashamedly amiable; a sonorous assault that will shiver your timbres and leave your grey cells singing for mooooore.

Key words: dark; satire; punk; fun; wit; glam; edge; amoral; ambient; amorous; cliterary; surreal; free-stylin'; anything goes!!!

Please see here for more:

www.myspace.com/jbonesevents

I will be back within the week with new poems n writings for y'all. Until then - thanks you for your follow-age!

M xxx