No Maybe Baby

My friend came to visit me with her new baby
And asked would I like one? I smiled and said maybe
But really the creatures are not to my liking
One end’s constant feeding and one’s constant wiping
One end is all scream and the other’s all splatter
Like tumours they grow, getting bigger and fatter
And louder and larger and soon they can talk
You have to talk back to them, then they can walk
You have to walk with them, then they can run
They run away from you, they take all the fun
Out of living the giving you get no thanks for
Then the grieving their leaving begets, what a bore
Are these children, these chilblains, these horrible kids
Who turn all your might-haves into never-dids
Who take all your time and your money as well
Who constantly whine, it was funny as hell
To see my friend croon and moon over the critter
She recently pooped out, the first of a litter
Of many, I thought, as her smiling daft face
Gurned googoo and gaga with all of the grace
Of a loony baboon, a baby-mad momma
Cartoon-y buffoon, and maybe tomorra
I’ll change my opinion but probably not
As I looked at my friend and her child all I got
Was a shivering sense of all she was missing
That quivering mass was all she was kissing
While I get the whole world to choose from and take
Boys, booze and bonbons are mine, that mistake
Is one better left to birds who feel a need
To fetter and cage themselves i.e. to breed
While I with my words will live happy, no baby
With unending turds will tie me down, no maybe
About it, without it I’m glad and I’m glowing
And instead of a child I give birth to this poem.

Everything At Once

Ive been very busy recently - maybe overly so. No time to write, gigs cancelled and even missed, almost sacked at work, suffering baby bouts of burnout... I think I may be at that thing called 'a crossroads'.

On the other hand, Im very happy to report that recent gigs with National Theatre Wales, at the Wychwood Festival and the new-but-lovely Trip Festival went well.

Next up: Nozstock Festival, Green Man Festival, Cardiff Comedy Festival, and Edinburgh Fringe Festival.

Watch this space!!!

M x

Poem of the Month

My poem 'Beautiful Girl' is poem of the month on the lovely perf poetry website Write Out Loud. You can read it here:

http://www.writeoutloud.net/public/features.php?year=2010&month=5&tag=Poem%20of%20the%20month

Slam!!!

I have been SO busy... Gigging all around, doing workshops in prisons and schools, trying to be on the telly (ITV Wales came to film me... this will hopefully be out soon!), organising events (including a SLAM to take place on May 31 - see www.jambones.webs.com for details) that I have been rather remiss in these missives. I am a misgiving miss who misses her mission, which is:

to write, rather than organise
to wrong, rather than right
to write, rather than left-overs
to left, rather than right

and so on.

So! Here is another blog post for you. Did you enjoy it????? Me too. x

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.