People supposes that under her clotheses
This beautiful girl has a body like Venus
What no-one knows is that under her clotheses
This beautiful girl has a very large penis
They look at her from top of head down to toeses
They see this great swell of two bosoms like roses
They note her fine boneses and feminine poses
And think: ‘what a beautiful girl’
But if she don’t shave for a month then her nose is
Choked up with hairs, she is bearded like Moses
And if she uncloses her legs then her hose is
Proof, she’s no beautiful girl
But people supposes on clotheses and poses
Their ideas are based on our outer regalia
What the girl knows but will never expose is
The fact that down there she has male genitalia
On external looks people make diagnosis
Their eyes see some things and their mind then imposes
An idea on which it then somehow closes
And which it will never unfurl
And if this is true, men, then what I propose is
Don’t feel obliged to wear doublets and hoses
If you want to oppose this, wear the right clotheses
You can be a beautiful girl
Friday, 20 June 2008
Tuesday, 17 June 2008
Oh, I Wish I'd Looked After Me Tits!
Maybe not by Pam Ayres…
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me tits,
Those two great front wobbly bits,
All the bad bras I chose,
And the ill-fitting clothes,
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me tits.
I wish I’d been that much more able,
When me front bits was firm, like, and stable,
To choose a twin cuppin’,
To hold me boobs up in,
That were wired up with big bits o’ cable.
When I think of the brassieres I wore,
That made both me bosoms feel sore,
They was either too tight,
Or too loose, like, and slight,
But I didn’t care – I could score!
Me mother she told me no end,
“Don’t you follow that lacy bra trend!”
I was young then and gormless,
Me bras was all formless,
I never had much time to spend.
Oh I slung cloth around em alright,
But I chose things that didn’t fit right,
The lace scraps I bought,
Didn’t give much support,
But I didn’t mind, in the night.
Me mother’s advice did I spurn;
Too late, oh, too late did I learn,
If I’d chosen a brassiere
That looked much less jazzier,
Me boobs now would be much more firm,
Now I lays in me bed and each breast
Do slope down each side of me chest;
They wobbles and jiggles,
Like fat worms they wiggles,
And sits on me knees when I rest.
How I laughed at me mother’s front bits!
Now it’s mine that flop down when I sits.
Me proud, pointed shooters
Now two flabby hooters -
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me tits!
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me tits,
Those two great front wobbly bits,
All the bad bras I chose,
And the ill-fitting clothes,
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me tits.
I wish I’d been that much more able,
When me front bits was firm, like, and stable,
To choose a twin cuppin’,
To hold me boobs up in,
That were wired up with big bits o’ cable.
When I think of the brassieres I wore,
That made both me bosoms feel sore,
They was either too tight,
Or too loose, like, and slight,
But I didn’t care – I could score!
Me mother she told me no end,
“Don’t you follow that lacy bra trend!”
I was young then and gormless,
Me bras was all formless,
I never had much time to spend.
Oh I slung cloth around em alright,
But I chose things that didn’t fit right,
The lace scraps I bought,
Didn’t give much support,
But I didn’t mind, in the night.
Me mother’s advice did I spurn;
Too late, oh, too late did I learn,
If I’d chosen a brassiere
That looked much less jazzier,
Me boobs now would be much more firm,
Now I lays in me bed and each breast
Do slope down each side of me chest;
They wobbles and jiggles,
Like fat worms they wiggles,
And sits on me knees when I rest.
How I laughed at me mother’s front bits!
Now it’s mine that flop down when I sits.
Me proud, pointed shooters
Now two flabby hooters -
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me tits!
Monday, 9 June 2008
Things Not To Do If You Have A Tendency Towards Depression
(1) DON'T stay at home, on your own, on xmas day, watching 'The Pianist' and reading 'The Big Book of Holocaust Poetry' *holds up 'Big Book of Holocaust Poetry'*
(2) DON'T eat so many Freddo bars that you start referring to him as if he is an actual person and people think you finally have a new boyfriend and haven't turned lesbo like they thought.
(3) DON'T visit your mother too often, especially if she is a fake-blonde, foul-mouthed, tough-titted, rollie-smokin', my-head-master-at-school-fucking, milkman-flashing, weetabix-and-kipper-smelling, can't-even-read, skanky gyppo Cardiffite slut.
(4) DO stop taking that box of Ritz crackers to bed with you. Some women wake up lying next to attractive men. Some women wake up lying next to crumbs. Try to be the former, rather than the latter.
(5) DON'T try and figure out which of your "uncles" is your real dad. Chances are it's also the one who felt you up when you were 12.
(6) DO eat enough leafy green vegetables, such as kale, broccoli, and spinach. Lack of essential B vitamins can make you feel ever so blue!
(7) DON'T go in front of a microphone and tell people about your life cos 5 hours later you will feel sick and embarassed and disgusted and end up punching your own arms in hopeless despair and give yourself a huge bruise *holds out arm to reveal huge bruise*. And if you show that bruise to the audience, you'll feel even fucking worse.
(8) DO go to comedy clubs. Laughter is good for the soul!
(9) DON'T go to comedy clubs if you are a fat, jew-looking woman with nothing to talk about except your bad eating habits, lack of success with men, and fact that your mum is a nasty chav cunt who won't tell you who your real dad is.
(10) Smile! Smile, when your heart is breaking... Smile, even though it's aching... Even if you're a secret alcoholic self-harmer currently taking anti-depressants, when you meet other people, just - smile.
(2) DON'T eat so many Freddo bars that you start referring to him as if he is an actual person and people think you finally have a new boyfriend and haven't turned lesbo like they thought.
(3) DON'T visit your mother too often, especially if she is a fake-blonde, foul-mouthed, tough-titted, rollie-smokin', my-head-master-at-school-fucking, milkman-flashing, weetabix-and-kipper-smelling, can't-even-read, skanky gyppo Cardiffite slut.
(4) DO stop taking that box of Ritz crackers to bed with you. Some women wake up lying next to attractive men. Some women wake up lying next to crumbs. Try to be the former, rather than the latter.
(5) DON'T try and figure out which of your "uncles" is your real dad. Chances are it's also the one who felt you up when you were 12.
(6) DO eat enough leafy green vegetables, such as kale, broccoli, and spinach. Lack of essential B vitamins can make you feel ever so blue!
(7) DON'T go in front of a microphone and tell people about your life cos 5 hours later you will feel sick and embarassed and disgusted and end up punching your own arms in hopeless despair and give yourself a huge bruise *holds out arm to reveal huge bruise*. And if you show that bruise to the audience, you'll feel even fucking worse.
(8) DO go to comedy clubs. Laughter is good for the soul!
(9) DON'T go to comedy clubs if you are a fat, jew-looking woman with nothing to talk about except your bad eating habits, lack of success with men, and fact that your mum is a nasty chav cunt who won't tell you who your real dad is.
(10) Smile! Smile, when your heart is breaking... Smile, even though it's aching... Even if you're a secret alcoholic self-harmer currently taking anti-depressants, when you meet other people, just - smile.
Tuesday, 22 April 2008
Who Am I?
This was the Q above the temple at Delphi, is wot they say.
I'm in "work" again. I "work" in admin (parentheses "rabbits" a go-go today!!). But, I hate it yur. The ions from the glaring screen are ruining my eyeballs at a fantastic rate. The re-routed excuse-for-air they pump through the air con gives me bi-weekly mini-flu. The work itself is morphing my brain from world's fastest computer into world's fattest com-poo-turd (dunno what that means exactly. Except, it sort of suggests the shift from brain as organ of quick-fire-thinking to brain as inanimate, dross-heavy lump of shit. Which is what seems to happen after I clock in here).
In the office, then, I am a grey-clad drone, mumbling and sighing to myself as I type, click, and robotically whirr.
Away from the offfice, of course, I am - Queen Mab! Performance poet extraordinaire!! "Pam Ayres on methadone"!!! Screeching harpie with a penchant for rude ryhmes and vivacious (sometimes vicious) verse!!!!
"Mab" was queen of the fairies, is wot they say. The name comes from the Irish "Medb", meaning "intoxicating", or "drunk". How very apt... Queen Mab, apparently, was v attractive to men, but few were able to stand up to her powerful, warrior-like nature... I'd like to think this is the reason behind my own lack of success with the opposite sex. And not the fact that I am a bit fat with a jew-seeming nose and too many chin-hairs... :(
So, I live as a split-personality. Sometimes I am M---: bland and boring office worker, wearing her Primark polyester trousers with whatever the opposite of verve is. And sometimes I am Mab: a titchy bit more glam, a tiny touch more exciting and excitable, especially when she has that substitute penis they call Mic (Mike) in her chunkly little fist...
Perhaps one day, the two parts of my character will combine and make me more normal-seeming. Until then, I am a Mr Bean/Stig-of-the-Dump female tragedy by day. By night, I am a wannabe Oscar Wilde who struts and spouts almost-literate bits of half-rhyming twaddle.
But - which of these creatures am I?
Both. Either. Neither. I dunno....
I am here, in existence. That's all. As you are as well.
Fantabulous....!!!!!!! :) :( :) :( ;)
M x
I'm in "work" again. I "work" in admin (parentheses "rabbits" a go-go today!!). But, I hate it yur. The ions from the glaring screen are ruining my eyeballs at a fantastic rate. The re-routed excuse-for-air they pump through the air con gives me bi-weekly mini-flu. The work itself is morphing my brain from world's fastest computer into world's fattest com-poo-turd (dunno what that means exactly. Except, it sort of suggests the shift from brain as organ of quick-fire-thinking to brain as inanimate, dross-heavy lump of shit. Which is what seems to happen after I clock in here).
In the office, then, I am a grey-clad drone, mumbling and sighing to myself as I type, click, and robotically whirr.
Away from the offfice, of course, I am - Queen Mab! Performance poet extraordinaire!! "Pam Ayres on methadone"!!! Screeching harpie with a penchant for rude ryhmes and vivacious (sometimes vicious) verse!!!!
"Mab" was queen of the fairies, is wot they say. The name comes from the Irish "Medb", meaning "intoxicating", or "drunk". How very apt... Queen Mab, apparently, was v attractive to men, but few were able to stand up to her powerful, warrior-like nature... I'd like to think this is the reason behind my own lack of success with the opposite sex. And not the fact that I am a bit fat with a jew-seeming nose and too many chin-hairs... :(
So, I live as a split-personality. Sometimes I am M---: bland and boring office worker, wearing her Primark polyester trousers with whatever the opposite of verve is. And sometimes I am Mab: a titchy bit more glam, a tiny touch more exciting and excitable, especially when she has that substitute penis they call Mic (Mike) in her chunkly little fist...
Perhaps one day, the two parts of my character will combine and make me more normal-seeming. Until then, I am a Mr Bean/Stig-of-the-Dump female tragedy by day. By night, I am a wannabe Oscar Wilde who struts and spouts almost-literate bits of half-rhyming twaddle.
But - which of these creatures am I?
Both. Either. Neither. I dunno....
I am here, in existence. That's all. As you are as well.
Fantabulous....!!!!!!! :) :( :) :( ;)
M x
Thursday, 13 March 2008
Blog The First
First blog demands: extraordinary! Momentous!! Fantabulous!!!
First blog is precursor of all blogs to come, it is the mother and the father, the Adam and the Eve, the Alpha, the Originator, in the beginning were these Words... All future blogs are progeny of this first and, therefore, the first has got to be something - amazing. Like - really super-dooper....
Unfortunately, I live in Wails, armpit of the earth: and today is a day as grey and glamour-less as an old man's scants... This in turn affects the affectation I call "personality", and makes me feel all drab, and droopy, and durrrrr...
I am a performance poet, living in the capital shitty of Cardiff, and "on stage" I seem to breathe fire, of a sort (or I try to)... Away from my friend Mic I am as colourless as a drool of spit. I sit in the office, now, writing this away from the terse glare of boss-woman's eyes, computer thankfully at "an angle"... At 11pm I will drink a coffee with "the girls" and we will ogle Sandwich Man's slightly flabby rear end... At 1pm, I will enter the Break-Out Room, therein to eat and sip at another machine-spewed caffeinated drink... At 5pm, Fred Flintstone-style, I will yabba-dabba do outta the office and away, home, to my little flat-packed-furniture-filled flat, flat-screen TV, flat little existence, in fact...
Yes, I hate working in an office!! I want to be a free bohemian spirit, writing in woods and wandering lonely as a raincloud...
The only plus, is, I get to use office time/facilities to write things, including this all-important Blog The First. Hopefully future blogs, like future generations, will be more upbeat and age-of-aquarius-ish....
Nice to (not) meet you, anyways.
Mab x x x
First blog is precursor of all blogs to come, it is the mother and the father, the Adam and the Eve, the Alpha, the Originator, in the beginning were these Words... All future blogs are progeny of this first and, therefore, the first has got to be something - amazing. Like - really super-dooper....
Unfortunately, I live in Wails, armpit of the earth: and today is a day as grey and glamour-less as an old man's scants... This in turn affects the affectation I call "personality", and makes me feel all drab, and droopy, and durrrrr...
I am a performance poet, living in the capital shitty of Cardiff, and "on stage" I seem to breathe fire, of a sort (or I try to)... Away from my friend Mic I am as colourless as a drool of spit. I sit in the office, now, writing this away from the terse glare of boss-woman's eyes, computer thankfully at "an angle"... At 11pm I will drink a coffee with "the girls" and we will ogle Sandwich Man's slightly flabby rear end... At 1pm, I will enter the Break-Out Room, therein to eat and sip at another machine-spewed caffeinated drink... At 5pm, Fred Flintstone-style, I will yabba-dabba do outta the office and away, home, to my little flat-packed-furniture-filled flat, flat-screen TV, flat little existence, in fact...
Yes, I hate working in an office!! I want to be a free bohemian spirit, writing in woods and wandering lonely as a raincloud...
The only plus, is, I get to use office time/facilities to write things, including this all-important Blog The First. Hopefully future blogs, like future generations, will be more upbeat and age-of-aquarius-ish....
Nice to (not) meet you, anyways.
Mab x x x
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