Thursday, 28 February 2013

Universal Dimensions


"How Long is a Piece of String Theory?"

One-hundred-thousand light years wide?
I’ve tried, and failed, and failed, and tried
To comprehend this vast statistic,
Because it seems so unrealistic.
The effort drains my mental strength:
If that’s the width, then what’s the length?

Exclamation mark, exclamation mark.

Nowhere Thoughts

Begin one line and let it lead towards
another. Words appear from nowhere. Thoughts
construct themselves from empty nothingness.
I don’t know what to write. I’ve not a lot
to say, yet stay upon this stave of beaten
locution. Count inside my head. Arrange
this graphite grey upon the page in such
a way that sense is made (in part, at least),
until I lose the thread and leave it be.
Outside, I see, the sun has started shining.

Tuesday, 26 February 2013

A Shortage of Vowels

As part of the Ruination’s drive towards universal austerity, Lord Wandering Hands of Libdemshire, the Under-a-Secretary of State from the Department of Unnerving Stares and Grotesquely Oleaginous Skin, announced further cuts in the number of vowels.
   “We can’t simply expect the makers of Scrabble to print endless vowels to prop up our ailing language. The economy would be in a far healthier state if people used more high-scoring letters, like ‘J’, ‘K’, ‘Q’ and ‘Z’.”
   Mortadella Cheeseboard, who, as a cross-dressing zoophiliac male-bra designer, is still the least eccentric World Scrabble Champion of all time, was unavailable for comment.
   It is expctd tht th cts wll tk plc wth mmdte ffct.

Pick of the Week!

TV Programme of the Week

This week chosen by Oscar-winning florist, Vexatious Thunderstruck.

Brideshead Revisited Revisited (repeat) ( repeat)

Speaking to the nation in this untelevised broadcast about the importance of smiling on Tuesdays, the former Miss UK, Brian Mott de Hoople, demonstrates how to win over even the most obdurate of hearts with a razzmatazzle smile, or, failing that, the threat of excessive violence involving a car boot sale. “It’s the only path to happiness,” he explains in this essential and unwatchable miasma of irrelevance.

Where it’s on: Sky Minus

When it’s on: Every other weekend and for a negotiated time during the holidays.

Next week: a shortage of vowels.

Internet Chat Room of the Week

This week chosen by Martin Hussingtree’s Dancing Umbrella.


Am I being unreasonable? Am I being unreasonable? Am I being unreasonable? Am I being unreasonable? Am I being unreasonable? Am I being unreasonable? Am I being unreasonable? Am I being unreasonable? Am I being unreasonable? Am I being unreasonable? Am I being unreasonable? Am I being unreasonable? Am I being unreasonable? Am I being unreasonable? Am I being unreasonable? Am I being unreasonable? Am I being unreasonable? Am I being unreasonable? Am I being unreasonable?


Next week: whatever gave you that idea?

Record of the Week

This week, we interview former pop star Morrissey about Johnny Marr’s new album, “Fridge Magnet Poet”, as part of the reparation for cancelling his 2009 Royal Albert Hall gig.

Moz: (sighs wearily)

Thanks Moz! As insightful and witty as ever!

Next week: last week.

Sunday, 24 February 2013

In Pursuit of a Poem

I have become something of a master
At writing the promising, yet ultimately unfinished, poetical disaster.
Sometimes I have spent several days in pursuit of the construction of a 
   poem with lasting integrity and interiority,
Only to end up with a handful of lines which exhibit mediocre inferiority.

An apparently original thought takes shape, then I make sure that I’ve sorted
   the metre out,
But just as the writing’s got underway, the ideas all suddenly peter out.
I put down my notebook, I go for a walk, and I think, “I’ll come back to you
But when I return, my critical faculties turn me into a self-loathing traitor.

I read it aloud and I think to myself that perhaps the first line’s not sorted,
And it’s downhill from there, as with quiet despair, the rest of the poem’s

Get out the pencil, turn it on its head,
Annihilate all traces of lead,
Then edit the first line, ponder, “Where to from here?”
Some words, a phrase, a line will appear.
The poem gets going once again, until…
The flow of words slows down; becomes still.

…a bit like this one, really.

Saturday, 23 February 2013

O, Hang It All!

O, hang it all!
And dash it all!
O, with a hammer
Smash it all!

O, blast it all!
And drat it all!
O, with a cricket
Bat it all!

O, sod it all!
And damn it all!
O, with a poem
Slam it all!

O, fanciful,
O, nonsense-faced

With violin bows,
And mutton cops,
And consecrated
Chocolate drops.

Thursday, 21 February 2013

Balladus Populusque Bananas!

I’m going to steal a cake and run away,
   Then hide inside a pot of tea for two,
Where soundly shall I sleep for half-a-day,
   Allowing me a proper chance to stew,
   Both inside out and through and through and through.
I’ll serve myself upon a silver tray,
   In finest Wedgewood china, white and blue.
I’ve had enough of sensible today.

I’m going to claim to be the letter A,
   I’ve never liked the prospect of a Q,
I’ll always be the first, unlike old J,
  Whose plans to be in front went quite askew –
   The oafish fathead hasn’t got a clue –
He goes around pretending to be K,
  When clearly he’d be better off as U!
I’ve had enough of sensible today.

I’m going to fly a brick without delay,
   Before I teach my telephone kung-fu,
Whilst sending all clothes to Mandalay,
   (I wouldn’t try this out if I were you –
   You’ll end up with extremities of blue),
Instead, consider what I have to say:
  A broken heart is best repaired with glue.
I’ve had enough of sensible today.

Pants! What now I know is not what once I knew,
    I can’t just nonsense everything away,
When all is said, there’s little left that’s true.
   I’ve had enough of sensible today.

Saturday, 16 February 2013

Dead Good Advice

Don’t take a fancy
To necromancy.
Rather: be wary of what’s said
By people who are long-since dead.

Epiphany 2

For all of your meaningless modern poetry requirements.

Dated fashion
makes the wrong impression,
as I arrive
wearing solar flares.

Epiphany 1

For all of your meaningless modern poetry requirements.

We stand graveside still.
No pieces remain on her chessboard face.
Here we are, then.

Thursday, 14 February 2013

Requited Shove

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
No way!

Giving up for Lent

Male hairy, fill your face:
The lawn is for tea.
Bless a tart cow-dung swimming.
Ah, bless! It is the fault of my two freezers.
Oily marriage, Molotov gob,
Paper our innards now,
And eighty out of our depth.

I moan.

Wednesday, 13 February 2013

Come Snow!

Come snow and fall upon this place!
   Come fall on roads and fields and trees!
Come fall upon each snow-shy face!
   Come fall, and when you’ve fallen: freeze!

Come snow and fall in blizzards blind!
   Come fall in snow-white drifts so deep!
Come swirl in flurries intertwined!
   Come fall at night when we’re asleep!

Stroppoi Envoi:
But now you’re here, I wish you’d go!
   Oh, slushy-mushy-grey-brown snow!

Tuesday, 12 February 2013

Part 1-and-a-half: The Poem Which You've Heard a Thousand Times Before

Ladies first. I beg your pardon. Don't be shy. You're on.
Look at what the cat dragged in. Say cheese! The magic's gone.
On yer bike. Forget I even said it. Watch this space.
Turn left at the traffic lights. Manyana. Just in case.

Wait a sec. Don't be a hero. Bad luck comes in threes.
Global Warming. Turn the lights off. Run for cover. Freeze!
Take no prisoners. Call the cops. Put both hands in the air.
I'm a little teapot. Leave this instant. It's not fair!

Nothing in Particular

Awoken by the six a.m. alarm,
I lie in bed, eyes closed, and wish away
another day. Forgetting it's a gift,
I leave the thing unwrapped, then get on with
the emptiness of nothings on my list
of things to do, whilst thinking, in between,
of nothing in particular but you.

James Joyce Blues

Abandoned by the Grace of God,
I have, of late, become quite odd.

Thursday, 7 February 2013

The Poem Which You’ve Heard a Thousand Times Before

How’s it going? Nice to see ya! Who ate all the pies?
Start from scratch. Because you’re worth it. What a nice surprise!
Talk the hind legs off a donkey. Someone’s for the chop.
Get behind me, Satan! Who’s the Daddy? Don’t talk shop.

The truth will out. I’ve started so I’ll finish. What’s the score?
Read my lips. The lady’s not for turning. This means war.
The odds were stacked against us. It’s a race against the clock.
Quit while you’re ahead. I’m sorry. Where’s my other sock?

How about a refill? Put the gun down. What’s for tea?
I tawt I taw a puddy tat. To be or not to be.
Give a dog a bad name. It’s not fair! It could be you!
Money makes the world go round. You’re joking! Peek-a-boo!

Dig for victory! Last man standing. Feel the love. Get lost!
Be with you in a minute. What’s the story? Count the cost.
Face the music. Get a life. Excuse my French! You what?
Strength in depth. No time to lose. The End. (-ish). Dot, dot, dot…

Wednesday, 6 February 2013

You’ll Never Be a Moonbeam Now

In a move designed to rehabilitate the image of politicians in the eyes of voters, BRUTAL, the Lanarkshire-based PR company, has been drafted in to provide accurate descriptions of MPs for use in media reports. Oleaginous-faced halfwit merchant of insincerity, David Cameron, explained that the scheme was intended to rebuild voters’ trust in his ridiculous band of liars and hatstands "who had collectively put the MP into incompetence".

Tuesday, 5 February 2013

A Nice Day Out

Whilst tap-dancing across the insecurities inside his Porsche 911, Sebastian ‘Jockstrap’ Flyte-Kalashnikov (somebody has to have that name) disembowels a mass-produced handmade plastic figurine of the minor French celebrity/deity, M. Dupont.
   “Je mange le petit déjeuner,” says M. Dupont, as S. ‘J’ Flyte-Kalashnikov brings the hammer down with a velocity which would confound his anger management therapist.
   The air is punctuated with “Du-delas-des”, the final words of the plastic figurine of M. Dupont, whose first name is Hilary (don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it).

Monday, 4 February 2013

Sabbatical Over

Having been away for precisely that amount of time, during which he had risen to the dizzy depths of Professor of Egg-timer Technology at the Ununiversity of Turn Second Left at the Traffic Lights, Kenneth Chinook-Helicopter (who he?) realized that not all advice was of sound mind and body. Or, as the cannibal Marie-Antoinette so eloquently put it: “Let them eat each other.
   Meandering freezingly through the snow, Kenneth spoke at length about his sabbatical as curator of nests and eggs (nests and eggs) at the John F. Kennedy Space Museum for Communist Football. “We used to cultivate bonsai democracies with nail scissors and slightly quizzical expressions, which suited some better than others, though not always. Then we set fire to them.”

I Remember Johnny*

I remember Kooky Milksop,
As if ‘twere yesterday,
Kooky Kooky Milksop,
Son of Mr Grey.

He use-a be so starry-spangle,
Flying through the air,
On elevated table-tops,
Without him’s teddy bear.

Oh, I remember Doris Hatstand,
Just like last night’s moon,
Doris Doris Hatstand,
Son of Mr Spoon.

A-waiting on a busy road,
To play a game of chance,
He made us all so laughing at
His “Run Me Over” dance.

And thus we all a-fare-thee-well,
From here to nowhere fast,
Bloody Rumplestiltskin,
Son of Mr Last.


What Are You Staring At?

Staring at a lemon pizza, singing “Three Blind Mice”,
Staring at a stolen fruit-cake, slicey-slicey-slice!
Staring at a horse’s bite marks,
Staring at some BS kite marks,
Staring at my work for once, but never staring twice.

Staring at the Colosseum, crashing on your head,
Staring at the silences between the words you said,
Staring at the moon in May,
Staring at some horse’s hay,
Staring at your eyebrows when I thought that you were dead.

Staring at the Terracotta Army in retreat,
Staring at your irises when we were playing cheat,
Staring at the last man standing,
Staring at a fake Moon Landing,
Staring at the space above your amputated feet.