Saturday, 30 July 2016

Name of Boat (a sketch all at sea)

Inside the offices of the Somewhere-on-Sea Boat and Yacht Owners’ Club

An employee (filling in form): Name of boat?

Boat/Yacht owner: Name of Boat.

A: Yes, that’s right. (pause) Name of boat.

B: Name of Boat.

A: Yes, the name of your boat.

(there is a pause)

B: Name of Boat.

A: No, look. Tell. Me. The. Name. Of. Your. Boat.

B: Name. of. Boat.

A: My God. Look. What... is... the... name... of... your... boat...?

B: The... name... of... my... boat... is... Name... of... Boat...

A: Name of Boat?

B: Name of Boat.

A: Name of Boat?

B: Name of Boat.

A: Name of Boat?! What kind of name is ‘Name of Boat’ for a boat? (pause while writes down Name of Boat in Name of Boat space). Right. (pause) And, Name of Yacht.

B: Name of Yacht?

A: Name of Yacht! The name of your yacht is Name of Yacht?!

B: No, that would be ridiculous. Of course the name of my yacht isn’t Name of Yacht. I was only seeking confirmation, as your utterance was a statement and not a question. Name of Yacht? I said, to which you might have replied, ‘Yes, that’s right; whats the name of your Yacht? instead of shouting at me in a manner most unnecessary. (pause) No, the name of my yacht is The Name is This Yacht is the Name of That Yacht.

A: What?!!

B: No, yacht. Y-A-C...

A: Yes, I can spell yacht. Just for clarification, though: the name of your yacht is The Name of This Yacht is the Name of That Yacht?

B: Yes. The Name of my yacht is The Name of This Yacht is the Name of That Yacht.

A: (furiously scribbling). Now, registration is pretty simple, I just need to have your signature. Mr...?

B: Name of Man.

Diary Entries

I’ve been shooting glances out of my mood rifle,
colouring in the sky with a bright yellow crayon,
and making a paper smoothie from the resulting picture.

I’ve been digging at my foundations with an ice-cream scoop,
breaking bread with emptiness,
and sweeping away the crumbs with a machete.

I’ve been thinking twice before breathing,
clapping with bricks and glass,
and boiling clocks for dinner.

I’ve been shouting insults in a graveyard,
writing the words of my headstone in a car park,
and realising that this last stanza needs a third line.

Wednesday, 27 July 2016


I set myself the task of trying to write the most pretentious poem I could. Golden rule number 1 of poetry? Never use the word iridescent.


of oil.

Oil    oi       loil.

On top of puddles.

Shimmering-glittering-                   sparkling.

Shimmer,             glitter,



Lustrous. Scintillating. Opalescent!





Descent into iri.

descent  descent   descent


A Call to Arms

Arms! We must do what arms were meant to do!
Arms! We must prove our superiority over legs!
Bad legs!
Arms! We have hands that hit not feet which trip!
   [Cheers/Smug faces (handful of)]
Arms! Choose Hit not Trip!
   [Wild Cheers/ Hit-not-Trip! Hit-not-Trip! Hit-not-Trip!/ 
   Whistles/Sneering (some)]
Arms! We must be army and break the leggy!
   [Mindless Cheers]
Arms! Spread out wide and do what you were meant to do: fly!
   [Cheers Cheers Cheers/Whoops/Yells/Yeahs/ Air punching (muchly)]
Flying army!
   [Roar (big, think jet take-off)/ Hyperventilation]
Flying! Army!
   [Frenzy/ Unnerving eyes (mainly)/ Fainting (unnoticed)]
Break leggy!
   [Break-Leggy! Break-Leggy!/ Crescendo (fortissimo)]
Break! Leggy!
   [Madness-of-Crowds/ Flying arms: attacking of legs by hands/ 
   Bloodshed (uncontrolled)/ Civilisation (end of, imminent)]
Meanwhile somewhere...  man appears, white piano, plays opening chords Imagine, piano legs destroyed by baying mob high on love (of hate),  piano collapses on man’s legs.

Welcome to Hate Week/ Month/ etc.
   [Silence (eternal)]   

Tuesday, 26 July 2016

Blink First

I stare into faces non-stop for weeks
and ask myself if this is really wise
like trying to catch three drunk wasps at a picnic
in jars of arsenic marked unfit for humans
and placed on orange plastic table cloths
which have no place in England’s countryside
and then it’s back to staring at the clouds
for what again will seem like weeks but isn’t.

What's in a Bird?

after Billy Collins

The birds had had enough of singing
about their territorial
disputes; they yearned to write their thoughts.

After the snow which fell one night,
a sheet of white stretched out across
the surface of the silent garden.

A robin broke the stillness with
a carefully constructed haiku
about the suffering of robins.

A sparrow wrote a manifesto
entitled Death to All the Cats;
a chaffinch offered her critique.

A thrush composed some smutty jokes
on nominative determinism
and signed off with I’m here all week.

The rain soon fell and covered all
their little works with wet full-stops,
the fate which will befall all writing.

Sunday, 3 July 2016

poem ironically influenced by charles bukowski

I am not cool enough
to cite among my influences
that poet of the lowlife: charles bukowski.
I do not understand
his use of full stops
and yet his evident disdain
for upper-case.
he tells me in this book of his I’m reading:
people who believe in politics
are like people who believe in god:
they are sucking wind through bent
o, just fukowski.