Mannequin [sonnet]

The world has heard of empty headed girls,
And some have heard of those with empty hearts.
But empty souls, like iridescent pearls,
Can shine though formed of salvaged, gritty parts.
The lifeless moon illuminates the sky,
Recycling incandescence from the sun.
And pallid cloth absorbing gaudy dye
Is bright - at least until the colours run.
A law of nature; vacuums must be filled.
So watch for what's in your locality.
As anyone around who's stronger willed
Will supersede your personality.
Take care with what reflected light you shine,
Thus never place your pearls before the swine.

Cats & Dogs (a sonnet)

Cats & Dogs

O stubborn boy. Why must you be so fussy?
Your petting choice so oft leaves you alone.
Instead of trying in vain to feed a pussy,
Experiment and give a dog a bone!
I understand your fear you'll be unable
To satisfy his lust for meaty treats;
He'll jump you while you're at the dinner table,
At night he'll lick your face and mess your sheets.
But is the other option any better?
A creature so unnaturally clean...
A lick, a lick, a lick - but still no wetter.
Is it her fierce disdain that keeps you keen?
Don't think that folk must like just dogs or cats.
Some like them both. And others favour rats.

Birthday Poo!

A silly little poem inspired by my recent birthday. The meter's a bit weird, but then so is the content. Tetrameter-tetrameter-trimeter with an A-B-A rhyme scheme. It's probably lyrical. Ha!

Birthday Poo


A birthday poo. A birthday poo.
That's what I'm gonna do today
When I go to the loo.

Behold, on this auspicious day,
My faecal matter's magical.
Three cheers! Hip hip hooray!

It's not a plain or normal turd.
It's gonna make the greatest plop
Your ears have ever heard.

You'll want this special excrement
But after midnight tolls, alas...
It brings your detriment.

So hurry up and grab my cack
Of annivers'ry potency.
But please don't give it back!

Not a poet

How am I judged? It's fair but also terse:
I'm not a poet. No. I just write verse.
So even though my metres flow alright,
My rhymes aren't bad, my structure's pretty tight,
But even so, these virtues are my flaws;
And better if I wrote bereft of laws
With verse as free as vultures in the air
And similarly full of grim despair
(Or full of any overwhelming passion -
At least, that seems to me to be the fashion.)
These vultures soar in search of greater beasts,
Which dead they rip asunder for their feasts.
Oh must it render all my verse as nought
Because of clear-communicating thought?
Oh must I write beneath a foggy shroud?
Or else with melodrama brashly loud?
"Well, yes, you silly fool. I think you'll find
That Poetry of the most superior kind
Has multiple mixed meanings to be mined."
This mumbo jumbo makes a lot of sense;
I see the good in having text that's dense.
For as dense weights sink far beneath the sea,
Just so dense texts can plumb humanity.
My lighter wit has quite a different home
And gaily drifts amidst the froth and foam.
Though mocked, one day I'll be that which I hope;
A modern shade of Alexander Pope.
Till then my shallow lines will soothe me too,
If, reading them, you view the world anew.

Geese is the word

Fun little poem I knocked up during my lunch break today.
*** WARNING *** Contains strong language. Also, I shouldn't even have to say this, but given what's been read into some of my stuff in the past I'd better: this poem is about geese, and doesn't reflect at all on any of the people I know in Canada at the moment! Anyway, here it is.


The Canadian Goose is a grumpy old thing
Like the codger who lives next door;
So alike in their sense of entitlement
As they seek to impose their law.
Thus the geese grab the crumbs from the poor ickle ducks
And'll snatch 'em from *your* hand too.
Then as if to add insult to injury
They'll cover the path with poo.
As you try to pass by all their sly squidgy shits
With a hoppity tip-toe crawl,
They'll stand in your way and they'll hiss their distaste
That you dare to exist at all.
Oh the Land cannot stand these Napoleoners
For much longer than half a year.
That is why they must fuck off to Canada;
So far - but still too near...

300?

Way back in the Fifth Century
B.C. not Anno Domini
The Greek and Persian armies clashed
In battle at Thermopylae.

King Xerxes started all the fuss
By aping daddy Darius,
Who many years before had tried
To beat the Greeks; their win, his loss.

His army, scores of thousands strong,
Amassed, and made the journey –long!–
Through Persia, Thrace, then Macedon.
Who'd fling their lives at such a throng?

The disp'rate Greeks allayed their hates.
They kinda sussed that all their fates
Were intertwined. They duly formed
An army from their city-states.

The Spartan men should take the lead
(The toughest dudes, they all agreed).
But yikes! It was Carneia-time.
The ephors had to intercede...

Now blessed, the Spartans marched their men,
Some say in thirty groups of ten.
The Oracle forewarned their king
He'd never see his home again.

But adamant Leonidas
Was up for kicking Persian ass!
With fifty foes to face each friend,
He slyly chose a narrow pass.

Three days they held Thermopylae
Till Ephialtes' treachery.
Surrounded, skewered, severed, slain;
They won a hollow victory.

I'm privileged to comprehend
How many really met their end.
Each word commemorates a soul;
You'll calculate 200, friend.

Spring Ditty

The playful cheeriness of Spring
Has once more conquered Winter's grim
Resolve. (Such a tenacious clutch -
But gone now, thank you very much!)

The Lady of the Neon Heart [poem]

The Lady of the Neon Heart

Of all the girls I've ever known
There's one I've never tried to court.
Instead, transfixed, I wait and watch
The Lady of the Neon Heart.
A curious title, to be sure,
But well-deserved. I'll tell you why.
For when she's feeling amorous
The spark of Cupid's energy
Lights up her soul. The glow beguiles;
This Will o' Wisp leads men astray,
Forever wand'ring in the gloom,
When love's soft light has gone awry.
She neither crows nor mourns their fates,
Emotion'ly she's too inert -
Just like the gas by which she's called,
My Lady of the Neon Heart.

Battling Beauty

Haven't written anything in a while. Not really been in the mood. But felt like writing this today.

Battling Beauty

Oh where's my Katherina?
Oh where my little shrew?
To scold me when I woo her,
To scratch me when I pet her,
To bite me when I kiss her,
And twist my warped heart true.

I want no dainty daisy.
I want a thorny rose.
To vex but not to irk me,
To barb but not to snare me,
To hurt but not to harm me,
Mi Bella - bellicose.

Poetry Exercise - Amphibrachs (Peregrine Praise)

This poem is a tetrameter of amphibrachs (di-DUM-di x4). May add more at a later date to cover other aspects of the peregrine if I feel like it. As I say, it's an intellectual exercise with the meter - don't expect anything funny or profound. Although might be worth reading just for getting DDT into a poem.

Peregrine Praise

Prepare for the funkiest bird on the planet
For nothing can better a peregrine falcon.
Its stoop is amazing – incredibly speedy:
Three hundred kilometres flown in an hour so
No creature exists on the Earth that is faster.

Unfortunately in the Fifties and Sixties
The number of peregrine falcons declined due
To Dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane
But nevertheless they recovered since then and
It's testimony to their wondrous design that
No other carnivorous bird is as widespread.

So let's raise a cheer for the peregrine falcon
A bird that excels and a beautiful marvel.

Aberdonian Dream

OK, this is my first attempt with the Rubaiyat form. Feels quite good for bombastic storytelling. Be warned, possibly my smuttiest poem ever.

Aberdonian Dream

I dreamt a man from Aberdeen
With hair so brown and eyes so green
That strangely stripped before my eyes
And then performed some acts obscene.

I wondered what he had in mind
When he began to bump and grind
But my suspicions were confirmed;
He turned and waggled his behind.

Aghast I looked the other way
And saw a nun who bade me pray -
We knelt. His lust accosted her
And they in sinful union lay.

But this perversion was the least;
For waving oil he lured a priest.
The three of them entwined like snakes
And slipp'ry too, now fully greased.

“A-Ha!” he yelled. “I'll soon explode.”
He spasmed then and loosed his load
And leaving nun and priest behind
Towards me winked and quickly strode.

Then to my rescue leapt a hound.
The massive beast let out a sound
To chill the blood of any man.
Fangs dripping drool, it pawed the ground.

A charge. A crash. A mournful pile...
I underestimate his guile.
Those tangled limbs reformed anew;
The hound is learning doggy style.

I uttered words profane and terse
And thinking things could get no worse
Tried to escape but found my way
Was blocked by a funereal hearse.

Then to my side he slyly slid
And lifted up the coffin lid.
“A-Ha! A corpse. I see he's stiff!”
I will not tell you what he did.

Despite this man's perverted quest
(Who wandered round my mind undressed)
He clearly had great stamina
And so my eyebrow rose, impressed.

“A-Ha!” he cried. “I have a lot
Of wood to spare 'cos I'm a Scot.
A Scottish pine is evergreen.
Now come and join me, will you not?”

And at that point I yearned to see
Quite what he had in store for me
And wondered just how wrong it was
To yield to curiosity.

I'm sure that you would like to know
The details of our to and fro
Unfortunately though for you
That's somewhere I'm not gonna go.

If you persist in seeking more
I'll say he left me feeling sore;
So many hours I used my parts
In ways I never had before.

Apostrophilia

A silly little poem I've just written. Worryingly, it may actually serve a practical use...

Apostrophilia

Some folk love food and drink and sleep,
Some love the birds and bees,
Some love to rule, some love to serve,
I love apostrophes.

It's such a versatile thing
And that can muddle folk.
You get it right, you show your wit -
But wrong and you're the joke.

A kid's ability to place
It in the right position
Depends on who kids' teachers are
And if they have precision.

"But is it used possessively
Or to abbreviate?"
It's easy when you know its role;
This knowledge feels... Great!

So as you see, Apostrophe
Is like a thing divine.
It isn't God's nor Zeus's though,
Nor Jesus' – it's MINE!

O Icicle

Another quick little one. This is (for the main) in iambic dimeter [di-DUM di-DUM].

O Icicle,
Ephemeral,
So quick to form,
So quick to go,
Oh.

Boy Racer

Just a quick little one. This is in anapaestic pentameter for those who're interested - (each line is "diddy-DUM" x5). I've italicised a couple of words to help with metrical stress.

Boy Racer

You were going at sixty but you didn't know how to drive.
You were racing too swiftly when you didn't know how to love.
So you now know what happens when you're in too much of a rush;
The inevitable - it's a mangled, obstreporous CraSH.

Blast from the Past

All this poesy has reminded me of a poem I wrote when I was 17. It was about a teacher and pupil in class who used to fight a lot. Foolishly, I wrote it down on paper, which was snatched from me, photocopied, and distributed around various people. It shattered my innocent image and left me with a nervous tic in one of my eyes for a few weeks! Anyway, I've changed the names to protect the original identities. Not for any warped reasons. Honest.


Mrs. Sprout and Draco feel
That their lust they can conceal
By their over-angry antics in the class
But should we boys reveal
That we've heard Pomona squeal
With delight, as Malfoy takes her up the ass

Avian Conversation

Avian Conversation

Hail the mighty Golden Eagle
Lord and master of the Skies
So agile, fast, so powerful
But not so wise

Here I am, your humble servant
A seemingly compliant crow
Deferring to your greater strength
For all you know

Your weapons are your razor claws
Inspiring fear in all but fools
How wonderful to rend and tear
But I craft tools

I perceive my own reflection
My intellect is self-aware
But you, oh from a mile away
Can spot a hare!

You spot then swoop then snatch then slay
You break its bones with blooded beak
I influence and imitate
With voice to speak

A king, you perch on tree-top throne
Before you, bowed and cowed I kneel
Just waiting for your back to turn
You're mine to steal

The Missing Poem

There's a nice little Sapphic Ode I co-wrote a few months ago that isn't on here.

It actually featured in the September issue of Kinaara magazine. Kinaara is a literary magazine for South Asian youth. While this may sound very restrictive, you'd be sorely mistaken if you thought that was the case. The sheer range of views and subjects it covers is amazing and a tribute to the vision of the editors. Anyway, I recommend you check out this uber-funky mag at http://kinaaramagazine.org/

How did it end up published in there? Well I co-wrote it with an extremely talented individual - R K Dasgupta. He provided the emotional core to the poem, while I did more of the technical stuff. If you want to see for yourself how talented this guy is, then enjoy his brilliant short film Azure!

Anyway, without more ado, I quote The Missing Poem

A diamond cold and sparkling night
I’m warmly nestled in your arm
And underneath the moon’s soft light
So safe from harm.

I love the bustling energy,
This city, our canalside walk,
The bikes, the trams, to feel so free,
Our tender talk.

A screeching wakes me with a start.
The car brings black where dream had shone.
In shock I try to find my heart
But you are gone.

Can I still smell you on the air?
Can I still taste my salty man?
Can I still feel your silken hair?
I can’t, but can.

Our bodies went their separate ways.
Between our souls a thousand miles.
But pain is further; pleasure stays…
I feel your smiles.

The memories drift back at last.
Our everlasting love revives.
We danced while Time entwined our past
And future lives.

Each moment passed, the end drew near,
The time when we would have to part.
The end, though sad, required no fear:
This end’s a start.

Continental Drift

Continental Drift

All so quiet, all so calm
When avoiding risk of harm.
What a sorry waste of breath
Living life as cold as death.
You and I are so alike
Waiting round for luck to strike.
Let's go grab it by the nuts
Show the world that we've got guts
Take a chance, no ifs, no buts.
Why resist our merging fates?
Shifting like tectonic plates
On a slow and steady course,
Powerful destructive force;
Smash the earth then set it new.
One new land where once was two.
All around, Apocalypse -
Worth it though, to grab your hips,
Drag you close and kiss your lips.
Let the world go up in flame!
Life is short so give your name,
Give your power, give your trust,
Yield to unencumbered lust;
Take from me the same and more.
Caged hearts sink, but free we'll soar,
Playful playmates evermore.

Britannia Hibernalis

A quick little poem I knocked up dedicated to Britain in winter. Rough and ready. Cheap and cheerful.


Britannia Hibernalis

"Hark the herald angels sing"??
Here in Britain, no such thing.
All our yuletide angels cough,
Curse the cold, then bugger off.
It's not dull like people say -
See! Our many shades of grey.
Look around! There's nudity -
Every branch on every tree.
Like to party through the night?
Eighteen hours a day, no light.
Hate when dogcrap stains your shoes?
Winter hounds leave frozen poos.
Sit on Jolly Santa's knee!
(Watch his hands. Avoid the pee.)
Don't head off for warmer climes...
Stay for soggy, groggy times!

Emotional Manipulation

I've tried to write some slightly more serious poetry. Of course, more serious is pretty relative. And while this isn't as raucous as Making Babies, my writing does seem prone to knowing jokes, irony, and surprise twists. (In my biased opinion anyway!) So without more ado, here's my latest complete composition...


Emotional Manipulation

Manipulate? Manipulate??
I serve my heart up on a plate;
An open wound, in pain I wait.
How say you I manipulate?

Why should I not commemorate
Each burning tear I've cried of late,
Tumbling-down like my wretched fate?
How say you I manipulate?

'Twas you who left me in this state.
It's me who suffered since that date.
You dare blame me when you're the traitor??
I'll say my full, manipulator!