Clowns

I’m a clown, though you might not know,

I don’t wear big shoes or a red nose, belong to a travelling show.

For clowns are not always what you expect,

And there are some faux clowns who maybe look the part,

But they’re bad tempered fat old men who are not blessed with the clowning art,

You’ve seen their advertising:

Mr Chuckles, birthday parties, face painting and balloon hats,

In lurid braces performing pratt-falls to take moolah from fat cats,

Real clowns like me, though, are more subtle,

We might make a joke on the morning commuter ride,

Or some witty remark at lunch to stop you seeing what’s inside.

We wear our invisible red noses to cover our shame,

Trip over our big feet to gloss over the atrocities we dare not name.

Men have walked upon the moon but we dare not look too closely at our past,

Dredge up old memories of – say – the year before last.

And though we seem like likeable types and fun to be with,

It is all just layers of greasepaint, our bonhomie is myth.

Don’t trust us further than you can throw our brightly coloured props,

Don’t believe our promises when we say we’ll pull out all the stops

To make reparation for our hundred million wrongs,

I’m sorry, please forgive me, these are our favourite songs.

So by all means, buy your tickets for the circus, watch wild animals roam,

But though you’ll laugh a lot at our clowning, don’t take us home.

In My Head I’m Still Nineteen Years Old, So Why Am I Stuck in This Old Man’s Body

Help! In my head I’m still nineteen years old, so why am I stuck in this old man’s body?

I can’t stretch, I can’t bend, oh where will it end? I’m still nineteen years old, so why am I stuck in this old man’s body?

My pace I revoke, my reflexes a joke. I’m still nineteen years old, so why am I stuck in this old man’s body?

And my feet they both hurt, my balance desert. I’m still nineteen years old, so why am I stuck in this old man’s body?

And I’d still like to chase women, but eyes they are dimming. I’m still nineteen years old, so why am I stuck in this old man’s body?

And my muscles I tear, what’s happened to my hair? I’m still nineteen years old, so why am I stuck in this old man’s body?

And I shake and I shiver, my wrists all a quiver and who’s that old fuck that I can see in the mirror? I’m still nineteen years old, so why am I stuck in this old man’s body?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Careers Day

When I went to meet the careers advisor,

I told him that I wanted to be

Superman,

Not Batman or Catman,

Or any other miscellaneous caped crusader,

But the Big Enchilada of men in tights,

The blue and red hero who puts the world to rights,

Mild-mannered Clerk Kent by day,

By night…

Well, let me put this another way,

Insurance executives have to wear suits and fly a lot,

Pretty boring,

But when you do it as Superman, it becomes really hot.

And are you qualified for this profession, the long-suffering advisor asks,

Can you fulfil the promise, complete the tasks?

And, looking at him witheringly, I reply,

Well my biological father,

Was a ruling member of Krypton’s hi-

erarchy and my mother put me in a spaceship

And sent me to Earth before our home planet went splat,

How’s that?

And can you produce references to that effect, he sighs,

Yes, I say, laying them on the table like a tissue of lies,

But…

These are gibberish, he exclaims, his breath redolent of Menthol Tunes,

No they’re not, I say defensively, they’re written in Kryptonian runes.

Well, I don’t know… he begins, getting irate,

I say, don’t be stroppy, just use Google translate.

So he writes me a chit to take back to school,

This lad is unemployable, he’s just acting the fool,

There is no place in this life, I have found,

For people able to leap tall buildings at a single bound,

And his blind determination, well, it makes me quite nervous,

I really think this boy should settle down,

And train for a career in the Civil Service.

Breakfast With Ian Duncan-Smith

I normally eat cereal or, maybe, a boiled egg,
But today I’m having caviar, and ham, carved from the leg,
There’s gold cutlery and linen cloth, and spreads brought from the deli,
And candied fruits and plovers’ eggs, to tempt and fill my belly.

And I said to Ian Duncan-Smith, how can we eat this spread?
When people are going hungry, it’s messing with my head,
But he smiled a smile of smug content, said, don’t listing to that braying,
And have another roasted quail, it’s all for free, the plebs are paying.

Father’s Day

I’m glad I don’t have children and don’t celebrate Father’s Day,

So I don’t have to say I like the gifts that come along my way,

The starchy shirts, the puke-green socks, that stuff for cleaning cars,

And all the eager faces saying, Dad, we’ve bought you land on Mars.

 

I never have to feign delight at books about Top Gear,

Or have to eat what kids have cooked, a parent’s greatest fear,

I don’t get jars of after shave that smell of cat urine,

Or have to tell my eager brood that I like the tie just fine.

 

So, keep your tins of toffee bits and lotions to make me tingle,

For when you mention Father’s Day, I can safely say, I’m single.

The Tragic Passing of Undead Augustus

There once lived a boy called Augustus Fred,

Who wouldn’t get up and just lay in his bed,

He slept all day and slept all night,

A disgrace to his father, to his mother a blight.

 

One day they decided to open his curtains,

The sun would surely him out for a Burton,

But Augustus had nailed them tightly shut tight,

So the light in his room was always night.

 

So they opened the door and wheeled out his bed,

And though he lay dormant as if he was dead,

They pushed his bed to the sun so bright,

Said, look my son, this is daylight.

But he just went all a-quiver and turned to ash,

And Mum said, Blimey, we’ve settled his hash!

A Vampire’s Prayer for the Demise of Stephenie Meyer

Oh Stephenie Meyer
On your funeral pyre,
What have you done to the poor vampire?

You’ve capped his fangs,
You’ve staked his heart,
Cut off his head,
Oh, you think you’re smart.

You’ve dwarfed old Drac,
And his werewolf kin,
Oh, pity the day they invited you in.

But Stephenie Meyer
With your financial fire,
I really don’t care that your books are dire,

But by the ghosts of Lugosi,
Langella and Schreck,
We humbly curse
Your royalty cheque.

For you’ve left the vampire
Bankrupt and blutered,
And though Pattinson’s beautiful,
Nosferatu’s neutered.

The Curmudgeon’s Valentine

I’m a man of scant enjoyment, a regular gloomy git,
A perpetual complainer, a really mis’rable shit,
I think chocolates are for losers and I spurn your red, red, rose,
For it makes me sneezy anyways and gets right up my nose.

I don’t care for soppy greetings card or flowers made of silk,
I don’t want to get toy animals or have a bath in milk,
Posh rest’rants make me nauseous, and red wine makes me boak,
And to suggest I go and dine with you, is, well, just a stupid joke.

So, please, don’t send me valentines, don’t say that you’ll be mine,
I live in isolation here and, yes, I’m doing fine,
I have no pets or partners, not e’en a goldfish in a bowl,
But I have to say I like it here, it’s therapeutic for the soul.

So, serve me soup and Kit Kat bars on a cloth of purest white,
And go celebrate some other place and spare me from your shite.

First Kiss

For National Poetry Day

My first kiss was with a girl whose name I didn’t know,
It wasn’t really anything to write home about.
I’d expected a big romance,
Swirling orchestral score,
Julie Andrews skittering down the mountainside,
Not two strangers suddenly going mouth to mouth,
Like a pair of sturgeons lip-locked in a fishmongers window,
As disco lights flashed like running water down the slab.

There wasn’t even really a song to lock the moment in my heart,
Just Marc Bolan and T Rex going
La La La, La-La-La La, mmmm, ah, ah ahha!

Still, she was pretty,
With long dark hair and gold lamé hotpants,
Her shapely legs in clumpy white PVC boots.
But she legged it as soon as the song was done
And vanished behind a wall of skinheads
That no amount of hormones were going to propel me across.

However
A search at school on Monday morning revealed that her name was
Jessie
or maybe Lorraine,
But, horror of horrors,
She was in 3B,
A year above me and a million miles away,
And my message sent on the grapevine of jungle drums
Played by giggling girls,
That, Max wants to go with you,
Vanished sadly into the ether,
And Jorraine,
Never acknowledged me again.
Though,
In school uniform she wasn’t that hot,
So,
Really,
It was no big loss.

Poets’ Boyfriends

By popular request!

At first
She can’t find him in the gloom of their darkened room,
But she follows the snapping undergrowth of
Pizza boxes and crumpled beer cans to his chair,
The sonorous chant of football fans
Echoing
Like a throbbing descant of cicadas.

Good night, love?
His voice floats through the miasma.

The best, she begins, elated,
I’m slam champion of the world…

Oh, that’s good…
He says,
Not quite with her,
Oh, oh, oh, yes, yes, YES!
What a goal!

Sorry,
What were you saying, love?