Category Archives: poetry

International Men’s Day


If you really want to see an International Men’s Day

We’ll have to do more than buy our own underwear

And change the odd toilet roll,


There can’t be an International Men’s Day

While outspoken women continue to be pilloried in the media,

And corporations use self loathing to sell cosmetics

And men still need diagrams to locate their partners’ lady bits.

And there can’t be an International Men’s Day

Until Malibu Barbie is replaced by

Truck-Driver Barbie

Or Construction-Worker Barbie,

Or even, god-help-me,

Chief Executive Officer Barbie.

And there can’t be an International Men’s Day

While Harley Street surgeons still perform clitoridectomies,

And while men still expect to be applauded for making

The occasional spaghetti bolognaise

While leaving their wives to do

All the other household chores.

And there can’t be an International Men’s Day

Until terms like slut and dyke and whore

are expunged from the language,

And men stop being squicked by body hair

And rapes jokes are just not funny any more.

And there certainly won’t be an International Men’s Day

Until men stop bleating – Well, not all men are like that,

Because, until the male species gets it through their thick,

entitled heads that the fight for equality

Is a human right that needs to be fought for

By both sexes

Then we’re all going to be lumped-in with the lowest

Ukip Neanderthal banging his fists in deepest Surrey,

Because while we all sit tight

In the don’t-make-waves

Comfort of our own political correctness

And do nothing

Then we have to expect to be classified with the morons

Because, frankly, that’s all we deserve.

And that’s why we’ll never have

An International Men’s Day.


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Are you there?

Ground Control to Major Tom?

I… I hope you don’t mind me addressing you like this,
But it’s just that I feel I know you,
After that summer,
You know the one,
When we’d bought School’s Out and Aladdin Sane,
And blasted them out for the whole holiday
At my pal’s house
Because his mum was doing summer school
And didn’t seem to mind the catalogue of neighbour complaints
That were waiting for her each night.

And, ever since then,
I’ve had your voice in my head,
The Starman who watches over me,
My own personal Jean Genie.

And you taught me that it really was OK
To be the odd one out,
To be the only person in my year who didn’t like Slade,
And to have long hair and not wear a fucking Crombie.

And, hell, if you could be Ziggy and wear a dress
And still have girls chasing you,
Then there was hope for me
And I wouldn’t be a Diamond Dog
All my life.

And later you showed me I could wear suits
And still look kinda cool,
That I could say Let’s Dance
To girls that I liked
And, maybe, know a little
Modern Love.

And I’ve always turned to you when I’ve been
Under Pressure,
Or when I felt like Dancing In the Street.
And you gave yourself to my every bedsit room,
Well, at least your posters on my wall,
And I even bought your
Tin Machine CDs although everyone said they were crap,
Because being weird is really all about
Getting it wrong some times.

So, I’m going to miss you,
Ziggy Stardust.
And without your poems I’m going to
Be writing on the walls,
But now it’s time for Ashes to Ashes
And I hope it’s Hunky Dory wherever you are
With Andy Warhol
By your side
And that, by the time I get there,
Heaven will be a weirder place.

Because now you’ve gone and left me out on a limb,
No notice, no nothing,
Not even Five Years,
And though I keep hoping that it’s all a stunt,
And that you’ll swoop down onto the stage
Like Lazarus on a flywire
I’m scared that it’s really true and that you are really gone,
And that I’ll have to
Keep you alive by playing your old records
Like some sad old man,
Because I think the kids have killed a man
And it’s time to break up the band.
Can you hear me, Major Tom?


Filed under Internet Verse, Love Poem, poetry, Web Poetry, whimsy


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.

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Filed under black humor, funny poem, poetry

Those Ladies With The Comfortable Shoes

for National Poetry Day….

Why all the big fuss
About those ladies with their comfortable shoes,
Who mind their own business
Sans heels
And brew their camomile tea
And commune serenely With their mystic ginger cats.

Not for them the empty boasts
That one night with them
Will turn straight women gay,
No shouts of “Straighty!”
Or worse,
At passing strangers in the street.

I think that we can learn a lot
From those ladies with the comfortable shoes.

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Filed under national poetry day, poetry

Dr Who Poems

Tardis Dreams

There was an old police box down our way,
Wedged tightly on the corner of
Peter’s Café and Mario’s Chipper.

And I remember it shrouded in fog
On a Sunday night,
Coming home from visiting my Aunty Barbara,
And sometimes,
If the planetary line-up was
Just so,
The blue light on top would flash like a beacon
As we shuffled past
With out chips and Caramel Logs.

And I used to dream
That the Doctor was setting off
On one of his adventures
And maybe, just maybe,
If I was really good and didn’t complain about
Eating gristly mince,
This time,
This time he’d take me with him.

Who needs witches and wardrobes,
After all,
In this world of Tardis dreams.

The First Decade

Suburban gardens overrun with children
Are suddenly stilled,
Rows of little square lawns empty,
Whole streets
Like a wasteland,
Living room windows filled with nuclear test dummies
Huddled around the tiny screens
As entire avenues echo to the refrain of
Kiddillydac-Kiddillydac – Woooo-ooo,

A new religion sweeping the country,
As children with plungers on their heads
And wearing egg box skirts
Exterminate, EXTERMINATE!
To long-suffering mothers.

Ten years on we still watch on a Saturday night,
The televisions in colour now,
But bigger screens
Show up the warts and faults.
And cloth-draped boxes and
Monsters pulled by strings
Are no match for the pull of
The Old Grey Whistle Test
Local Odeons showing films full of the promise of

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Filed under black humor, black humour, Dr Who, poetry, whimsy

The Never Ending Story

Vote for me the smiler said,
To the man who lost his head,
Lost his head and lost his arms,
When he voted for the smiler’s charms.

Vote for me he oozed with guile,
His flinty eyes, his beaming smile,
Vote for war and vote for strife,
Vote for me and give your life.

And the young men lie upon the hill,
The smiling man has had his will,
And sitting back he smiles so bright,
Oh who will vote for me tonight?

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Filed under black humor, black humour, Cautionary tale, poetry, Poppy Day

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.

A search at school on Monday morning revealed that her name was
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.
In school uniform she wasn’t that hot,
It was no big loss.

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Filed under black humor, black humour, Cautionary tale, comic verse, funny poem, humor, humorous verse, humour, Love Poem, poetry, whimsy