Teen Vampires

I met a guy in makeup in the brightness of the sun,
I said, you’ll be a vampire, then, by name of Pattinson,
He sighed and shrugged his pallid face, alas, my friend, it’s true,
I am the Teenage Vampire, but my name is Bob to you.

I have no cape or coffin, it really makes me sick,
And although I have two gleaming fangs I haven’t got a dick,
They’ve made me PG-rated, it’s a fate quite worse than death,
I just glamour girls with melting looks, it is a waste of breath.

The camera it does love me, it follows like a pup,
While I drink my bottled blood mix, like cocoa from a cup,
So please review my contract and release me from this Hell,
The money’s good but, really, it is career death knell.

Edgar Allen Poe at Asda

I walked into a menswear shop to buy myself a suit,
A shirt; some socks; a pullover; a leather belt to boot,
The shopman he did say to me, you’re buying clothes, that’s good,
But tell me, sir, I’d like to know, just why you’re standing nude?

Well, George, I kindly said to him, the sign said t’was his name,
I was out with my own Lenore and we played a dirty game,
We each undressed and held on tight to have some saucy fun,
But just as I was on the brink, she said she had to run.

She grabbed her clothes and grabbed mine too, my shoes; my coat; my wallet,
My briefcase; braces; shirt and tie; my novel by Ken Follet,
And so I sought your humble shop, my pride set to restore,
And if fair maids broach sexy deeds I’ll answer, Nevermore.

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Indoor Games Near Kirkton

I have always adored Indoor Games Near Newbury, John Betjamen’s tale of gentle first love set against a backdrop of Art Deco Buckinghamshire. Then I got to wondering, what if it were set in my own childhood in 1960s Scotland….

Chip shop signs and broken windows, light the lights of our Cortina, as we drive to Wendy’s party, pink sair heids and plates o’ mince,
And we meet your crooked cousins, Bill the Blade and Cross-Eyed Vince.
“Come in young ains, see a swetchy, gie’s a fag and see’s a beer,
Snoggin’s OK, but nae gropin’, we’ll nae have nae nonsense here!”

“Meet me when they’re pissed as plovers, by the meter, ‘neath the stair,
I’ll gie you a right good snoggin’, and show you my pubic hair.”
Wendy, Wendy, sent the fairies, brother Frank and boyfriend Twinky,
Showed me how to buy a condom from their local all-night Chinky.

Oh that dark and smelly cupboard, scents of puke and skelléd beer,
Wendy’s hand my fly unzipping, oh my god, it’s happening here,
Goodbye innocence, bye virginity, childhood’s over, just like that,
Lost it all at Wendy’s party, in a Kirkton council flat.

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Three Love Poems for St Valentine’s Day

1
I love you, she gasps
You’re a two-timing whore, he rasps
She slaps him in the face
He rips her bodice lace
Oh Sir, you cannot
Dot dot dot

2
Riding o’er the hills at sunset, Bonnie Face and Lightning Lad,
Wax moustachioed villain follows, yes, we know he’s really bad,
There’s a shoot out, in the gully, hero’s wounded, villain’s dead,
Sun it sinks behind the curtain, think it’s time for Bonnie’s bed,
See the shutters, see the shadows, drawing long o’er Bonnie’s cot,
Now she’s ready, now door opens, now it’s time for
Dot dot dot.

3
Ponytail upon her scooter, meeting Leather Biker Hunk,
Drive-in fodder, raunchy retro, healthy hunk of brawn and junk,
Hips together, getting steamy, will she yield or will she not?
Fifites brassiere, out of sweater, sweaty hands on
Dot dot dot.

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Wild Thang

Reginald Rocqueforth Fortesque Daire,
Was a boy quite enamoured with girls’ pubic hair.
He jumped on his teacher and gave her a push,
Then whipped off her drawers to look at her bush.

The school called his parents, said, have there been others?
Oh yes, said his father, he looks at his mother’s,
And we can’t get a nanny and we can’t get a cook,
Since Reggie is always sneaking a look.

So they called in a brain doc, said what’s to be done,
He’s assaulted a reverend and stripped off a nun,
The shrink said I’m not sure, but an action quite drastic,
For I’m sure his voyeurism is both fake and sarcastic.

So thus in an effort to reform his bad ways,
They sent him to prison for twenty-one days,
But the warden did punish him before long enough,
For using a mirror to look at her muff.

So she went to the chandler and bought a big tub,
And put Reggie in it and gave it a rub,
Then launched it at Landsend and sent him to sea,
Saying, that’s what you get for leering at me.

And Reg called back to her as she stood by her patch,
Farewell, love, I’ll miss you and your thick ginger thatch,
And out in the water he looked so forlorn,
That Rita forgave him and his perpetual horn.

And she dived from the cliff top and out to his tub,
Saying, darling, I love you, when a big German sub,
Came out of the water and killed her quite dead,
And left Reggie quite anguished and out of his head,

Till the submarine captain, called Lilly Marlene,
Said, Reginald for bush you’ll lack never again,
For we live under the ocean to fend off attack,
And we don’t carry Immac or razors or wax.
And as they sunk in the ocean like an inflatable toy,
There never had been a more happier boy.

Obliging Amanda

This is the story of Amanda Wray,
A girl who would, if they offered to pay,
She hung by her heels for the parish priest,
And let the vicar dip her in yeast.
The local doctor painted her pink,
And Constable Jones locked her up in the clink.

Her mother said, girl, this has got to stop,
You’ve turned our home to a knocking shop,
This constant whoring is making me nervous,
But Mum, said Amanda, it’s a public service.

I help them out, and let then wank,
They go off home, we have money in the bank,
They take off my clothes and do strange stuff,
But I make sure they pay me enough,
So please be assured that they bend to my will,
Now take a seat and man the till!

These Songs of Freedom

Oh me name is John Paul Dawkins and I’m fat as fat can be,
I eat sardines for me breakfast and kippers for me tea,
I take the car to Asda’s, I certainly never walk,
And load it up with six-packs, and I will never balk.

Me wife is called Vanessa, she has sixty double Dees,
And a belly that is off the scale when she eats mushy peas,
She likes to watch her videos of people working out,
And then we order pizza and eat it while we shout:

Oh we are western citizens, we live in the free world,
We like to tan our bodies and have our top-locks curled,
We only read the tabloids and think that learning’s bunk,
And mags without celebrities, are just such fucking junk.

So pump me full of calories and sweets and beer and fats,
And let me always have my porn of fat girls showing their twats,
I don’t ask for understanding or global peace on earth,
Just beer and fags and shagging, I think that’s what I’m worth.

Afternoon Love

Frederica McCafferty Gladstone-McGee,
Was a girl who was always late for her tea.
At lunch she was punctual, at breakfast on time,
But for tea she was often later than nine.

Her mother said, Freddie, this cannot go on,
The crumpets are frozen, there’s no hope for the scone,
The toast it is wilting, the teapot quite cold,
And every blesséd teatime my daughter I scold.

Well, Mummy, I’ll tell you what causes my lateness,
I stay after school to improve on my greatness.
Nice try, said her mother, but alas it won’t wash,
I ran your head master and he says that is bosh.

OK, said our heroine, you wanted the truth,
I’ve fallen in love with a lesbian called Ruth,
We meet in the bike sheds each evening at four,
And she does such things to me that I scream out for more.
She spanks me and wanks me and watches while I pee,
Fair enough, said her mother, but can’t she do that after tea?

The Evil Dead of Horace McCoy

There lived a boy
Named Horace McCoy,
His father was dead and his mother was hung,
He filled his head
With the Evil Dead,
Even though to view it he was too young.

But Horace McCoy,
That loathsome boy,
Decided the movie he would re-enact,
He cut down trees and skinned his knees
And killed the cat in the cellar – the odious little feller!

But Horace’s gran
Took her frying pan
And belted him about the arse,
Said: “Get that Evil Dead
Stuff outta your head
Or you’ll be spending the week in Glen Carse!”

So Horace took his axe
And gave her some whacks
And knocked her head clean down to the basement,
Then asked teenage totty,
An eager young hotty,
To parade nude under his casement.

But the ghost of his gran
With her frying pan
And his dear departed dad,
Roamed with a moan and a groan,
Together and alone,
To the disgust of the amorous lad.

Summer Loving

Here’s one of my poems to read at the beach,
With your bloater-paste sarnies and half eaten peach,
About my pal, Sally, a redundant pole dancer,
Who fell for the charms of moustachioed Lancer.

Now Sally, poor dear, was a girl of good size,
Her arse it was massive, her tits won a prize,
As melons, gigantic, at the Burnley flower show,
(It’s background, I’ve told you, so now you all know!)

One night she was dancing and shaking her stuff,
When some greasy Lothario slips a ten up her muff,
And whispers, there’s plenty, from where that came,
So she rushed down to join him, the girl had no shame,

Till Shamus O’Shaughnessy, the boss of the bar,
Said get you back out there, you’re not finished by far,
So Sally went back and swung round her pole,
But it bent in the middle then snapped like a bowl,

And Sally came flying right off the high stage,
And hit the smug Lancer with the force of a rage,
And his last words were whispered to Sally’s sad eyes,
“This is not how I visualised dying in your thighs.”