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.

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,
Wooo-hoooo-wah-woo!

A new religion sweeping the country,
As children with plungers on their heads
And wearing egg box skirts
Bark
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
And
Local Odeons showing films full of the promise of
SEX…

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?

Poets’ Girlfriends

You see them on the fringes of every gathering,
Bored witless and fortifying themselves with half pints of strong larger and endless packets of crisps.

Poets’ girlfriends.
Stoic. Uncomplaining.

Although, sometimes, in the confessional sanctuary of the ladies’ loo,
You might hear one of them whisper,
Well, it could be worse.
He could be into football, and then it would be all that hanging around on the sidelines in the freezing cold,
Pretending to watch him play.

Oh, life can be excruciating for a poet’s girlfriend,
Like,
When some intimate moment is broadcast to a roomful of strangers at the top of his stentorian voice,
Or that lovingly detailed description of the mole at the top of her thigh thundered out at forty decibels.

But poets’ girlfriends don’t falter.
They just sigh and smile and, drinking down their strong beer,
Try not to look bored or terse,
For they are here, and for the long haul,
They are poets’ girlfriends,
For better or verse.

Date for Your Diary

Cracking the Youth Market

I’m going to write a bestseller, for children agéd nine,
There’ll be wizards, orcs and Gollum-girls in this little book of mine,
My agent’s going to Hollywood to sign me up a deal,
They think I’m fat and female, it’s part of my appeal.

So I’m looking for a fag-hag who looks distinctly Goth,
She must be a size twenty-four with a tattoo of a moth,
I’ll prime her with my info and name her Gail Le Foys,
And send her off to LaLa Land to promote my books and toys.

And fan girls will all love me and send me sweets and jelly,
And all the geeks identify with the lady with the belly,
I’ll be the man behind the curtain, it’ll be my cross to bear,
While I watch the cash come rolling in, and, frankly, I won’t care!

Love Letter to a Librarian

There you stand,
Sticky pot of Gloy in hand,
Looking, hard, to make your mark,
Record past readers, casual, stark,
Barcode rhythms, rubber stamps,
Scanning bold and prim and vamp.

Take, then, lady, lover curious,
This blank page, leave reader furious,
Leave but half a telling inch,
Protruding shyly, just a pinch,
Leave them pondering, curious, soppy,
Make them wish they’d bought their copy.

The Love Song of Edgar Allen Poe

Let us go then, you and I,
To the Tomb of Ligeia, bye and bye,
Let us go to the Kingdom by the Sea,
The fish and chip shop of Annabelle Lee.

Let us go to the costal laundrette run by Lenore,
Let us throw open the windows and the door,
Dispel the gloom and evict the black cat,
Make a monkey of the ape asleep upon the mat.

Let us drink a draught of Hemlock a the House of Usher,
Where the décor is like the unquiet tomb, only plusher,
Let us imbibe at the Tell Tale Heart,
Let the parrots sing and the ravens play their part.

Alas, alas, M. Valdemar has come and I am at the door,
And I hear a melancholy chorus of black birds crying Nevermore.

How to Succeed in Publishing

If I had the urge to write,
And was brazen, not contrite,
Then I’d rather be a killer than a writer,
For I’d sooner get a deal,
And a flashy rest’rant meal,
If I’d killed my bairnies three with bloody mitre.

I’d be a cause célèbre,
Not some ordinary pleb,
And I wouldn’t write my story in my attic,
For they’d send to me a ghost,
He’d be humble, never boast,
And I’d have my million seller, automatic.

So don’t labour with that pen,
In your humble poet’s den,
There’s a quicker route to cash and fame and glory,
Just kill your cheating wife,
And extinguish out her life,
And then watch the offers flow in for your story.

The Love Song of Harriet Klausner

Let us go then, you and I,
To where the remnant copies are stacked up tall and high,
Let us discuss those certain much-neglected tomes,
By lonely authors who pick the bones.

And on the site the fangirls come and go,
Gossiping that Robert Pattinson will play Michelangelo.

Oh, I grow weary, I grow weary,
I eye my number one position leery,
Shall I fall a vote behind?
Do I dare to give five stars?
I hear the lower-rankers whispering in bars.

And as if my lonely life is thrown upon the screen,
A jerky Quick Time rendering of my lost and broken dream,
And as I lift the latest book of literary cordon bleu,
The readers call out, Harriet, please give us your view,
And so my tired fingers stroke the keyboard in my darkened room,
It’s done,
I pen another Amazon review to keep me number one.