Hark, ye fellows at the tragic tale of Frank Spurgeon, the butcher. Or as he poetically likes to call himself 'Meat Surgeon'. Me oh my, if you're not weeping by the end of this, may God have mercy on your soul. Also, some new short ones since you haven't had some in a while.
Frank Spurgeon: Meat Surgeon
Meet Frank Spurgeon.
Meat Surgeon.
He cuts meat, he cleans meat,
He stores meat, he adores meat.
But here’s the irony.
His tongue’s made of silicon.
And he can therefore never taste the fruits of his labours.
(No taste buds)
Short Ones
46. ‘Goal!’ Screamed the blind football commentator. Guessing.
47. The licentious ‘Gregor’ sat haphazardly amongst the blossom. What he was doing there, no-one is sure to this day. But they know this. He was very rude to the young Hispanic waiter who came to take his order.
48. A lonely anteater, wondering the Gobi Dessert? Gobi Desert?
49. Spineless. Hatless. This had not been a good morning for Colin.
50. Plasters in swimming pools make me uneasy. Not to mention queasy. (autobiographical)
51. Sweet success, thought the Candyman.
52. With sweat, pouring down his pate, and blood seeping from his eyes, Mr. Sinclair reflected that maybe the coalition government wasn’t for him. (political)
53. You’re not happy are you? I’m perfectly happy actually. Oh, sorry to bother you. You are forgiven, father.
54. The phlegm slapped his cheek like a hot turd thrown by a chimp.
Good morning/afternoon/evening/night (depends what time you're reading this at.
Thursday 16 December 2010
Tuesday 23 November 2010
On Inspiration
Sometimes inspiration will come from the most unlikely places. Here are a few poems, all with fairly clear sources of inspiration (depending on what you know/which blogs you read).
Poem the first:
Letters from a Norfolk Sanctuary (aka. On Pretension)
Oh my dear, my egos collapse, my ego's collapse.
Traffic through my brain shatters the truth like a love banned since 1931. The thirties, what a vintage decade!
(If) I could (bear/bare) fruit then surely you, my holy prisoner, my holey prisoner, could (bear) bare (bear/brie) thyself to me.
In Norwich Cathedral my heart slowly oscillates towards my egos, towards the feminine side. The love of my fear shatters the bioluminescence.
Like that time I was trapped in a cold, heartless city like a magnet (London) which suffocates my face like a thousand.
Could you ever forgive this near expert of The Heaven, The Beast, The Miracle. It Breathes. I Breathe.
(I)
Breathe.
The next two follow similar structures (ie. to each other, rather than that one) WARNING. SOME STRONG LANGUAGE.
Poem the second:
Horse in field
Since when could horses lie down?
I thought that was cows,
Who could lie down.
Horses sleep standing up (don't they?)
Fuck you horse, who's lying down.
Fuck.
You.
Poem the third:
Puddles
I just trod in a puddle whilst penning this poem.
Fuck you, puddle.
Fuck you.
Inspiration. Done.
Poem the first:
Letters from a Norfolk Sanctuary (aka. On Pretension)
Oh my dear, my egos collapse, my ego's collapse.
Traffic through my brain shatters the truth like a love banned since 1931. The thirties, what a vintage decade!
(If) I could (bear/bare) fruit then surely you, my holy prisoner, my holey prisoner, could (bear) bare (bear/brie) thyself to me.
In Norwich Cathedral my heart slowly oscillates towards my egos, towards the feminine side. The love of my fear shatters the bioluminescence.
Like that time I was trapped in a cold, heartless city like a magnet (London) which suffocates my face like a thousand.
Could you ever forgive this near expert of The Heaven, The Beast, The Miracle. It Breathes. I Breathe.
(I)
Breathe.
The next two follow similar structures (ie. to each other, rather than that one) WARNING. SOME STRONG LANGUAGE.
Poem the second:
Horse in field
Since when could horses lie down?
I thought that was cows,
Who could lie down.
Horses sleep standing up (don't they?)
Fuck you horse, who's lying down.
Fuck.
You.
Poem the third:
Puddles
I just trod in a puddle whilst penning this poem.
Fuck you, puddle.
Fuck you.
Inspiration. Done.
Sunday 14 November 2010
Two New Poems
These are poems written about two pets. Topper, the Cule family dog (and literally the best dog in the world) and Chubbs (R.I.P), my sister's hamster, but in many ways, everyone's hamster, who had a wonderful life - being owned as she was by some goths, and called Satan. My sister took her on and, due to her colossal size and my sister's fear of Satan, renamed her Chubbs. Also, if you have a topic of a poem that you would like me to attempt then please feel free to make a request in the comments part (my sister requested these two, y'see).
Enjoy.
Topper the Morning To You
With a stretch and a sniff,
A growl and a groan,
A scratch of an itch,
And he’s ready to go.
Up the stairs, to spread his hairs,
Airs his hairs, he’s unawares of
Someone creeping down to say hello to him,
Then he hears it, and he’s ready.
Take me for a walk.
But they’ve already passed.
And he must wait his time.
Dear Chubbs
Oh, hairless hamster. Despite all
You were the loveliest of them all.
Scitter.
Scatter.
Pitter.
Patter.
Creeping through your plastic home,
Sleeping, snuggled, in amongst the straw. The cloth.
Our loss.
You are missed.
Bye and that.
Enjoy.
Topper the Morning To You
With a stretch and a sniff,
A growl and a groan,
A scratch of an itch,
And he’s ready to go.
Up the stairs, to spread his hairs,
Airs his hairs, he’s unawares of
Someone creeping down to say hello to him,
Then he hears it, and he’s ready.
Take me for a walk.
But they’ve already passed.
And he must wait his time.
Dear Chubbs
Oh, hairless hamster. Despite all
You were the loveliest of them all.
Scitter.
Scatter.
Pitter.
Patter.
Creeping through your plastic home,
Sleeping, snuggled, in amongst the straw. The cloth.
Our loss.
You are missed.
Bye and that.
Wednesday 13 October 2010
Philosophical Poem...?
Hello,
Goodness me I've been busy over the last FOREVER. But I just found a poem I wrote a bit ago, which seems to be about something very high reaching and thought-provoking. Although maybe not. In fact, I'm sure it's not. But I hope you enjoy it.
Clint's Jacket
Clint fell through a hole in his own pocket.
The silly tool.
He reached into the lining, searching for cigarettes
He swore he had put in that pocket.
He found the hole in the lining
And (as previously mentioned) fell through.
It’s a strange thing, to see a man
Slip into the lining of his own jacket.
No-one knows quite where he’s gone
Or how he’ll get back again.
Presumably he’ll have to find a hole in the lining
Of a new metaphysical jacket.
But no-one can say for sure.
No-one can say for sure.
Also, over the next few days, I plan to finish a poem I've written about surnames and stuff. So I'll pop that up as soon as I can. And then... Who can say?
BYE
Ant
Goodness me I've been busy over the last FOREVER. But I just found a poem I wrote a bit ago, which seems to be about something very high reaching and thought-provoking. Although maybe not. In fact, I'm sure it's not. But I hope you enjoy it.
Clint's Jacket
Clint fell through a hole in his own pocket.
The silly tool.
He reached into the lining, searching for cigarettes
He swore he had put in that pocket.
He found the hole in the lining
And (as previously mentioned) fell through.
It’s a strange thing, to see a man
Slip into the lining of his own jacket.
No-one knows quite where he’s gone
Or how he’ll get back again.
Presumably he’ll have to find a hole in the lining
Of a new metaphysical jacket.
But no-one can say for sure.
No-one can say for sure.
Also, over the next few days, I plan to finish a poem I've written about surnames and stuff. So I'll pop that up as soon as I can. And then... Who can say?
BYE
Ant
Saturday 11 September 2010
All New Short Poems!!!
Hey there,
Since I haven't done some in a while I thought I'd do some more short poems and put them here (on my blog)
Enjoy.
33. ‘That’s crazy,’ said Xavier. ‘I know,’ replied Colin, swallowing the last of the goose down, ‘I know.’
34. The ‘Go Compare’ guy stumbles home; pissed as fuck; disgracing his family name. His family name is Shit.
35. A fox with springs for feet, sprints across the path, being chased by three ducks with beaks made of lasers! Ah, what a Christmas that was.
36. Dark, dark, dark. The night. When it’s dark.
37. The moth flew in through the open window. Flapping. Flopping. ‘Vile fucking creature!’ exclaimed Nigel, whose room it was. Flapping. Flopping.
38. He was, to put it simply, gargantuan.
39. Digging around, snuffling for truffles. Please stop, mum.
40. Todd bit Carly and gave her malaria.
41. No signal. No licence. His girlfriend, gone, no note. No money. Not a friend in the world. And all this on September 11th.
42. Shit squirted into his eye. That’ll stain, he thought, peevishly.
43. ‘Well, I’ve found the problem,’ stated Dr. Johnston, coolly, ‘His, er, yeah, his bones were made of nougat.’
44. Keith Chegwin’s tiny cock, flaps briskly in the wind. Cheggers himself has been long dead.
45. ‘Come on, love, just a quick flash of those tits,’ squealed Phillip. ‘I can still have you beheaded you know, dear,’ snapped the Queen.
That'll do, pig. That'll do.
Since I haven't done some in a while I thought I'd do some more short poems and put them here (on my blog)
Enjoy.
33. ‘That’s crazy,’ said Xavier. ‘I know,’ replied Colin, swallowing the last of the goose down, ‘I know.’
34. The ‘Go Compare’ guy stumbles home; pissed as fuck; disgracing his family name. His family name is Shit.
35. A fox with springs for feet, sprints across the path, being chased by three ducks with beaks made of lasers! Ah, what a Christmas that was.
36. Dark, dark, dark. The night. When it’s dark.
37. The moth flew in through the open window. Flapping. Flopping. ‘Vile fucking creature!’ exclaimed Nigel, whose room it was. Flapping. Flopping.
38. He was, to put it simply, gargantuan.
39. Digging around, snuffling for truffles. Please stop, mum.
40. Todd bit Carly and gave her malaria.
41. No signal. No licence. His girlfriend, gone, no note. No money. Not a friend in the world. And all this on September 11th.
42. Shit squirted into his eye. That’ll stain, he thought, peevishly.
43. ‘Well, I’ve found the problem,’ stated Dr. Johnston, coolly, ‘His, er, yeah, his bones were made of nougat.’
44. Keith Chegwin’s tiny cock, flaps briskly in the wind. Cheggers himself has been long dead.
45. ‘Come on, love, just a quick flash of those tits,’ squealed Phillip. ‘I can still have you beheaded you know, dear,’ snapped the Queen.
That'll do, pig. That'll do.
Friday 3 September 2010
On The Folly Of Celebrity
Yeah, that's right, I'm taking on one of the biggest topics in our modern world, the topic of celebrity. I'm taking down the heavyweights. I'm nailing my colours to the mast as to what I think of 'celebritydom'. I'm sure you'll see my point. This is mainly because I just watched the entire video to 'Thriller'. You should understand the rest.
Steve Wright Meets Phillip Seymour-Hoffman
So Steve Wright, right? He’s this bloke I know,
Is introduced to this other bloke,
Whose name
Is Phillip Seymour-Hoffman.
‘Wow,’ says Steve, ‘As in the Phillip Seymour-Hoffman?’
Calmly, sagely, comes the reply:
‘No, I’m not that Phillip Seymour-Hoffman.’
‘I’m sorry, man, I really am, I bet you get that all the time.’
‘Not really. I mean,
I’m not that Phillip Seymour-Hoffman.’
‘I get you, man, I totally do,
It’s like the other day, I saw this dude,
And I swear it was Michael fucking Jackson.
So I go up to him, in the pub,
He had just ordered himself a Bud,
I said “Mate, are you the , Michael Jackson?”
And he looked at me, looked me up and down,
And said “No mate. Although I get where you’re coming from.”
My interest piqued I says to him “How’d’ya mean?”
“I mean, yes, I look like Michael Jackson,
And, yes, I dress like Michael Jackson,
And, yes, I speak like Michael Jackson,
But I’m just not Michael Jackson.
I mean, for a start, I’m still alive,
For a start, I’m fifty-five,
And, I mean, hey, I’m not the crown Prince of Pop.
For another, I just spent three fifty-five on Bud,
And I’m in this dive, what else?
Oh yeah, my name’s not Michael Jackson.”
“Well what is it?”
“It’s Michael Jordan.”
“Woooowwww,” says I, eyes well wide “As in the Michael Jordan?”
At this point Michael Jordan sighed, and turned aside, picked up his pint,
And walked off.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ Asks Phillip Seymour-Hoffman
‘Well,’ says Steve Wright, ‘I mean I get it all the time,
“I’m Steve Wright”
“As in the Steve Wright?”
“As in a Steve Wright.”
I mean it’s alright, right?
But right, I’m sure you don’t know Steve Wright.
Being a burning, shining bright Hollywood star such as you.’
And Phillip Seymour-Hoffman sighs, and turns aside, picks up his pint,
And walks off.
You know what I'm talking about.
Bye.
Steve Wright Meets Phillip Seymour-Hoffman
So Steve Wright, right? He’s this bloke I know,
Is introduced to this other bloke,
Whose name
Is Phillip Seymour-Hoffman.
‘Wow,’ says Steve, ‘As in the Phillip Seymour-Hoffman?’
Calmly, sagely, comes the reply:
‘No, I’m not that Phillip Seymour-Hoffman.’
‘I’m sorry, man, I really am, I bet you get that all the time.’
‘Not really. I mean,
I’m not that Phillip Seymour-Hoffman.’
‘I get you, man, I totally do,
It’s like the other day, I saw this dude,
And I swear it was Michael fucking Jackson.
So I go up to him, in the pub,
He had just ordered himself a Bud,
I said “Mate, are you the , Michael Jackson?”
And he looked at me, looked me up and down,
And said “No mate. Although I get where you’re coming from.”
My interest piqued I says to him “How’d’ya mean?”
“I mean, yes, I look like Michael Jackson,
And, yes, I dress like Michael Jackson,
And, yes, I speak like Michael Jackson,
But I’m just not Michael Jackson.
I mean, for a start, I’m still alive,
For a start, I’m fifty-five,
And, I mean, hey, I’m not the crown Prince of Pop.
For another, I just spent three fifty-five on Bud,
And I’m in this dive, what else?
Oh yeah, my name’s not Michael Jackson.”
“Well what is it?”
“It’s Michael Jordan.”
“Woooowwww,” says I, eyes well wide “As in the Michael Jordan?”
At this point Michael Jordan sighed, and turned aside, picked up his pint,
And walked off.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ Asks Phillip Seymour-Hoffman
‘Well,’ says Steve Wright, ‘I mean I get it all the time,
“I’m Steve Wright”
“As in the Steve Wright?”
“As in a Steve Wright.”
I mean it’s alright, right?
But right, I’m sure you don’t know Steve Wright.
Being a burning, shining bright Hollywood star such as you.’
And Phillip Seymour-Hoffman sighs, and turns aside, picks up his pint,
And walks off.
You know what I'm talking about.
Bye.
Wednesday 25 August 2010
More Pokémon themed Poéms
Good afternoon,
Here are some poems I've done about Pokémon. That age old theme. I like Pokémon. I hope you like poems about them. Inspired by them. Here:
Pokémon Poems, Vol. II
7.) You’re as lovely as a Polywag,
And as daunting as a Fearow.
Dear mother.
8.) ‘Nigel, use Thundershock!’
Try as he might, Nigel couldn’t.
He’s a human.
Not an electric/normal type Pokémon.
9.) When did you last see an Aerodactyl?
Never. Is the answer. He’s a dinosaur type Pokémon and thus
Extremely rare.
10.) Professor Oak promised he would never do that again.
He said, ‘I only do it because you push me to it!’
Charmander shivered in a corner,
Praying that next time it would be different.
11.) Clutching a bottle of fine Scotch,
Tangela pissed on a Metapod,
By mistake.
He thought it was a bollard.
12.) ‘Run free, Ponyta!’
Screams Brock.
Loading his rifle and taking aim.
Here are some poems I've done about Pokémon. That age old theme. I like Pokémon. I hope you like poems about them. Inspired by them. Here:
Pokémon Poems, Vol. II
7.) You’re as lovely as a Polywag,
And as daunting as a Fearow.
Dear mother.
8.) ‘Nigel, use Thundershock!’
Try as he might, Nigel couldn’t.
He’s a human.
Not an electric/normal type Pokémon.
9.) When did you last see an Aerodactyl?
Never. Is the answer. He’s a dinosaur type Pokémon and thus
Extremely rare.
10.) Professor Oak promised he would never do that again.
He said, ‘I only do it because you push me to it!’
Charmander shivered in a corner,
Praying that next time it would be different.
11.) Clutching a bottle of fine Scotch,
Tangela pissed on a Metapod,
By mistake.
He thought it was a bollard.
12.) ‘Run free, Ponyta!’
Screams Brock.
Loading his rifle and taking aim.
Tuesday 24 August 2010
Of Children On A Bench (also Edinburgh Fringe)
Hello there, dear friend, dear lovely friend. I, yes, have been away. Doing the whole Edinburgh Fringe (festival) thing! I'm still there actually. It's nice and good (two of the best things). But not all is well up here. Because there are some kids apparently intent on RUINING THE FESTIVAL. So I've written a poem about them. Here we go.
Of Kids On A Bench
Two kids sit on a bench.
Harmless?
No. No, certainly not.
Armed. To the teeth.
With straws from Starbuck’s frappucinos,
With paper from the ground.
They roll up and they wad up spitballs,
And fire them all around.
They target boys.
And not just boys.
Girls too.
The dicks.
They then target a lovely dog,
Which calmly ambles by.
That does it, the bloody effing rotters,
I’ll learn them good, Thinks I.
So I kicked them and kicked them
Til they could be kicked no more.
Then, laughing, fired a spitball at them,
As they wailed up from the floor.
Of Kids On A Bench
Two kids sit on a bench.
Harmless?
No. No, certainly not.
Armed. To the teeth.
With straws from Starbuck’s frappucinos,
With paper from the ground.
They roll up and they wad up spitballs,
And fire them all around.
They target boys.
And not just boys.
Girls too.
The dicks.
They then target a lovely dog,
Which calmly ambles by.
That does it, the bloody effing rotters,
I’ll learn them good, Thinks I.
So I kicked them and kicked them
Til they could be kicked no more.
Then, laughing, fired a spitball at them,
As they wailed up from the floor.
Monday 19 July 2010
On Running
I've literally just been running, and what better way to cool off than to write a poem about cooling off after running? No better way!
No better way.
Enjoy!
On Running
I was just running,
I have just ran.
And now I’m sitting,
In front of a fan.
So if you ask me, darling,
What I’ve just done,
I’ll tell you plainly.
‘I’ve been for a run.
And now I’m cooling,
Myself the hell down,
Because that running
Is a sweaty work-out.
It might just be me.
I’m a very sweaty man,
Hence I’m cooling,
Via the breeze of this fan.
And I don’t mean fan as in a handheld fan,
And I don’t mean fan as in a fan of my brand
Of off-kilter poetry about how much I sweat,
I mean a motor-run fan that might dry me when I’m wet.’
Then you’ll look at me, darling,
And you’ll look quite ill.
Then it’s your turn, darling,
You’ll run for the hills.
Then you’ll have been running,
And of these things you never can
Be sure of darling,
But I think you’ll sit in front of a fan.
No better way.
Enjoy!
On Running
I was just running,
I have just ran.
And now I’m sitting,
In front of a fan.
So if you ask me, darling,
What I’ve just done,
I’ll tell you plainly.
‘I’ve been for a run.
And now I’m cooling,
Myself the hell down,
Because that running
Is a sweaty work-out.
It might just be me.
I’m a very sweaty man,
Hence I’m cooling,
Via the breeze of this fan.
And I don’t mean fan as in a handheld fan,
And I don’t mean fan as in a fan of my brand
Of off-kilter poetry about how much I sweat,
I mean a motor-run fan that might dry me when I’m wet.’
Then you’ll look at me, darling,
And you’ll look quite ill.
Then it’s your turn, darling,
You’ll run for the hills.
Then you’ll have been running,
And of these things you never can
Be sure of darling,
But I think you’ll sit in front of a fan.
Saturday 26 June 2010
Zombie JFK
With mention on a previous blogpost ('Jesus - It's Been A While, Jesus') I'm sure what you've all been dying to know about is the history of Zombie JFK, right? Well wonder no longer, as I have the history of how he came into being coming up in this very blogpost!!!
Right, since I can't think of much more of interest to say, here is the poem. Enjoy.
The Rise of Zombie JFK
Waking up one morning
The Zombie JFK
Rubs his face whilst yawning.
Another Zombie day.
He’s been a zombie for some time,
Mayhap I’ll tell the tale,
If you sit comfortably and find
Compassion to inhale.
One morning four-score years ago,
Perhaps four-score and three,
JFK, in the earth below,
Was dead as you or me (will be :( )
When from below a zombie worm
Dug up into his grave
And did a groovy zombie squirm
In Presidential brain.
And just like that; a zombie born,
No pomp, no fuss, no lighting,
No pulsing or heart-stopping score.
Nothing the slightest frightening.
See, now JFK’s a zombie,
He holds not in his head,
Any presidential memory,
Of time ‘fore he was dead.
So he’s a zombie accountant,
With a penchant for brains,
And if you there do doubt it;
Well, just don’t - OK?
I hope you'll have noticed I've left it open for a 'series' of poems, about the Zombie JFK and his struggle to be accepted in the zombie community. A series that will be continued anon.
Feel free to post any suggestions about what the Zombie JFK could get up to in his next 'adventure' in the comments section!
Bye.
Right, since I can't think of much more of interest to say, here is the poem. Enjoy.
The Rise of Zombie JFK
Waking up one morning
The Zombie JFK
Rubs his face whilst yawning.
Another Zombie day.
He’s been a zombie for some time,
Mayhap I’ll tell the tale,
If you sit comfortably and find
Compassion to inhale.
One morning four-score years ago,
Perhaps four-score and three,
JFK, in the earth below,
Was dead as you or me (will be :( )
When from below a zombie worm
Dug up into his grave
And did a groovy zombie squirm
In Presidential brain.
And just like that; a zombie born,
No pomp, no fuss, no lighting,
No pulsing or heart-stopping score.
Nothing the slightest frightening.
See, now JFK’s a zombie,
He holds not in his head,
Any presidential memory,
Of time ‘fore he was dead.
So he’s a zombie accountant,
With a penchant for brains,
And if you there do doubt it;
Well, just don’t - OK?
I hope you'll have noticed I've left it open for a 'series' of poems, about the Zombie JFK and his struggle to be accepted in the zombie community. A series that will be continued anon.
Feel free to post any suggestions about what the Zombie JFK could get up to in his next 'adventure' in the comments section!
Bye.
Thursday 24 June 2010
My Mother's Birthday!
Today, the 24th of June, is my mother's birthday! Hurray! And what a lovely day! In order to celebrate it, and so you can all too, I've written a lovely 'Birthday Poem' for her, but I've taken great pains to ensure I haven't mentioned what age has befallen her.
I hope you enjoy it, and wish Elizabeth Cule a Happy Birthday!!!! (Elizabeth Cule is my mother)
Mum's Poem
First and foremost I’d like to say,
If nothing else on mum’s birthday -
Four and Twenty days of June -
Thanks for carrying me with you,
You, my mother, I want no other.
Find yourself a drink and drink it,
Over all the years you’ve earned it
Unless it’s the years before I was born,
Really, I don’t know what went on.
This poem may be scarce sufficient,
Oh well, it’s here and inefficient.
Dear mother, after all you’ve seen,
All I can say is that you’ve been-
Yes! The best! The very best!
Happy Birthday Mum!
I hope you enjoy it, and wish Elizabeth Cule a Happy Birthday!!!! (Elizabeth Cule is my mother)
Mum's Poem
First and foremost I’d like to say,
If nothing else on mum’s birthday -
Four and Twenty days of June -
Thanks for carrying me with you,
You, my mother, I want no other.
Find yourself a drink and drink it,
Over all the years you’ve earned it
Unless it’s the years before I was born,
Really, I don’t know what went on.
This poem may be scarce sufficient,
Oh well, it’s here and inefficient.
Dear mother, after all you’ve seen,
All I can say is that you’ve been-
Yes! The best! The very best!
Happy Birthday Mum!
Tuesday 22 June 2010
A Tale For Our Times
So, sometimes I listen to Adam and the Ants, on account of the fact that me and my three sisters used to listen to them and, indeed, we rocked out accordingly. I may be the only one who still listens to them. But I'm glad I do, because their New Romantic gibberish has prompted me to write this poem which I just wrote just now. It is based 'pon a lyric from the Adam and the Ants hit song 'Strip'. The lyric it is based on is the title of the poem. I hope you like it.
I Am Not A Man Who Believes In Lies Like An Octopus With Big X-Ray Eyes
As the title suggests,
I’m not a man
Who believes in lies.
Or at least…
I wasn’t.
All this changed one winter’s morn,
I stepped outside with my jacket on.
A normal day, thus far you’d think -
I thought this too.
A big mistake.
Look up.
See.
THIS ENOURMOUS FUCKING OCTOPUS!!!!
Flee.
I got to work that day,
Thought I had run away,
And by the end, well, hey -
I’d forgotten all about it.
Some scary, half-awake fragment.
Of a dream.
How wrong was I?
VERY WRONG!!!!!!!!
For that very night, I was watching TV
I could feel something could see me.
I peeped out the window,
Into the glistening dusk,
Saw hide ni’ hair ni‘ eyeball,
Of Giant Octopus.
But still I felt that furious gaze,
It shimmered ‘pon me like a haze,
That’s when I saw it.
Clutching my wall.
A pink - stroke - purple
Tentacle.
‘Hey pal,’ I heard a deep voice say,
Echoes sounding ‘cross the bay.
‘Why is it all the livelong day,
No-one I spoke to could hear me?
But now you can, oh man in house,
And you can help this octopus.
See I have a problem ‘twixt my pals;
If you can answer it then I shall
Stop spying on you.
With my x-ray eyes.’
‘Ok,’ I spluttered nervously
Wondering if he’d seen me pee,
Or worse, go for a number three.
Thus I responded hurriedly;
‘What’s the problem then, buddy?’
‘I believe in lies,’ Moaned the behemoth,
‘And all my friends think I’m stupid.
Does that make me stupid?’
‘Yes,’ replied I brusquely, curtly.
‘Oh - did you say that to hurt me?
You’d best not have done because,
You see,
I’m as tall as the tallest tree.’
‘No,’ said I, coolly, calmly,
‘I said it because, my friend,
I am not a man who believes in lies,
Unlike you,
Oh, octopus with big x-ray eyes.
Who is also big himself.’
‘Well maybe you should believe in lies.’
That was what the octopus said,
In a weedy voice.
And then he dropped dead.
He died of a broken heart.
I had smashed all of his dreams.
And now even in my sleep,
I hear the octopus scream:
‘You are not a man who believes in lies,
Unlike me; Octopus With Big X-Ray Eyes.’
I Am Not A Man Who Believes In Lies Like An Octopus With Big X-Ray Eyes
As the title suggests,
I’m not a man
Who believes in lies.
Or at least…
I wasn’t.
All this changed one winter’s morn,
I stepped outside with my jacket on.
A normal day, thus far you’d think -
I thought this too.
A big mistake.
Look up.
See.
THIS ENOURMOUS FUCKING OCTOPUS!!!!
Flee.
I got to work that day,
Thought I had run away,
And by the end, well, hey -
I’d forgotten all about it.
Some scary, half-awake fragment.
Of a dream.
How wrong was I?
VERY WRONG!!!!!!!!
For that very night, I was watching TV
I could feel something could see me.
I peeped out the window,
Into the glistening dusk,
Saw hide ni’ hair ni‘ eyeball,
Of Giant Octopus.
But still I felt that furious gaze,
It shimmered ‘pon me like a haze,
That’s when I saw it.
Clutching my wall.
A pink - stroke - purple
Tentacle.
‘Hey pal,’ I heard a deep voice say,
Echoes sounding ‘cross the bay.
‘Why is it all the livelong day,
No-one I spoke to could hear me?
But now you can, oh man in house,
And you can help this octopus.
See I have a problem ‘twixt my pals;
If you can answer it then I shall
Stop spying on you.
With my x-ray eyes.’
‘Ok,’ I spluttered nervously
Wondering if he’d seen me pee,
Or worse, go for a number three.
Thus I responded hurriedly;
‘What’s the problem then, buddy?’
‘I believe in lies,’ Moaned the behemoth,
‘And all my friends think I’m stupid.
Does that make me stupid?’
‘Yes,’ replied I brusquely, curtly.
‘Oh - did you say that to hurt me?
You’d best not have done because,
You see,
I’m as tall as the tallest tree.’
‘No,’ said I, coolly, calmly,
‘I said it because, my friend,
I am not a man who believes in lies,
Unlike you,
Oh, octopus with big x-ray eyes.
Who is also big himself.’
‘Well maybe you should believe in lies.’
That was what the octopus said,
In a weedy voice.
And then he dropped dead.
He died of a broken heart.
I had smashed all of his dreams.
And now even in my sleep,
I hear the octopus scream:
‘You are not a man who believes in lies,
Unlike me; Octopus With Big X-Ray Eyes.’
Monday 21 June 2010
Jesus - It's Been a While, Jesus.
I have been away from blogging to the point of ridicule. But now, like Eminem and The Zombie JFK before me, 'I'm back'! I'm now going to kick myself in the head every night to ensure I keep this ever so updated from now forever or until all the poems and such I have in my head have been kicked out. To kick start this process I have a poem about the very best programme on television these days - 'Inside Nature's Giants'. Seriously. Watch it.
Here is the poem:
Standing on the Innards of Giants (name)
Last Tuesday I fell inside,
Fell inside the belly of a python.
Oh no. Oh yes.
The Tuesday before I might have died,
Died when I fell inside the belly,
Of a Great White Fucking Shark.
Oh yes.
The Tuesday before that I can’t remember,
Remember what it was I was doing,
Because I don’t have Inside Nature’s Giants
As a point of reference because it was
Not on.
Here is the poem:
Standing on the Innards of Giants (name)
Last Tuesday I fell inside,
Fell inside the belly of a python.
Oh no. Oh yes.
The Tuesday before I might have died,
Died when I fell inside the belly,
Of a Great White Fucking Shark.
Oh yes.
The Tuesday before that I can’t remember,
Remember what it was I was doing,
Because I don’t have Inside Nature’s Giants
As a point of reference because it was
Not on.
Wednesday 7 April 2010
Pokemon Poems
Hello. I know it's been a while; I shall make no excuses and can only apologise, so by way of recompense I have written six poems on the theme of 'Pokemon'. I like Pokemon. I hope you enjoy them.
1.) Pikachu wakes up.
Next to Jigglypuff.
‘Well, that’s a mistake I won’t be repeating,’ he thinks.
2.) The buzz you get,
When seeing a Doduo in full flight,
Is one you can scarce get,
Anywhere else in the world.
3.) The Snorlax slowly scarpers.
Lazy fat bastard that he is.
4.) Ash sits, gently stroking Pikachu.
Too gently, if anything.
5.) ‘Please don’t let me see her,’ thinks Bulbasaur.
He sees her.
‘Bulba. Bulbasaur,’ he says.
She leaves.
‘Stupid, stupid, stupid, why do I always say the wrong thing?’ he thinks, as he watches her go.
6.) Everyone was very sad to see Farfetch’d go.
But this was one mission he’d have to conduct alone.
Regards.
1.) Pikachu wakes up.
Next to Jigglypuff.
‘Well, that’s a mistake I won’t be repeating,’ he thinks.
2.) The buzz you get,
When seeing a Doduo in full flight,
Is one you can scarce get,
Anywhere else in the world.
3.) The Snorlax slowly scarpers.
Lazy fat bastard that he is.
4.) Ash sits, gently stroking Pikachu.
Too gently, if anything.
5.) ‘Please don’t let me see her,’ thinks Bulbasaur.
He sees her.
‘Bulba. Bulbasaur,’ he says.
She leaves.
‘Stupid, stupid, stupid, why do I always say the wrong thing?’ he thinks, as he watches her go.
6.) Everyone was very sad to see Farfetch’d go.
But this was one mission he’d have to conduct alone.
Regards.
Saturday 20 March 2010
More Gritty Northern Crime Drama
Hello! I think I have some crumbs under my keyboard, which probably says something about me, hopefully good things! But it does make using the number 'one' key difficult. Not too difficult though. Not too difficult. Up now, is a continuation of my blog-novel being drip fed to you in tiny little morsels, 'Barbarous Quartet' (A pun on the famous saying(?) 'Barbershop Quartet'). I thought I'd introduce another character, so here we have, well, have a read for yourself. And think 'Gritty' 'Northern' and 'Crime-based'. Or something. (to re-read the first section, click the 'label' at the 'bottom' of this 'post')
Joseph Treacle sat in his bath, the water soapy and grey, like the weather outside (except the weather wasn’t soapy, obviously. Just grey.). Treacle wasn’t a man given over to being particularly morose of a miserable morning, but there was something in the air this bath time. Something, almost foreboding.
As the last of the grey bathwater trickled down the hair-ridden plug-hole, Treacle put his finger on it; the sense of foreboding. Shit, he thought.
‘Happy anniversary, duckling!’ said Treacle as he arrived in the kitchen, and he planted a big soppy kiss right on his wife’s mouth.
‘So, you ain’t forgotten?’
‘No, no,’ replied Treacle, spreading blackcurrant jam on burnt toast, ‘would I?’
‘Aye.’
‘Oh aye?’
Giving his wife another kiss, he gathered up his notebooks and papers. His arms overflowing with miscellaneous work-things, he managed to stumble out the front door.
It started raining. Shit, he thought.
Good 'knight' (ie. 'night')
Joseph Treacle sat in his bath, the water soapy and grey, like the weather outside (except the weather wasn’t soapy, obviously. Just grey.). Treacle wasn’t a man given over to being particularly morose of a miserable morning, but there was something in the air this bath time. Something, almost foreboding.
As the last of the grey bathwater trickled down the hair-ridden plug-hole, Treacle put his finger on it; the sense of foreboding. Shit, he thought.
‘Happy anniversary, duckling!’ said Treacle as he arrived in the kitchen, and he planted a big soppy kiss right on his wife’s mouth.
‘So, you ain’t forgotten?’
‘No, no,’ replied Treacle, spreading blackcurrant jam on burnt toast, ‘would I?’
‘Aye.’
‘Oh aye?’
Giving his wife another kiss, he gathered up his notebooks and papers. His arms overflowing with miscellaneous work-things, he managed to stumble out the front door.
It started raining. Shit, he thought.
Good 'knight' (ie. 'night')
Tuesday 16 March 2010
Haikus (ie. political haikus)
The art of the haiku is one of the most ancient and beautiful of the poetic styles. And with a dainty, lovely name like 'haiku' who could disagree? No-one, that's who. So with that in mind, I've written a few haikus based on Britain and it's political state today. Yeah, I'm all activist-y and that. I have my say, sure.
For those who don't know, incidentally, a haiku is a Japanese form, which consists of 17 moras (ie. beats) (ie. syllables) and they go in three lines (in our Westernised version) 5 'moras'; 7 'moras'; 5 'moras'. Here is an example, a sort of meta-haiku:
This is a Haiku.
Or should that be ‘an haiku’?
I don’t really know.
So you see, 5-7-5. Perfect.
And now; Political Haikus!
New Labour, you say?
More like New Moral Failure.
Ooh, yeah, politics.
The winter of Hell;
Blizzardy Britain is cold;
Probably Brown’s fault.
Broken Britain waits,
Obama will visit soon,
He will fix Britain.
David Cameron,
Sits alone in his office,
The Tory bastard.
There we go. Political Haikus.
For those who don't know, incidentally, a haiku is a Japanese form, which consists of 17 moras (ie. beats) (ie. syllables) and they go in three lines (in our Westernised version) 5 'moras'; 7 'moras'; 5 'moras'. Here is an example, a sort of meta-haiku:
This is a Haiku.
Or should that be ‘an haiku’?
I don’t really know.
So you see, 5-7-5. Perfect.
And now; Political Haikus!
New Labour, you say?
More like New Moral Failure.
Ooh, yeah, politics.
The winter of Hell;
Blizzardy Britain is cold;
Probably Brown’s fault.
Broken Britain waits,
Obama will visit soon,
He will fix Britain.
David Cameron,
Sits alone in his office,
The Tory bastard.
There we go. Political Haikus.
Sunday 14 March 2010
Coming Up... and A Bumper Issue of Short Poetry!!
Hello, hello, hello. I've been busy for a while, so sorry I've not updated in a while, I will get back on track this week, with some highlights to come, such as... A poem about Iggy Pop baiting (follow me on twitter if you want to know more, see top right); a series of political haikus, since the last one was so much fun; a continuation of my blog-novel 'Gritty Northern Drama'; and, I'm sure, many more short poems of joy - like these - A Bumper Issue of Short Poems!:
17. A Premiership footballer walks in to a bar. I’m not saying which bar. And I’m not saying which footballer.
18. A coiled spring shoots up from nowhere. Or does it? It does.
19. Morrissey ties himself to a chair. 'Now I’d like to see them try and catch me,' he thinks, conspiratorially.
20. Oh! Cruel king! How he sits! With whale-blubber slicking back his hair!
21. A family of woodlice crawl under the floorboards. No-one notices them. Everyone in the house above is dead.
22. A baby hovers in the night sky. Possessed? Is anything truly possessed? Yes, this baby was. It was later burnt at the stake.
23. A juvenile crocodile plays hopscotch with his pals. He cheats. He is cast out of the game. He is sad. He cries. Real tears.
24. ‘Tally ho!’ cried the Queen, drunkenly stumbling about the palace, ‘Tally ho!’ Everyone else had gone out for the night.
25. Given the circumstances, Paul was lucky to get off with a double life sentence.
26. Once upon a time there lived a man.
27. A duck sits, considering himself, his pond, and what constitutes ‘duck-feed’.
28. He lounged in the hammock, ironically. He was a haddock.
29. ‘Terrible. Terrible, terrible, terrible.’ And all this from a nun with a gammy knee. (A Runner Reflects.)
30. Concubines; I wish they were still socially acceptable. Then my wife wouldn’t be so upset.
31. Consider this.
32. A man named Larry sits atop a church. He claims he wants to get closer to God. That’s fine. But did he really have to sit with the point of the spire going up his arse?
And Finally, a small 'story poem' as a bonus feature, sort of thing.
A zoo in Berkshire.
The 'Monkey World' Section.
A grouse flies, fluttering up from a nearby scrub (ie. bush)
A monkey sagely observes this, from behind his cruel cage of iron.
Savagely, the monkey flings shit at the grouse.
The shit misses
And lands 'pon a Land Rover in the car park.
The grouse's plan had worked.
17. A Premiership footballer walks in to a bar. I’m not saying which bar. And I’m not saying which footballer.
18. A coiled spring shoots up from nowhere. Or does it? It does.
19. Morrissey ties himself to a chair. 'Now I’d like to see them try and catch me,' he thinks, conspiratorially.
20. Oh! Cruel king! How he sits! With whale-blubber slicking back his hair!
21. A family of woodlice crawl under the floorboards. No-one notices them. Everyone in the house above is dead.
22. A baby hovers in the night sky. Possessed? Is anything truly possessed? Yes, this baby was. It was later burnt at the stake.
23. A juvenile crocodile plays hopscotch with his pals. He cheats. He is cast out of the game. He is sad. He cries. Real tears.
24. ‘Tally ho!’ cried the Queen, drunkenly stumbling about the palace, ‘Tally ho!’ Everyone else had gone out for the night.
25. Given the circumstances, Paul was lucky to get off with a double life sentence.
26. Once upon a time there lived a man.
27. A duck sits, considering himself, his pond, and what constitutes ‘duck-feed’.
28. He lounged in the hammock, ironically. He was a haddock.
29. ‘Terrible. Terrible, terrible, terrible.’ And all this from a nun with a gammy knee. (A Runner Reflects.)
30. Concubines; I wish they were still socially acceptable. Then my wife wouldn’t be so upset.
31. Consider this.
32. A man named Larry sits atop a church. He claims he wants to get closer to God. That’s fine. But did he really have to sit with the point of the spire going up his arse?
And Finally, a small 'story poem' as a bonus feature, sort of thing.
A zoo in Berkshire.
The 'Monkey World' Section.
A grouse flies, fluttering up from a nearby scrub (ie. bush)
A monkey sagely observes this, from behind his cruel cage of iron.
Savagely, the monkey flings shit at the grouse.
The shit misses
And lands 'pon a Land Rover in the car park.
The grouse's plan had worked.
Saturday 6 March 2010
The Unsolvable Mystery of the New Folder.
Wow, terrifying. I was just browsing through 'My Documents' and a phantom folder has appeared! It is cryptically titled 'New Folder' and contains no documents. I wrote a poem about it.
The Unsolvable Mystery of the New Folder
Scanning through ‘My Documents’,
My eyes are all a-quiver,
An empty folder – ‘New Folder’,
Sends forth a dreadful shiver,
Crashing, rolling down my spine,
The folder – empty – that is fine.
From whence did you come?
Oh, folder of Hell.
What can I file (in you)?
Oh, folder of Hell.
Did you deign to spawn yourself, like some awful Kracken?
A Kracken crashing through the bracken with the aim to simply slacken
My Bowels?
Mayhap I’ll never know, old bean,
I could not hope to guess,
From whence ‘New Folder’ did appear.
One answer pops up to my fear,
An answer to my strife.
I’ll simply click ‘delete’, my dear,
And thence can sleep at night.
Please share any similarly fear-striking stories of technology going 'mad' and thus foreshadowing the inevitable demise of humankind at the hands of machines in the 'comments' - thereby ironically playing directly into the hands of the machines.
The Unsolvable Mystery of the New Folder
Scanning through ‘My Documents’,
My eyes are all a-quiver,
An empty folder – ‘New Folder’,
Sends forth a dreadful shiver,
Crashing, rolling down my spine,
The folder – empty – that is fine.
From whence did you come?
Oh, folder of Hell.
What can I file (in you)?
Oh, folder of Hell.
Did you deign to spawn yourself, like some awful Kracken?
A Kracken crashing through the bracken with the aim to simply slacken
My Bowels?
Mayhap I’ll never know, old bean,
I could not hope to guess,
From whence ‘New Folder’ did appear.
One answer pops up to my fear,
An answer to my strife.
I’ll simply click ‘delete’, my dear,
And thence can sleep at night.
Please share any similarly fear-striking stories of technology going 'mad' and thus foreshadowing the inevitable demise of humankind at the hands of machines in the 'comments' - thereby ironically playing directly into the hands of the machines.
Wednesday 3 March 2010
A Blogpost From The Future!!!
I can bring you a world EXCLUSIVE! This is from the future! It is the introduction to historian William Samuel's book; Lust For Death: An Exploration of the Cannibalistic Cule/Pop Feud. It will be a remarkable and poignant analytical masterpiece, which uncovers some of the shocking truths of the infamous feud. It will be published in 2020 by The History Press.
‘We all know how it started, with Anthony Cule taking umbrage with the famous and famously popular adverts for Swiftcover Car Insurance, that re-launched the career of Iggy Pop, and launched that of his hilarious puppet double – Iggy Poplet. Quite what provoked the foul tirade remains unclear. We know Cule had no previous contact with Pop; indeed, Pop when asked about Cule in 2010 said, simply and inimitably, “Who?”(Q Magazine, April 2010 edition) There will always be theories as to what sent Cule spiralling into this ugly rage. The one which seems to stand up to most scrutiny is that of simple professional envy. Indeed, up to his death in 2014 (more on that later), Cule refused to apologise for his statement published on his infamous (and critically panned) ‘blog’ – ‘A Rational Fear of Sharks.’ – The statement included the incendiary question, now so commonly parodied in pop culture, “What’s the matter, Iggy? Can’t hack it anymore?” (http://hellobiscuit.blogspot.com - retrieved 15/03/2020) – The question, indeed, which launched a thousand tweets (mostly from outraged Iggy Pop/Iggy Poplet fans).
And we all know how it ended. At Glastonbury 2014, with an emaciated Cule being dragged onstage during Iggy Pop’s famous headline act which truly re-established him as the star we all know him as to this day. Cule had, quite rightly, been held captive by Pop and his (yes, pun intended >) Stooges for 18 months at the behest of an outraged public. The final hour of Pop’s set comprised, as we all know, of the punk maestro methodically devouring Cule whilst the 200,000 delighted fans at Glastonbury sang ‘Kumbaya’. Pop was excused of murder on the grounds of, what the French call Crime Passionnel– A crime of passion – and justifiably so.
What I intend to explore throughout this book, is the middle ground between these two events. The exact circumstances of Cule’s captivity, how Cule recklessly continued to provoke the juggernaut musician, and the multi-million pound lawsuit that concluded with Cule being legally obliged to clean Iggy Poplet with his tongue. This is the fascinating and surprisingly dark tale of an internet feud, which turned into a cannibalistic war. This is Lust For Death.’
I hope, in the future, you will buy this book and discover the truth for yourselves.
‘We all know how it started, with Anthony Cule taking umbrage with the famous and famously popular adverts for Swiftcover Car Insurance, that re-launched the career of Iggy Pop, and launched that of his hilarious puppet double – Iggy Poplet. Quite what provoked the foul tirade remains unclear. We know Cule had no previous contact with Pop; indeed, Pop when asked about Cule in 2010 said, simply and inimitably, “Who?”(Q Magazine, April 2010 edition) There will always be theories as to what sent Cule spiralling into this ugly rage. The one which seems to stand up to most scrutiny is that of simple professional envy. Indeed, up to his death in 2014 (more on that later), Cule refused to apologise for his statement published on his infamous (and critically panned) ‘blog’ – ‘A Rational Fear of Sharks.’ – The statement included the incendiary question, now so commonly parodied in pop culture, “What’s the matter, Iggy? Can’t hack it anymore?” (http://hellobiscuit.blogspot.com - retrieved 15/03/2020) – The question, indeed, which launched a thousand tweets (mostly from outraged Iggy Pop/Iggy Poplet fans).
And we all know how it ended. At Glastonbury 2014, with an emaciated Cule being dragged onstage during Iggy Pop’s famous headline act which truly re-established him as the star we all know him as to this day. Cule had, quite rightly, been held captive by Pop and his (yes, pun intended >) Stooges for 18 months at the behest of an outraged public. The final hour of Pop’s set comprised, as we all know, of the punk maestro methodically devouring Cule whilst the 200,000 delighted fans at Glastonbury sang ‘Kumbaya’. Pop was excused of murder on the grounds of, what the French call Crime Passionnel– A crime of passion – and justifiably so.
What I intend to explore throughout this book, is the middle ground between these two events. The exact circumstances of Cule’s captivity, how Cule recklessly continued to provoke the juggernaut musician, and the multi-million pound lawsuit that concluded with Cule being legally obliged to clean Iggy Poplet with his tongue. This is the fascinating and surprisingly dark tale of an internet feud, which turned into a cannibalistic war. This is Lust For Death.’
I hope, in the future, you will buy this book and discover the truth for yourselves.
Monday 1 March 2010
A Rational Fear of Sharks
I appear to have given myself the weekend off. This will not be a regular feature, by which I mean, I won't give myself every weekend off. What follows is a poem which is an attempt to explain my (crippling) fear of sharks and hence, the title of the blog. I hope you like it.
A Rational Fear of Sharks (Title)
A rational fear of sharks (first line)
Is what I suffer from. You know why?
Perhaps I’ll tell you.
Mayhap you’ll listen.
I don’t like sharks. I am afraid of them.
Row upon row of teeth. There’s just no end to them. (Bit of a rhyme)
And those blankly, bleakly staring eyes.
Eerie. And scary.
Scary. And eerie.
And I know!
Oh! I know!
One is statistically more likely to be killed,
By a coconut falling from a palm tree,
Or having your lungs filled with water,
Than from a shark attack.
But that doesn’t change the fact.
Coconuts don’t have blank, bleak staring eyes or row upon row of meat-riddled teeth.
And I will still swim and have baths.
I hope I will never be attacked by a shark.
Rational.
National.
You may notice that I ended with a rhyming couplet. Of sorts. Rather Shakesperian I thought.
Also, what is it with Iggy Pop a.) advertising car insurance? b.) Having a poorly made puppet of himself do the energetic bits? What's the matter, Iggy? Can't hack it anymore?
And with those celebrity taunts, I'm off to sleep.
A Rational Fear of Sharks (Title)
A rational fear of sharks (first line)
Is what I suffer from. You know why?
Perhaps I’ll tell you.
Mayhap you’ll listen.
I don’t like sharks. I am afraid of them.
Row upon row of teeth. There’s just no end to them. (Bit of a rhyme)
And those blankly, bleakly staring eyes.
Eerie. And scary.
Scary. And eerie.
And I know!
Oh! I know!
One is statistically more likely to be killed,
By a coconut falling from a palm tree,
Or having your lungs filled with water,
Than from a shark attack.
But that doesn’t change the fact.
Coconuts don’t have blank, bleak staring eyes or row upon row of meat-riddled teeth.
And I will still swim and have baths.
I hope I will never be attacked by a shark.
Rational.
National.
You may notice that I ended with a rhyming couplet. Of sorts. Rather Shakesperian I thought.
Also, what is it with Iggy Pop a.) advertising car insurance? b.) Having a poorly made puppet of himself do the energetic bits? What's the matter, Iggy? Can't hack it anymore?
And with those celebrity taunts, I'm off to sleep.
Friday 26 February 2010
On 'Eggheads'
I was watching 'Eggheads' the other night, because I couldn't sleep. I then wrote three poems relating to 'Eggheads'. I hasten to add the words in these poems are in no way indicative of the characters of the actual Eggheads, who I'm sure are wholesome, professional people.
Eggheads one.
Judith from Eggheads sat alone.
Daphne (from Eggheads) ambled past.
Judith coughed.
Daphne pretended not to notice her.
But she had noticed.
She had noticed.
Eggheads two
CJ and Kevin on a lawn,
Playing lawn tennis.
Kevin loses a point,
Picks up the ball, folornly.
But a happy day, a joyous scene!
Later, whilst taking drinks,
Their hands brush. Their eyes meet.
Why doesn't he just kiss me?, thinks CJ.
Why don't I make my move? - Kevin - Stupid, stupid, stupid.
But the moment had passed,
And it was CJ's serve.
Eggheads three
Chris wheezed as he stood. His tongue, lolling.
Sweat oozed from his bald scalp,
Forming drips and drops that dripped and dropped onto the leather of the sofa.
He picked up an apple. Tossed it, casually, in the air.
Caught it, calmly. His gaze elswhere.
'Same time tomorrow?' He implored, putting on his glasses.
'Yes,' replied Daphne, with a wry smile, tugging up her gusset.
Barry watched on, seething with envy.
Another normal day,
In Eden.
Eggheads one.
Judith from Eggheads sat alone.
Daphne (from Eggheads) ambled past.
Judith coughed.
Daphne pretended not to notice her.
But she had noticed.
She had noticed.
Eggheads two
CJ and Kevin on a lawn,
Playing lawn tennis.
Kevin loses a point,
Picks up the ball, folornly.
But a happy day, a joyous scene!
Later, whilst taking drinks,
Their hands brush. Their eyes meet.
Why doesn't he just kiss me?, thinks CJ.
Why don't I make my move? - Kevin - Stupid, stupid, stupid.
But the moment had passed,
And it was CJ's serve.
Eggheads three
Chris wheezed as he stood. His tongue, lolling.
Sweat oozed from his bald scalp,
Forming drips and drops that dripped and dropped onto the leather of the sofa.
He picked up an apple. Tossed it, casually, in the air.
Caught it, calmly. His gaze elswhere.
'Same time tomorrow?' He implored, putting on his glasses.
'Yes,' replied Daphne, with a wry smile, tugging up her gusset.
Barry watched on, seething with envy.
Another normal day,
In Eden.
Thursday 25 February 2010
Gritty Northern Crime Drama
A Gritty, Northern Crime Drama. The first section of the first chapter (mayhap I'll post other sections of other chapters, or the same chapter, a bit later in my life ie. when I write them) - It's called 'Barberous Quartet' (a pun on the common phrase 'barbershop quartet' - I'm sure it'll make sense once you read all of it.) Enjoy.
I’m absolutely fooked, thought Detective Clark, stumbling up the stairs, fag hanging out his mouth, lighter in hand. His metal hand clanked against the banister. It had been three years since he lost his hand in that Wool Mill in Huddersfield, but the pain never went away. He still had no hand.(Obviously).
He was fifty-odd, and no longer at the peak of his physical health. When was I ever at t’peak of my physical health, he reflected, in a manner uncannily echoing the narrator. He tried to clasp the handle (to the door of his office) but his steel claw simply bounced off it. It had been three years since he could clasp a door handle. He sat at the top of the stairs and sobbed, fag hanging out of his mouth (but still in his mouth ie. sticking to his lip, via saliva, for example), lighter now pocketed. He wasn’t going to smoke it just yet. Not yet.
Sitting in the damp receipts and cigarette butts at the top of the steps to his grotty, one bedroom flat in Brotton, Detective Clark thought to himself, Shit t’bed, I’m washed up. Fat. Old and getting older. I never even solved a big case. The biggest case I solved was that psychopathic homeopath in Grangetown. He also thought about his pension, and that it wasn’t very good and how he doesn’t have enough money. The smell of iron (which is symbolic of the smell of blood. Which is gritty.) drifted from the rusting banister into his nasal cavity. It was then that the biggest crime North Yorkshire had seen in years was to fall, almost literally (well, actually literally) into his lap.
Yeah, I left it hanging. You'll find out what happens in the next instalment of 'Barbarous Quartet'. You may also notice I left it open for a 'prequel' (ie. 'how did Detective Clark lose his hand?). But we'll get through this one first. Possibly.
I’m absolutely fooked, thought Detective Clark, stumbling up the stairs, fag hanging out his mouth, lighter in hand. His metal hand clanked against the banister. It had been three years since he lost his hand in that Wool Mill in Huddersfield, but the pain never went away. He still had no hand.(Obviously).
He was fifty-odd, and no longer at the peak of his physical health. When was I ever at t’peak of my physical health, he reflected, in a manner uncannily echoing the narrator. He tried to clasp the handle (to the door of his office) but his steel claw simply bounced off it. It had been three years since he could clasp a door handle. He sat at the top of the stairs and sobbed, fag hanging out of his mouth (but still in his mouth ie. sticking to his lip, via saliva, for example), lighter now pocketed. He wasn’t going to smoke it just yet. Not yet.
Sitting in the damp receipts and cigarette butts at the top of the steps to his grotty, one bedroom flat in Brotton, Detective Clark thought to himself, Shit t’bed, I’m washed up. Fat. Old and getting older. I never even solved a big case. The biggest case I solved was that psychopathic homeopath in Grangetown. He also thought about his pension, and that it wasn’t very good and how he doesn’t have enough money. The smell of iron (which is symbolic of the smell of blood. Which is gritty.) drifted from the rusting banister into his nasal cavity. It was then that the biggest crime North Yorkshire had seen in years was to fall, almost literally (well, actually literally) into his lap.
Yeah, I left it hanging. You'll find out what happens in the next instalment of 'Barbarous Quartet'. You may also notice I left it open for a 'prequel' (ie. 'how did Detective Clark lose his hand?). But we'll get through this one first. Possibly.
Wednesday 24 February 2010
On 'Radish' and Some More Poetry
Ok, bear with me on this one.
I hate the word 'Radish'. There I said it. It's such a monumentally displeasing word. Say it a few times with me. Radish. Radish. Radish. Really get your mouth around the sounds of the word. Radish. Radish. Radish. Yuk. Doesn't it leave a bitter taste in your mouth? Doesn't the sound of its composition send shivers cascading down your spine, make your skin crawl? The two composite parts 'Rad' and 'Ish' just don't fit comfortably side by side at all. They don't lend themselves to being said consecutively. The word just doesn't work on any level. It even looks wierd.
I've nothing against radishes themselves. In fact, horseradish sauce is very nice with a side of beef. I'm not even averse to them in salads, say. A very nice garnish. But the word itself is frankly disgusting, and might even be driving me to giving up radishes in terms of my consumption, for fear I have to say their names. Awful. Who looked at a radish and thought "Let's call this a radish, yeah, that's a nice name for something." Because that's what happened. Some idiot thought 'radish' would be a nice thing to call something.
Sorry about that. But I suppose that's the beauty of language. One man's 'Radish' (horrible) is another man's 'Lanolin' (pleasant).
Please do let me know words that offend you from a purely aesthetic or aural point of view.
A few more poems (short), to sweeten the atmosphere.
11. His skin, slack. His eyes, vapid. His breath, dense with raw meat. I miss you, dad.
12. A lamb grazes in a field. A hat falls, far away. The two events are unconnected.........?
13. Twenty three tiny chicks enter a bar. They implode. It was a bar in outer space.
14. DNA - Do Not Ask. 'Incorrect,' says the schoolmaster, exhaling.
15. One day, in Rome, Gaius Maximus is out walking. He sees a dormouse. Tasty looking thing. Put it on a stick, didn't he?
16. Funny, thought the plastic surgeon, I shouldn't have breasts. Someone, somewhere had made a serious miscalculation.
Sleep well. I may not with the rattling cough someone is producing downstairs.
I hate the word 'Radish'. There I said it. It's such a monumentally displeasing word. Say it a few times with me. Radish. Radish. Radish. Really get your mouth around the sounds of the word. Radish. Radish. Radish. Yuk. Doesn't it leave a bitter taste in your mouth? Doesn't the sound of its composition send shivers cascading down your spine, make your skin crawl? The two composite parts 'Rad' and 'Ish' just don't fit comfortably side by side at all. They don't lend themselves to being said consecutively. The word just doesn't work on any level. It even looks wierd.
I've nothing against radishes themselves. In fact, horseradish sauce is very nice with a side of beef. I'm not even averse to them in salads, say. A very nice garnish. But the word itself is frankly disgusting, and might even be driving me to giving up radishes in terms of my consumption, for fear I have to say their names. Awful. Who looked at a radish and thought "Let's call this a radish, yeah, that's a nice name for something." Because that's what happened. Some idiot thought 'radish' would be a nice thing to call something.
Sorry about that. But I suppose that's the beauty of language. One man's 'Radish' (horrible) is another man's 'Lanolin' (pleasant).
Please do let me know words that offend you from a purely aesthetic or aural point of view.
A few more poems (short), to sweeten the atmosphere.
11. His skin, slack. His eyes, vapid. His breath, dense with raw meat. I miss you, dad.
12. A lamb grazes in a field. A hat falls, far away. The two events are unconnected.........?
13. Twenty three tiny chicks enter a bar. They implode. It was a bar in outer space.
14. DNA - Do Not Ask. 'Incorrect,' says the schoolmaster, exhaling.
15. One day, in Rome, Gaius Maximus is out walking. He sees a dormouse. Tasty looking thing. Put it on a stick, didn't he?
16. Funny, thought the plastic surgeon, I shouldn't have breasts. Someone, somewhere had made a serious miscalculation.
Sleep well. I may not with the rattling cough someone is producing downstairs.
Tuesday 23 February 2010
First Up.
And, to get the ball rolling, I thought I'd share ten small poems that I wrote just recently. I hope you like them.
1. He trampled the candles underfoot. Bollocks, he thought, that's going to take ages to clear up.
2. Roaming across a mountain, a sheep slips on some shingle. That was close, he reflects.
3. If I'm leaving, I'm taking you with me, thought the enthusiastic shopper.
4. Two mothers meet. Mothers meeting? Yes. Mothers' meeting? No.
5. Disgusting slop, thinks the nurse. Old bitch, thinks her patient.
6. An Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman frequent the same bar without ever meeting.
7. Happy Birthday to you, thought the spider, eating a fly. Alone.
8. 'Time flies when you're having fun,' said the Elephant, splashing the Hippo. 'Please stop splashing; my allergies are acting up,' replied Hippo.
9. Roses are red, bruises are bluey-purple. Please don't give me either. I have hayfever, and I don't like being hurt.
10. The other night whilst handling nitro-glycerine I slipped. This could be problematic, I considered.
And finally, a haiku to finish it off.
The Spring beckons soft,
Not likely in Brown's England,
Political one.
1. He trampled the candles underfoot. Bollocks, he thought, that's going to take ages to clear up.
2. Roaming across a mountain, a sheep slips on some shingle. That was close, he reflects.
3. If I'm leaving, I'm taking you with me, thought the enthusiastic shopper.
4. Two mothers meet. Mothers meeting? Yes. Mothers' meeting? No.
5. Disgusting slop, thinks the nurse. Old bitch, thinks her patient.
6. An Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman frequent the same bar without ever meeting.
7. Happy Birthday to you, thought the spider, eating a fly. Alone.
8. 'Time flies when you're having fun,' said the Elephant, splashing the Hippo. 'Please stop splashing; my allergies are acting up,' replied Hippo.
9. Roses are red, bruises are bluey-purple. Please don't give me either. I have hayfever, and I don't like being hurt.
10. The other night whilst handling nitro-glycerine I slipped. This could be problematic, I considered.
And finally, a haiku to finish it off.
The Spring beckons soft,
Not likely in Brown's England,
Political one.
My First Blog
As the title describes, this is my very first blog (post? blogpost?). In it I will lay down what I plan to do with future posts (posts.), and the blog generally, in the future, I think.
My name is Anthony Cule (ie. Ant Cule (for short, or Ant, for even shorter)) and I am doing an MA in Theatre Directing, and as such, have a passing interest in, well, theatre directing. I also have a passing interest in writing stuff. So what I plan to do, really, is blog about (post about? blogpost about?) musings on theatre, musings on writing, maybe some writing, maybe even some theatre, if I do any recordings of it, and don't infringe any copyright laws. I will be blogposting about these things because they are close to my heart and the only things that I really know a bit about, apart from football; but there are a lot of ways to read peoples' opinions on football, and I'm sure one more blog about football would just clutter up, not only the Football Blogosphere, but the Blogosphere in general, so not football then.
I hope that's all clear then. I will try and actually keep it up, because it seems to me a good way to at least focus my mind on what I want to do, so even if no-one reads it, or everyone hates it then at least it's doing some good in the world. Blogoworld. To one man. In his pants. (Me.)
My name is Anthony Cule (ie. Ant Cule (for short, or Ant, for even shorter)) and I am doing an MA in Theatre Directing, and as such, have a passing interest in, well, theatre directing. I also have a passing interest in writing stuff. So what I plan to do, really, is blog about (post about? blogpost about?) musings on theatre, musings on writing, maybe some writing, maybe even some theatre, if I do any recordings of it, and don't infringe any copyright laws. I will be blogposting about these things because they are close to my heart and the only things that I really know a bit about, apart from football; but there are a lot of ways to read peoples' opinions on football, and I'm sure one more blog about football would just clutter up, not only the Football Blogosphere, but the Blogosphere in general, so not football then.
I hope that's all clear then. I will try and actually keep it up, because it seems to me a good way to at least focus my mind on what I want to do, so even if no-one reads it, or everyone hates it then at least it's doing some good in the world. Blogoworld. To one man. In his pants. (Me.)
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