Frank Spurgeon: Meat Surgeon

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.