Wedding Poems

Hello there,

My two excellent friends Tom and Jemma got themselves married (to each other) yesterday. A wonderful time was had by all and I'm genuinely honoured to be have been part of the day (I was an usher). I wrote them a couple of poems which I then said which I shall now put here. These:

Marriage

Two people are married, happily.
Let's call them 'Tim' and 'Gemma' (with a G).
Everyone cried at the ceremony.
Mainly due to the poetry.

Wedding List

Wedding, a wedding, callooh and callay!
We're all at a wedding, pip pip hooray!
The best thing about weddings is all the booze,
It's that or the food, I can't really choose.
Or all of the ushers who've ushered so well
And the two - two! - best men who've turned up, as well.
It's all of you present and all of the gifts
You've given so gladly; you've all made my list.

And of course, I'm forgetting, no wedding's complete
Without bridesmaids to catch the bouquet!
And of course Tom and Jemma, together
Forever. My list just says 'This is their day'.

On Having Nothing Original Left To Say

This is just a short little poem I wrote the other day. It's one of very few with actual structure and rhyming so... savour it, yeah? It's about the wholly unoriginal notion that there is nothing original left to say in the world any more thanks to people bloody blogging about everything. Yea gods, who'd keep a blog, eh? Only a total berk. Big lolz.

Thought

I thought I had a unique thought, but then I Googled it.
The internet revealed to me a hundred, thousand hits.
A hundred, thousand people weblogging the same tired thought –
Having nothing left to say, so cutting themselves short.

Short Poems: Volume VII

Hello again! More longer poems will be forthcoming as I try and get my arse in gear with this whole thing (it took me ages to write that rap, you see - This One that is.

Here are some tiny morsels of poems.

68. Oh crap, thought the crap pedlar, that’s good.

69. Dave spewed vomit all over himself. ‘Lol,’ he said, before puking himself into a coma.

70. Herbert the Sherbet Dip Dab Dipstick coated his head in the sweet, sweet dust. Crunch. His brains went EVERYWHERE.

71. An ocelot raced down the motorway, going much, much slower than the cars.

72. Thomas Leslie parked his car, desperately sadly. His handbrake was sodden with tears. His face was strewn with mascara.

73. Graham marched across the open field. Unbridled joy! Glorious summer’s eve! He cried. An Owl swooped down, picked him up, dropped him on some rocks and ate his corpse.

74. Carlos then spat his words into a cup.

75. Insert poem.

76. He slunk into the haunted house. A ghost popped up instantly! But he wasn’t scared. The ghost possessed him. But he wasn’t scared. The ghost that was possessing him walked him into a room filled with corpses or something. But he wasn’t scared. He was blind; I forgot to mention that I think.

See you soon!

NEW RAP

Exciting news! Here's a new rap! So have a watch.

RAP VIDEO

I Am A Romantic

I'm currently in the Lake District, glorious part of the country, beautiful. Majestic. Sweeping. And, just as Wordsworth was those many moons ago, I have been inspired to write a poem eulogising nature and such.

On Nature

Oh babbling brook, your whispered path scythes
Through this dale.
And my heart.
Oh bumbling bee, with your wings so small
And body so big.
And my heart.
Oh skittering slate, your cracked, gnarled face
Supports my weight.
And my heart.
Oh well worn path, you guide my way
Through history.
And my heart.
Oh Sky TV with your many channels,
I never need see any of that other shit
With you doing all the babbling for the brook
And the bumbling for the bee.
I needn’t step on slate,
And I can see the path
From 32 different angles.
In HD.

I'll also point you in the direction of my Eggheads poetry trilogy in performance. (Those three words are links to the trilogy in order)

THANKS

ANOTHER Video

Here is me performing an old classic.

Very dark stuff. Literally.

VIDEO HERE

On Irony

Hello!
A new poem, eulogising the life of an extremely ironic fellow, I'll never forget him. But I can never remember his name. Ironic really.

An Ironic Man
1959-2000

His eyes, poor bugger, his eyes, his eyes,
His eyes had been eaten by moles (which are blind).
His spine, dear bugger, his spine, his spine
Was constructed from the fossilised remains of invertebrates.
(His original spine was lost when he fell on the spine of a large porcupine
Whilst frolicking around in a pine forest.)
His feet couldn’t walk; they were worn out from walking
And nor could he talk; his voice was worn out from talking.
Oh, no, wait. No, a liger tore out his voice box, that was it,
And now his voice box is constructed from a party blower.
Poor bugger, dear bugger, all this from playing silly-buggers,
And insufficient preparation for the Millennium Bug.
Oh yeah, and trying to high-five a liger.
Silly prick.


You can expect a performance video soon enough, possibly of this, possibly of an old classic.
You probably know better than me.

BYE(-winning)