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)

Video

A video of me performing the poem Peter Sleep

Have a watch if you want

VIDEO POEM

Monday-day Mash-up

Hello my darling little pearls,

What a treat we have for you today (I say we deliberately, for reasons you shall find out presently). Presenting, me doing a poem for cult sleep-based photo blog Pete Asleep which shows the omnivorous Pete Ralph asleep time and time again. The picture that inspired this poem can be found HERE

Peter Sleep

His gummy eyes creak open.
He wipes away the drool.
He blinks away the booze-fuelled fug
And peers around the room.

Smash.
Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle.
On the floor
A single, wilted red rose
Resting in a pool of glass and murky water.
Hhm, it must have been balanced on my head.

The lights are out, the doors are locked
The Sticky Toffee Pudding he had ordered eight hours ago
Sits untouched
In a congealed pool of so much muck.


I must have fallen asleep again,
Thinks Pete,
Tucking into the cold
Gummy pudding.


Feedback welcomed/actively encouraged (eg. did you enjoy this mash-up? Do you enjoy mash? etc.)

Politics

I'm taking down the British Government piece by tiny piece. Starting with my Political Haikus which saw the back of the Brown era, I'm now tucking in to Cameron and Clegg. They won't know what's hit 'em. Could someone get this to them? Maybe?

Politicks (ie. 'ticks')

David Cameron did something bad, right?
And Nick Clegg, he’s just a drag, right?
I didn’t vote for this!
In fact, I didn’t vote at all.
Poor organisation on my part (whoops).
But I would have voted,
And not for this.
Don’t even get me started on George Osborne,
His fiscal policy is totally wrong!
And the shadow cabinet,
Can we shadow-shut-it-yet?
Politics will never work,
So let’s just get naked and hug
Each other.
Including Cameron, Clegg and Osborne
And the shadow cabinet.
They need love more than anyone.
I could vote for that.
(Maybe not the naked bit.)


I think that's something we can all get behind.

ONE YEAR!

A Rational Fear of Sharks is now One Year old! How cool is that! Thank you if you've been reading for the whole year. If you've recently had a peep, then thank you as well. If you're yet to have a gander, join in the celebrations and hope no-one notices that you haven't been here for the whole time. Here's a variation on the famous 'pop' song 'Happy Birthday' in celebration.

HB (Happy Birthday)

Happy birthday to you,
My dear sweet, precious blog,
I write stuff on you,
You just sit, smile and nod (cybernetically).
Not like my human friends,
When I write poems on them,
They say stuff like ‘leave me alone,’
‘Actually stop writing on me.’
But not you, dear blog.
Not you.
Until you develop consciousness.
But until that day,
That fateful day,
Not too long now to go,
I’ll write on you,
More poems on you,
And I hope that you will know:
I appreciate it.

Sum ('some') Nu ('new') Shorties ('short poems' [in this context])

Hello, hello. Here are some more short poems for you and you alone.

55. ‘Take that!’ said the Pope, listening to Take That.

56. Nomadically, he brushed his teeth.

57. Dork alert, thought the Nerd.

58. Here come the Nerds, thought the Dork, to the tune of ‘Here Come the Girls’.

59. The Swot rubbed his hands with glee, looking for all the world like a Rotter.

60. Christopher cautiously climbed into his chrysalis, which clung to the rim of a chrysanthemum.

61. Having ingested the candle in his own inimitable way, Pedro sneezed, showering the front row with wax and wick.

62. Two dolphins were 69ing. When they blew air out of their blowholes, the force of it made them spin like a Catherine Wheel.

63. Dragging his doughy body around. Darren was disgustingly fat.

64. Duck, duck, duck, duck, duck, GOOSE! What the fuck are you doing here?

65. A monkey? Wearing a hat? Well I never? Well, I never.

66. A cheetah sits ‘twixt a rock and a hard place. It stayed there for the night. Then it moved on.

67. Not why, but when did the chicken cross the road? If he did at a peak time, on an off-peak ticket, then he must owe the council a fine. (note use of ‘peak’ which sounds like ‘beak’ which are on chickens)

See you soon. Hopefully something will happen soon that I can write a poem or something about.

Topical Poems

Given the furore over the sexism rife at Sky Sports, I thought it would be remiss of me not to make up two topical poems, one for Richard Keys and one for the delightful Andy Gray

The first is simply called:

Smash It

‘Did you smash it?’
Asked Richard Keys, expecting raucous laughter.
‘You definitely smashed it.’
Said Richard Keys. Awkward silence, after.



The second is called:

Clubbing

The nightclub fell still,
The DJ’s records slowed to a halt,
The Garage song rapidly losing beats-per-minute (bpm).
The ladies, wiggling their bums on poles,
Oscillated ever slower.
The men tossing bottles of VK down their gullets
Started dribbling VK down their Ben Sherman shirts.
Everyone looked to the entrance way,
Pissed as fuck stands Andy Gray,
He gazes out, eyes glazed,
Sweat oozing from his face.
‘Who wants to get felt up by a celebrity??’
He roars.
And the party starts again.


Yeah, I bet they never thought they'd get satirised in poetry form.