The Picnic to end all Picnics

22 Sep

Battenburg and Belgian buns
Sandwiches and sausages rolls
Lemonade and ginger beer
Go play child, your father’s here.

I sat and watched them from afar
They didn’t eat or drink a thing
They talked and talked and both looked sad
As they broke the ‘and’ between ‘mum’ and ‘dad’.

I don’t know what they talked about
Neither comforted the other
As both of them began to cry
While a world away, alone sat I.

In a little while my father came
Goodbye my pet, I’ll see you soon
He went away and that was it
Leaving me, my mum and our picnic basket

The end is nigh

17 Sep

The sky was black
As a goth’s hair dye
It’s very clear
The end is nigh

The TV crackled
And gave a sigh
And with a sky so black
As a goth’s hair dye
It’s obvious
The end is nigh

I tried to go out
But my body was spent
I went to my bed
And began to repent
And with the TV crackling
And the sky so black
Let’s say goodbye
The end is nigh

 

Inner Critic

17 Sep

There’s nothing worse than jest in verse
Or so my inner critic, thinks
Every time, I fill my rhyme
With fun it says ‘It stinks. It stinks!’

But seriously, it pains me
To write my verse with sober pen
I don’t have in, me discipline
The clown pops up again, again!

So I ask you, what should I do?
Should I bow to my staid reviewer?
Or embrace the clown and we’ll go down
To dance inside the sewer. 

Half-dreamed poem of Brian Blessed shouting

17 Sep

Sausage!
In Barnsley?
For heaven’s sake
No!

Desist!
I insist!
Or your mother
Will know.

Nobody’s perfect

17 Sep

Why are so many of my poems about critics?
What does this trait represent?
Why do I dream dreams about exams?
I’ve always wondered what that meant
Why can I never choose clothes in the store?
I can’t seem to find ones that suit
Why do I never take risks any more?
Is there such thing as ‘over-astute’?
What’s wrong with always being early?
What’s wrong with not eating meat?
So what if I am sometimes surly?
So what if I have smelly feet?
Mum told me nobody’s perfect
And that all men are equal on balance
She also said I can introspect
Like a hundred and one Woody Allens

Office Ghost

9 Sep

There’s a ghost in my office
I can see him if I squint
His cheeks are quite bulbous
Like he’s sucking on a mint
He watches all my meetings
And frowns at my reports
When I say I’ll do a job on time
He invariably snorts

I asked my boss about him
But my boss was not impressed
She said I shouldn’t work so hard
Said I probably should rest
I went to see a doctor
I told her about the ghoul
She looked at me like I was
Some kind of crazy fool

So off I went to get a priest
But I could only find a rector
And he did not possess the faith
To exorcise my spectre
I thought that it would end
When I was fired from my post
But waiting there when I got home
Was that infernal ghost!

Frustrations of the Reincarnated Vincent Van Gogh

15 Aug

Here on holiday
From working drudgery
I realise
That I’m the reincarnation of Vincent Van Gogh

There in the mirror
His face stares at me
His haunted eyes
Scrappy beard on sticky-outy cheekbones

Then it dawns on me
I cannot paint for shit
Which is a bummer
What with people’s expectations and all

And it’s difficult
To go back, forget it
When one summer
You find out you’re the reincarnation of somebody better

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