I’m at the business end of you It might be blue But I quite like the view It’s true And since September, as far as I
remember It ain’t been fun for my gun and
this ember That burns still A pill I can’t extinguish as it adds to my anguish Like foes where I can’t turn up
their toes And vanquish I’ll buy some Vanish Wash you out of my downstairs
hair And dance like Lionel Blair on
your grave But save The memories of your tits Just the good bits In fits And starts Like a painter who paints a
picture In the dark arts I’ll play darts on your face Hit the bullshit But shield my cards, chase the
ace With no trace Of the tear lines Or parking fines On double yellows, with violins
and cellos that sound great Even in the gutter, like the
butter that’s gone out of date It’s not runny But it tastes funny Like when you lick money Or broken bricks from a wall If only I’d been tall er And you hadn’t foxed me And boxed me in a corner Because I now box clever with my
new pecs And flex till I stink Or drink so I don’t think When I’m stood at the sink In pink Marigolds to stop burns Returns with held receipts Deceits, shelled out on bed
sheets At the dead Of the red wine Where there’s a sign that I don’t want
to face It’s like the plates, my best
mates Beaming Gleaming Probably scheming
There’s an anxiety Within me When I’m driving my old car As I change gear, I fear That it won’t get me far That through engine procrastination My destination Will not be reached My optimism, breached And the temperature gauge raised.
I once praised Her reliability Until she overheated.
I felt cheated.
I could almost taste the battery acid I was flaccid And no longer placid.
I filled her up Like two girls, one cup Right to the brim.
It was win-win Until she died again And I got a new head gasket.
I rated The things you did with cheese When you grated Over lasagne for your guests And your breasts, for me.
I made goals Elaborate plans that my hands Tried to clutch. But I fumbled And Danish Blue, like you I crumbled.
Parmesan is hard Like your heart And from the start I knew this But still I remember a softness More like brie To me.
I may have been addicted But then you predicted I would be. I indulged in a Red Leicester’s delights But it festers This feeling within me And with dread I now tread Caerphilly.
I know these lines might seem cheesy And you’ll think that it’s easy, and there’s better I can do But as my tongue slinks around a feta I thinks Define ‘better’ Cheese is just a meta_phor And I’m better for Tasting all that life has to offer.
Well not all. Some bits take the biscuit And when you feel beaten Are better left Uneaten.
(poem about body dysmorphia for mental health charity's advertising competition)
A sad little piggy I sit in my pen I’m nothing like Barbie (But you’re nothing like Ken) I nose you seen me I felt you looking I’m dieting again So there’s no point cooking. It’s funny I spoke to a bloke by the Tyne
(poem about OCD for mental health charity's advertising competition)
I implore You don’t keep score Of the times I wash my hands. No-one understands That it’s better to be safe than sorry. Because recklessness kills Like the wheels of a lorry It causes infection And on reflection Even after fifteen times On bleach-scrubbed fingers Society’s stigma Still lingers.
Football is a bit like love It often breaks your heart You get a funny feeling in your stomach At the start. It activates your brain the same Where hopes and dreams reside. I saw a chance to score with you But I’d drifted offside.
They both illicit a notion of emotion. I was wracked with fatigue, you were out of my league But there’s always a chance of promotion.
I'll raise a glass to you, and him Even though you're both not here And I won't complain that it's not champagne I prefer a nice cold beer. It's ice-cold like your heart in fact And as it slips down my vocal tract I hope he gives you fun And makes you happy Preceded by 'un'. You know by now This really shouldn't be a surprise You're my demons You need some exorcise.
I miss your kiss and your tender embrace Your hips, your lips, all the bits of your face The dark whirlpools that draw me in It's like hitting the jackpot when there's nothing to win Like finding a penny and losing a pound I'm a chicken without giblets When you're not around I'm a donkey without rides on Blackpool beach I'm a tag-team wrestler Just out of reach I'm a bird without wings Or a beak or a head Or a body or legs I'm basically dead Without you.
(poem about agoraphobia for mental health charity's advertising competition)
My mistress is fickle She’ll weave her tangled web And then leave me In a pickle. She waits by the door Like a dormant volcano I can’t complain though As she stretches my stomach till it snaps on a rack