Advertisement Idea For Rosetta Stone

Late at night
About half past dark
Cows meow
And horses bark.

Dogs copy frogs
Pigs say "baa"
Sheep make the sound of a passing car.

Mice roar
Chipmunks cheep
Clams copy vans (a bit like the sheep).

Hummingbirds whistle - I know, it's crazy
Ducks still quack
But they're just fucking lazy.

You can learn too
Wherever you are
Strolling in the park
Or having sex in a car
Rearranging your nads, reading ads on the tube
Or trussed up in a dungeon while your friend applies lube.

And I know it's not as easy as making a sandwich

But it's a skill, and a thrill

Learn a foreign language.

Fly Garden Disco

Fly, why
Do you buzz in the sky
With your mates, in square shapes
Like you're trapped in crates
Invisible to the naked eye
Is it the WiFi, why fly, why?
The way you dance, take a chance, delight me
But I'll make a stance:

Don't you fucking bite me

From high, up by
The conservatory roof
You don't want my blood
It's 40% proof;
I've been drinking wine, well it's been a long day
Don't make me preach
Or I'll reach for the fly spray
Soon
There's moon
And they drifted away
Well that's what flies do at the end of the day
In stranger shapes
On different axes
And some with their mum
In butterfly taxis.

Goodbye fly
You're pretty fly
For a fly.

Pond

Pond must ring up cloud
To ask for more pond
So he can be sea.

Warning: Heart Thieves Operate In This Area

Nancy, oh Nancy
It's you that I fancy
You make my bones shake
And I feel all antsy
From the first sight I might have got 
A frying pan in the face
A second Big Bang
Stopping time and space 
An English rose with a pretty nose
My pupils dilated
I feel like cheese feels
When it's just been grated
Like a Messerschmidt's bullets hit me
Running up my spine

I'm so messed up I can't even think of the next line
If love were an illness 
I've a really bad case
It's like my heart left my chest
And went and punched me in the face
And when I catch a quick flick of your slick brown hair
It's like I'm beating myself repeatedly 
With the leg of my chair
I quiver like a river
In Gosport, Hants
But the thing I think most about
Is Nancy's pants
Yeah ok I realise that bit's a bit naughty
(Like I know you're 24 and I'm over 40)
But whatever, it's just a number and it's plain to see
Like a bank robber
You really did a number on me.

Moth

Moth
You need to get off
My cloth
And my lightbulb, soon
Because I’m not the moon
And you should’ve been advised
When you got here too soon
That the sky’s
Big, like a sponsord-ised gig
And you’ve been waiting in the wings
To flap your dainty little things
Dry
But don’t cry
As you chew through my vest
ed interests
Coz I
Am as vain as the next guy
On foot rests
Who prefers legs to breasts
And thigh.

I hear your sigh
And just wonder why it’s human nature to objectify
I
Have always preferred the butterfly
And that’s a dry little metaphor
For
Life.
Still at least we can sigh
And then go under the knife
And have the lips of a clown without being pinned down.

In the end nobody loses
We just choose the bruises
Be it the dominant forces resources
Or the freedom fighter’s Kalashnicov…
I don’t care,
I just stare
And hate your constant buzzing

Moth.

A Poem I Can't Remember The Title Of‏

I’d like to broach a subject that my friends find unbearable
It’s my memory…
And it’s fucking terrible. 

Now, it’s nothing to do with laziness or a lack of respect
I listen to all you say, I just
Don’t always recollect. 

It’s a stillness, an illness, like my mind’s been blinded
Yeah I’ll meet you down the pub, I just need to be reminded.

It’s useless, toothless, a mental brick wall
I even forgot the plot of Total Recall. 

Like a manual car without a clutch
Or a Braille sign that says “Do Not Touch”
It’s pointless,
It’s a breeze on the far side of Venus
It’s small and it’s shrivelled,
Like a cold man's penis.
Like an itch on a knee at the London Palladium
My memory’s like a fart in a football stadium.

It’s insignificant, largely irrelevant 
It won't engender jealousy in a clichéd elephant.

I’m not enjoying this toying, it’s annoying as hell
Apparently I wrote this line before, but it doesn’t ring a bell.

My memory is cold, like the old in December 
I would tell you more, but I just can't...um...oh…what’s the word?

Kardashian Kar Krash

Why is your passion

On ration

Like it’s gone out of fashion?

You’ve perfected the trick of making me sick

Like I’m watching the Kardashians

Who think we’re enlightened when they whiten their teeth

Or get new tints

The vacuous bints

And that twatish bloke with the jumper round his neck. 

I’m no fighter

But I’d love to pull it tighter

Life would be better to see you swing

From the ceiling

Attached to an Arran sweater.

But I’m better than this

And I don’t know if you got the gist

It’s just I’d love your expensive watch

To list

Like a ship

And slip

To the floor

From your limp, dead wrist.

I’m in my prime

But I could turn to crime

Do time

And yeah it might seem that I’m

Being rash

But just a cheeky little car crash

Would do the job.

I know this bloke, Bob

The Everest of man-mountains

Who could sort it in such a manner

Like Diana

But with less memorial fountains.

And I know wishing death on someone is a little far

But I’d supply the car

If that’s what it takes

It just wouldn’t have brakes.

But I digress

I went off road

Like I hope their fucking car does

NO!

I’m joking

I’m just poking fun, I’m provoking

I’m karaoke-ing with a lie that I can’t deny:

I don’t really want the Kardashians to die.

I want them tortured

To within an inch of their celebrity life

Like I’d get one red ant

And his ant wife

To eat them alive

Starting at opposite ends

Until they arrive

Together

And all that survives

Is their eyes

So they can watch their demise

In HD, like me

And their shitty TV show

I so

Despise.

Wise

Men would say turn over

But I don’t control the TV in our house

I haven’t got the nous

I’m timid as a mouse

I haven’t even got a spouse

Just my girls

Steph and Emma

It’s not much of a dilemma

And I don’t moan when you don’t replace the loo roll

Or leave the key in the front door

But that Kardashian programme’s poor

And QI’s on the other side

And even silence is better for the mind

And I’m sorry for speaking while you’re watching

But please, please, please

Whatever you do

Don’t rewind. 

Compensation Culture Vulture

A window pane

When it connects with your brain

Is not quite the same

As gaining a stain

You could ring the council to complain 

But the paperwork might drive you insane,

So in the main

I would refrain
There's nothing to gain

But heartache and pain

It's throwing good money down the drain

It's walking, single, down a lover's lane

It's buying a horse that ends up lame

It's knowing you were rubbish and she never came

It's putting out the washing when it starts to rain

It's the FA Cup final and you've picked up a strain

Or you're late for Spain coz you missed the train

And of your life

It could be the bane.

I speak the truth

But only a grain

You can make a claim

Just sign your name

Car Philosophy

As I gently press the throttle
I think
Aristotle had a lot of bottle
He had a lot of things to say
And as I break I wonder what he'd make
Of today
The proliferation of media
Smart phones, ice cream cones
Wikipedia
The people lurking in social networking
Sites
Human wrongs and human rights
Electric lights
40 denier tights
How cool would it be to let him see
With a lightbulb
To marvel at planes, trains, bus lanes
A Hoover plugged in at the mains
Stock market gains
Our ability to remove stains

All those inventions
Too many
To mentions

There's laptops and Lycra
The Nissan Micra
How we deliver a parcel
And talk about a footballer's 4th metatarsal...

If I took him out
Our world would probably freak him out
I'd get the drinks
It'd be my shout
But these things, I just don't know about
How they work
I use them, I abuse them
Sometimes I lose them
I'm an ignorant jerk
A berk
I just see them as a perk
I'm sorry Aristotle
I just get all
Annoyed
With myself
A bit deranged
But the lights have changed
So maybe I should stop philosophising
Summerising
Surmising and compromising with the temperature rising

And just start driving.

Broken Hearted In Tescos

Watching the tramps queue
For Special Brew
I think yeah, I fancied you
A bit
I mean you were fit
You had a nice nose
And always looked good
In your Tesco's clothes
By the cream cake shelf
(And that's an art in itself)

I worked there too
And there was nothing in my contract
About your eye contact
Plus I would've expected additional fees
To cover goosebump usage
When you teased
You were the honey to my bees
The carrots to my peas
The toast to my cheese
The squirrel to my trees

Oh how I'd loved to have buried my nuts

And it cuts
When I think about her
On the cheese counter
All big eyes
A big white hat
And lips
All I had was my quick wits
And funny quips
We drifted apart
Like passing ships
Well I was more of a sinking rowing boat
And you were an aircraft carrier
With a permanent barrier
But it's not your fault
I should've run after you
Like Usain Bolt
Or swam like Michael Phelps
But time's a great healer
And I've put out a few feelers

Well, Every Little Helps.

A Happy Ending

The problem with some poems
Is you don't know where they end.

(big pause) 

I hate the awkward pauses
That can drive you round the bend.
They become a slight distraction
And you don't know your reaction
Is quite the right action to gain satisfaction.
A fraction of the time I applaud too soon
I feel like a loon
Like there's an elephant in the room.
But it's not my fault, it's the poet
And he knows it.

(pause) 

The false ending is even more mind bending
It seems to be trending
And is frankly a little offending.
It needs mending
And I feel like spending some time sending
A letter to my MP,
The BBC
And John Hegley.
Or paying a visit
And if there is a happy ending
Then this is it.

(pause, look at woman in audience) 

Sorry that wasn't the end, missus.
This is.

Arachnid Anachronism

Sometimes I think that you want me around

As muscle, to hustle

Or lend you a pound

To loosen a jar

For lifts in my car

To Ikea

I fear

It’s never too far

For me to say no

Some balls, I should grow

I should Coco.

And when

All the men are inside ya

Like the clown, I’ll always be stage left

Bereft

Catching my breath

Trapping a spider.  

On The Rocks

Ice

Is nice
In a drink, I think
But not when it’s in your heart
It was warm
At the start
But since the problems arose-n
Your ventricles
All your tentacles
And your unmentionables
Seem frozen.

Washing Up

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

But luckily I’m still not dreaming

About you.

Butter

When the butter hits the heat of the crumpet
do you think it screams?
Do you think it dreams
of being back in the fridge
on the ridge
just before
the door?

I adore

the taste as it melts
through tightened belts
and honeycombed holes
Salty, naughty,
salinating our souls.

Sometimes I have it in rolls.

And when it drips

like a golden shower
its power
draws me
to mop up the bits.

Some say it’ll give me a heart attack,
knifed to the edges of a crackers crack.

Like yellow porn
on sweetcorn
or an embarrassing rash
in mash.

There's No Such Thing As A Free Lunch

I stole some pickle from work

I’m such a berk

I could get sacked

Backed and cracked.

It’s just the sandwich at hand

Was so bland

It needed a lift.

So do I.

And what’s more I took too much

I spoiled the feast

The hardened form of milk

In Tesco’s Value

Medium sliced yeast

Infection, is what it felt like

And on reflection

I wasn’t really needy

Just greedy.

But now I must eat the evidence of the deed

Speedily.

Car Trouble

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.

Cheesy Love Poem

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.

Body Language

(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

I said I feel ugly
He said I look fine.

Clean Living

(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.