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.