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Even in the gutter, like the butter that’s gone out of date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.