There’s always the hot poop

This is what happens...

 

One of my

oft repeated mistakes

is getting suggestions

from off of my mates

for poems to write

when, just out of sight,

my muse has fucked off

and the blank page waits…

They write crap

on my Facebook wall

that makes little

or no sense at all –

ideas that are wacky,

or just downright tacky,

or so sick and twisted

they frankly appal.

“Imagine you wished

you were wearing no pants,

or the sun’s a tomato

that’s living in France!”

One guy on Twitter

wants an ode “up the shitter”,

which is far from Wordsworth’s

idea of romance.

“Oh, write about poetry,

that would be ‘meta’”

“No, something on fruit

would be lyrically better”

“Be a good son –

write a song for your mum,

or copy that Auden –

send Byron a letter!”

You would think

I’d get more sense from poets,

but they’re just as barking

and boy, do they know it:

“Blank verse on halloumi,

or something pantoum-y!

You could go villanelle,

or even rondeau it!”

These are just

a tungsten example

of some of their input –

I could give you ample.

So I sit in the sun

while Olympians run:

the page is still blank

and I’m hardly that thankful.

Though I love

them with all of my heart,

my friends are all clueless

when it comes to art.

So, thanks for your counsel –

your wisdom is doubtful –

and as for this poem,

I still

don’t know

where to...

Shame...

For Jobi and Bonds

I probably don't smell too good today,

In last night's crumpled clothing, stumbling, wan

And pale – as pallid as this broken dawn –

Back to my house (if I can find the way).

With clean-cut cheeks and tailored suit of grey,

The Businessman strides past – he’s clearly on

His way to work. Eyes meet, and then he’s gone,

To meetings, desks, and chasing higher pay.

The disapproval on his face is clear:

He’s got a job, responsibility!

He got no time for mates and drinking beer –

He’d never throw away his life like me.

            I drift to bed on joys he’s never tasted,

            And smile to think that it’s my life that’s wasted.

Oure Elvysshe Craft

Quelle surprise, another sonnet.

The alchemist, uncertain, grinds his lead;
Around the room, alembics fizz, and bowls
Of baser matter bubble over coals
That steam the room and bead his scratchy head.
He thinks of wiser minds, and men long dead,
Of failed experiments, and thwarted goals:
If such a quest defeated those great souls,
Should he just strive for simpler aims instead?
Why seek for truth in this quixotic art?
Why chase eternities of gold? Why fret?
With all before discomfited, why start?

Maybe he’s mad – it’s vanity, but yet –

He knows, with romance in his shaded heart,

The merest gleam is worth the doubt and sweat.

Why Didn't Achilles Simply Wear Boots?

I dreamt the first two lines. This is a first for me.

The rest was written in a morning.

So here we are: the Blank Verse Strip-O-Grams –

We bare our bodies as we bare our souls.

Available for parties, weddings, both

The kinds of mitzvahs, nights for stags and hens;

And also meditations on the pangs of love

(Dispris’d or otherwise); reflections on

This rare condition we call Life.

    Come! See the glittered tassles spinning, twirling

’Round endings feminine as dainty feet.

As each revealing garment shameless falls,

So fall facades of mythic similes:

The wanton allegories lost on those

To whom the Greeks are best known for kebabs.

But, like Patroclus, we are undeterred,

And also vaguely homoerotic.

    Come! Watch us smear the whipp’d cream of our hearts

Along enticing lengths of turgid meter,

And taste the saline woes that pump and grind

Through these artistic, tortured veins.

You’ve never had a feeling – not like ours,

For we are made of feelings, we consume

Emotions, breathe sensations, drink in sighs,

Then, squid-like, squirt them on the page.

    Pray mock us not! We are but fragile feathers –

Make not burlesque from this, our introspection!

Or if you do, just know that we will feed

Upon your scorn, because we know that scorn

Will make us stronger, better people, yeah?

    For this, our show, we ask but little fee:

Your humbled recognisance of our pain

Is thanks enough.  Or better still, show us

How we’ve affected all of you inside,

And give a little something of yourself

As you all pass the bucket by the door.