POETRY


VERBAL DIARRHOEA

Mother Fucker

I straddled his waist.
He said, ‘you’ve got your mum’s arse’,
As he grabbed a handful. 
He grinned, so I laughed. 

He was my childhood crush
So part of me was flattered
And maybe he just said that thing
Because we were quite battered...

No. That was fucking weird,
Did he think it would impress?
Is that what you say to a girl
You’re trying to undress?

At least he was honest. 
Said he’s a grower not a show-er!
Not that it ever mattered,
My hands never went lower. 

I called it all off
Said he felt like my brother, 
Now when our families meet
I’m sure he flirts with my mother. 

We still get along though, 
Our friendship’s not grown colder
And he’s got a girlfriend now...
She’s twenty years older.






Methotrexate

My mind obsesses 
And chemically undresses
Those dusty yellow pills
That make me feel ill
With rancid bitter taste
And bile coloured waste
That crawls into my blood
To stop me from attacking myself.

Chemical-free
I face the return
Of tight balloon bones
That inflate and burn
With calcium grit
That chews on my joints
As I walk down the street,
It can’t help but disappoint
The girl with student loans
Too young for aching bones.

So once a week I drink six dusty pills
To stop me from attacking myself.


Mourning Sex

It was not the most sophisticated
natural selection,
You were excellent at kissing
and I gave you an erection.

Not a romance for the ages,
But it had a happy ending,
In fact you wiped it off my back,
And I hope I’m not offending

But it feels a little rude
When you’ve seen me in the nude,
To now pretend we never met
As if I’m something you regret.

When I slept on your shoulder
Did my head turn it cold?
Or did you think that I was dreaming
About us two growing old?

Cuz I don’t want to tie you down,
(unless it’s to a bed), 
But your main communication’s when
Delivered turns to ‘read’.

Your petite-mort grew terminal,
You’re ghosting all my texts. 
Another lover decesased,
Don’t rest in peace,
Because I’m only mourning sex.


It Could Be Worse

Some people have hell to fright us,
Some people have God to smite us,
Some people have Dads that fright them,
Some people have crabs that bite them,

There are men who choke with bronchitis
And women with chronic cycstitis,
Some people can’t eat for gastritus
Or cancer and lymphadenitis!

So if I had to pick one problem...
I think I’d just stick with arthritis.


A Short Poem for a Long Hair

I stared at my nipple
And it stared back.

Proudly parading
Its new curl of black. 

For a moment we were one...
Then the moment was over.

I knew I did not want an
Areola comb-over.

Waging war with my tweezers
I plucked it from my breast

And now the world feels much lighter
One nipple-hair less.


She’s Nice

She’s nice.
If you like that sort of thing.

She’s one in a million
For a four-month fling.

She radiates sunshine
Lighting rooms in an instant.
She’s a perfect Summer’s day,
Until that mole turns malignant. 

Sweetest girl you’ll meet
Sugar-levels through the roof!
She’s that extra slice of Vicky Sponge
That rots your wisdom tooth.

When you kiss her it kills me
But I get the appeal,
She’s beautiful and basic
Like an M&S meal deal.

So spoil her with frappucinos,
Give her daisy-chain hair,
Like her instagram selfies,
Make love to her vacant stare

But if you ever grow tired
Of Cath Kidson sheet sex,
Allow me the honour 
Of replacing your ex.




Death by Phlegm

I lie in a bed of tissues,
Kleenex my only friend. 
Even my sense of taste has left me.
Food brings me no pleasure now.

A city of mucus resides in my chest.
Occasionally pieces of architecture 
escape into my mouth.
They must be renovating.

I refuse to see my mother
For fear of marring her face
With projectile gunk. 
She found that hard to swallow. So did I. 
She said I should be more phlegmatic, 
I assured her that was not possible.

Tomorrow I’ve arrranged
For an exorcism on my lungs.
Did you know the Chinese call phlegm
‘The Wet Devil’?

I can feel myself being taken over
By the green demon. 
I will remain in isolation for the good of man-kind
and fight this battle on my own.
I will probably lose.

I was always a weak child, 
But may I be remembered a hero
After I pass.


Dear Dad

Your strong back that once carried me
Has weakened with age and arthritis. 
I used to be terrified as I wobbled around on your shoulders. 
Now it’s one of my favourite memories. 

My little hands used to pull on your hair like horse reigns. Sorry about that. 
My same hands now carry your warts along their fingers. 

My miniature feet used to toddle in your canoe-sized boots. 
Over the years they learnt the same ache and swell of your bones.

I feel you in my veins, but I’m scared that over time we’ve grown apart. 
There’s a distance I fear that quietly bruises my heart. 

I’m supposed to be finding my own way now. Detatching myself. 
But I still miss holding your giant hands that keep the world safe.

I miss the familiarity that somewhere down the line
Turned into politeness. 
I miss you calling me ‘Sugarpuff’, 
Or if I’d fallen over ‘Little Soldier’. 

We used to read ‘I Love You to the Moon and Back’
Before you tucked me into bed. 
It made space sound like an adventure.
Now it’s an obsticle to overcome. 

I still love you as far as my arms can stretch 
and I’m sorry if they don’t reach out as much as they should.
Because they miss you.




Recordings of poetry can be found here