Friday, 4 December 2009

Christmas Doggerel and other old tat

Random old poems found on laptop. Probably written about six/seven years back. 

Christmas Doggerel

So Christmas is here
And what shall we do?
Surrender to cheer,
Now finally this rotten year is through.

Could I unearth a hollow
To lay my weary skull?
As waves of forgiveness
Come lashing at my door. Essential snug-

-To light the heart.
With season’s greetings,
Snowflakes sizzle.
Face of child, bedecked in sweetness and sweets.

A season for luxury
And shopping and biting
And fighting and farting
And I give thanks to god its not my birthday.

It’s a Bit Like…

It’s a bit like-
A rummy-jam-moon speeding up by an oil-stroked sea.
It’s a bit like-
The ruby rash on my arm being humped by an amorous flea.
It’s a bit like-
A cocked paw mutt shaking hands when he just wants to pee.

It’s a bit like-
A one man jazz band for a blind man who hates your tie.
It’s a bit like-
Your butter bathed in by a rabble of muscular flies.
It’s a bit like-
The doctor selling you smiles when you’re trying to die.

It’s a bit like-
The feeling you get when you run out of tightrope.
It’s a bit like-
The inebriated psychic reciting your horoscope.
It’s a bit like-
The dealer who sells you oregano for dope.

That’s my belief, don’t think me mad,
I’ll try the other one instead.


“Oh yes, oh yes, oh definitely yes!”
My dirty talk does not impress.
(Is sex all it is quite cracked up to be?)

Did you enjoy my banter, precious?
It’s not as long as I had expected.
(Is sex all it is quite cracked up to be?)

Nor quite so big as other men’s
According to your magazines.
(Is sex all it is quite cracked up to be?)

You find a space then miss your place
In drunken misalignment-
I’m so distressed its like a test
In sober driving judgment.

You give a stare
I know so well
I’ve seen it before
When you broke a nail
(Is sex all it is quite cracked up to be?)

When you talk of phallic content
Am I attached to the instrument?
(Is sex all it is quite cracked up to be?)

The sight of your arse
Makes me grow hard
And the sex in your skin is scented.
The sight of you nude
gets me in the mood
On a porno movie I rented.

I believe in intimacy
Just me in you and you in me-
But intimacy does not believe in me-
It seems.

For you are just my fantasy
And I in fist do blast my pips
With you in head but not in bed
For you are on page 3.
(Is sex all it is quite cracked up to be?)

The answers no
Its just a show
And tell, we play ‘till dawn
And then we find its all in mind
And all over the floor.


Said the vicar with a cough
“I don’t believe in Jesus
‘till the mortgage gets paid off-
I don’t find faith in starving’
and I don’t find faith in germs.
This bloody cough
Should bugger off
And yet its getting worse!”

Replied the congregation present
“we love to hear your stories
But we may have missed the point!
Did Jesus have a twin
Called Jesus-Jesus! too?
We come to praise
In naïve faith
Our moral ways are screwed!”

The vicar spat out his anger quick
“the promised land is calling
So give a guy a break!
I’ve smoked too hard for thirty years
And Jesus’ blood I’ve drank
A mans a right
To live his life
With saviour in his tank!”

Shot back the congregation all
“Go and have a lie down
And stop talking such balls!
We’re sure you have the best in mind
So squeaky chaste in taste
But why do you
Lampoon so crude
Our escapist fantasy faith!”

The vicars bloodshot eyes did flare
“forgive is what the lord said
But only after revenge!
Go throw yourselves at Buddha’s feet
In your middle-class hell
I’ve had enough
Of your blind love
Go bless yourselves!



My smiling cats agree that life is grand
lying curled in huddles around the floor
with licking dust from fur their only chore
And driving me insane with their demands.

The strangled roar of purrs melting the air
With mewling cries for dinner round the clock
They know they can entice me from my work
With subtlety and claws their only spur.

Yes indeed! These shiny silken Pharaohs
Are keeping warm the blood of royalty
Not for greed we’re told, but loyalty!
Yet who believes a furry Romeo?

A certain bet: the future is for cats
A rosy yet a fishy paradise
An Eden strewn with catnip and with mice
Until the claw is dull and fur is fat.

So here I give a final word of warning
To those who tend the friendship of a cat
Tho’ they may well appear so very charming
You serve in house a proud aristocrat.

And from his tail unfurls a mighty sting!

Sonnet: The morning is a rather ugly bird

The morning is a rather ugly bird
Who lollops round the flower beds of man
Who’d rather sleep, unseen and seldom heard
Another forty winks- in mind, is planned.
It’s true that this might be mistook as lazy
By lesser men whom night time means a sleep
And some might even call this virtue sleazy
Whereas I would call their lack of insight cheap.
For morning is a time for merry dreams
And not for playing a fool to the wizened clock.
For night, the time is ripe for playful schemes
And not for fancy living by the book.
So back to bed and dreams- I fondly start
Let’s leave the morning glory to the lark.