UK people … here’s a nice thing from my publisher: the Great Big Brian Bilston Bundle Giveaway*.
It’s a chance to win copies of my books plus 2 free tickets to a show near you.
Alternatively, you could just buy those things.
Or even more alternatively, not buy those things at all. It’s completely up to you.
Anyway, here’s the link: https://www.panmacmillan.com/brian-bilston-bundle-giveaway
After the last ee
had uzzed its last uzz,
the irds and the utterflies
did what they could.
ut soon the fields lay are,
few flowers were left,
nature was roken,
and the planet ereft.
This is not the poem I had hoped to write
when I sat at my desk and the page was white.
You see, there were other words I’d had in mind,
yet this is what I leave behind.
I thought it was a poem to eradicate war;
one of such power, it would heal all the sores
of a world torn apart by conflict and schism.
But it isn’t.
Lovers, I’d imagined, would quote from it daily,
Mothers would sing it to soothe crying babies.
And whole generations would be given new hope.
Nope.
I had grand aspirations. Believe me, I tried.
Humanity examined with lessons applied.
But the right words escaped me; so often they do.
Have these in lieu.
it’s his birthday
and the sloths are up early for once
the flamingos line up in pink, long-legged salute
the birds of paradise parade in their finest
the elephants blow their trumpets
the blue whales gush with joy
the gorillas act out stories of his visits
the lions lay off the wildebeest for one day
and stand together on the Serengeti plain
the lyre birds sing his voice in tribute
the seals cannot stop clapping
and the ostriches urge us
to listen to him
and not bury our heads in the sand
Much to my surprise, some of my shows this year are on the verge of selling out. You may need to get your rollerblades on if you plan to come to any of the following, which have fewer than 50 tickets remaining:
9May: FILEY Literature Festival
3 June: LEEK Arts Festival
4 June: CHESTER Literature Festival
8 Oct: DEAL Astor Theatre
10 Oct: COLCHESTER Arts Centre
14 Oct: LOUGHBOROUGH, MMC
7 Nov: BELLAGHY, Seamus Heaney HomePlace
13 Nov : HELMSLEY Arts Centre
14 Nov: POCKLINGTON Arts Centre
Shows in Bristol, Bury St Edmunds, Exeter, Leeds, London, Norwich and Stirling are also selling quickly.
For a full list of events, plus links to tickets, go here: https://brianbilston.com/events
*End of low ticket alert*
I forgot, I said,
but since when was our love built
on anything so ordinary
as a date?
Let other couples mark time.
I am too caught up
with the here and the now of you
to waste these hours
in commemoration of the past.
Because our love is vast,
like an ocean,
with depths far beyond
others’ comprehension.
Why spend our lives swimming circles
in the muddy puddle
of convention?
Flowers fade.
Chocolates get eaten.
By such ephemera,
we should judge our love not.
And you said,
what do you mean,
you forgot?
He’s swapped designer jeans and flashy cars
For designer spacesuits and trips to Mars
Where he watches Earth turn on its axis
With its stupid people paying taxes
He’s indulging all his whims and vices
He’s a billionaire in a midlife crisis
He’s got plans to end world poverty
Once his new hair’s lost its novelty
He’s dropping rap tracks and dissing pronouns
His kids have names they cannot pronounce
He’s choosing who his next young wife is
He’s a billionaire in a midlife crisis
He’s an outspoken champion of free speech
With a mute button in easy reach
He’s building an army of online abusers
More spambots equals more X-users
Cause he’s been left too long to his own devices
If truth be told, he’s not the nicest
I hope he comes down with gastroenteritis
He’s a billionaire in a midlife crisis
A reckoning of spreadsheets.
A distraction of smartphones.
A prattle of podcasts.
A mispronunciation of scones.
A clique of photographers.
A heard of precedents.
An enjambment of
poets. A grope of presidents.
A pile of haemorrhoids.
A bunion of personal trainers.
A bout of estimations.
A condescension of mansplainers.
A stroke of geniuses.
A spot of adolescents.
An embarrassment of Richards.
A collection correction of pedants.
I love you more than life itself
but I swear I’ll love you better
if you let me turn the heating off
and you wear another sweater.
I cannot get enough of you –
I’m completely in your thrall.
I love to watch you bending over
to unplug the telly at the wall.
Yes, you’re the only one for me,
my sweet and fragrant flower –
now you’ve ditched your daily bath
for a cost-efficient shower.
Make no mistake, I love you loads,
you send my head into a spin.
Our cycle’s set to eco-wash:
let’s cram as much as we can in.
My cup of love’s full to the brim,
it overflows, my petal.
So make yourself a brew with me,
but don’t overfill the kettle.
Erm, well – I begin, shifting nervously in my chair –
if it’s true there is no heaven and no hell,
no eternity or long hereafter,
no divine plan or offstage direction from an invisible hand,
then how do we make sense of it all,
how do we make our way through this life,
this glorious, ridiculous, ramshackle world of ours,
with its wars and brutality, conflicts and petty arguments,
the ten thousand tiny acts of kindness
which happen unnoticed before breakfast,
and all that love and pain, happiness and loneliness
that comes to us unannounced, by turns,
as if we ourselves were pitched daily
onto the waves of one of its vast, mysterious oceans,
not knowing whether today is the day we drown
or we find ourselves washed up
on some strange but friendly shore?
Mmm – you say, after a lengthy silence –
what I meant was … do you have any questions
about the job?
