we would
go to
Wimbledon and
watch Serena
and Venus
until that
fateful sunny
day when
Annette came
between us
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Month: June 2014
Table-tennis Dennis
for Dennis
table-tennis
was his thang.
without it
he felt
a ping-pong
pang.
Love Amongst The Dominoes
When Janice walked out
Of his dreams
And into the saloon bar
Of The Sparrow and Sickle
That domino-fuelled Thursday night,
Bob knew it was love at first sight
For he felt his blood thicken,
His pulse quicken,
Damn near choked on his chicken
In a basket.
Janice-stricken,
Bob was a shadow
Of his formless self,
No longer the doyen
Of the domino domain
(For that was now Ken).
Tiles clacked
With a fatal distraction.
As Bob watched Janice
Sidle over to the juke-box
He imagined her
Supplicant and supine,
Not, as she was, putting on
Walking on Sunshine.
Bob was held in thrall
No more and he returned
To the game.
For Bob there were some things
That love could not withstand.
Katrina and the Waves being one
(Another, the bloody
Goombay Dance Band).
4′ 37″
[The above poem is a homage to John Cage’s experimental composition, 4′ 33″. Mine’s a bit better, though, as it’s four seconds longer (but only if read at the right pace). For best results, please approach this poem from the right hand side, in a mood of sullen indifference, whilst drinking a glass of Fentiman’s Ginger Beer.]
A Poem About Panini Stickers
I dreamt of
Bikini knickers
Stuffed with
Panini stickers.
There were
Millions
Of
Brazilians.
Brenda
Brenda
Was a World Cup
Uncomprehender,
Could not understand
Roy’s four-week long
Bender.
Brenda
Had no interest
In Walter Zenga
Or the thigh strain
Of a Ghanaian
Defender.
Brenda
Was tired of the way
She’d pretend her
Marriage wasn’t mashed
Like a frog in a
Blender.
Brenda
Thought the chance
Of happiness slender
Whilst Roy continued
His World Cup
Agenda.
Brenda
Would listen to
Love Me Tender
And hoped Roy might be
Returned to
Sender.
afro man
an avalanche
from above
a laburnum
of love
a cascade
of curls
a waterfall
of whirls
a drizzle
of drama
a carlos
valderrama
Shaggy Dog Story
The collie wobbles
And waggles,
His fur catches
And snaggles,
Sees something hidden
In the prickles.
Jules Rimet Trophy!
Clever Pickles!
Great Expectorations
The phlegm flew
Like a bullet,
And settled on
Völler’s mullet,
A glistening globule
Of Rijkaard’s flobule.
Spitting image
Hand of God
We cried blue murder at the time.
It was a crime against humanity,
Not an act of spontaneity
From the digits of a deity.
Still, the next week, each lunchtime,
We were all doing it.
Any aerial challenge became
An opportunity for divine intervention,
With an asphalt Ascension
Into a playground pantheon
Of class-war champions
Beckoning for anyone who could
Pull off a palm of providence
With confidence.
And although our clumsy
Sleights of hand were always exposed,
Like a bungled party trick,
It didn’t stop us from trying
To create artistry out of artifice.
