Month: June 2015


Gimme a kiss, a smooch,
a snog, a smacker.

Light up my lips
with a lusty firecracker.

Please don’t ignore this;
let us conjoin our labia oris.

Because I’m a sucker
for the way
that you pucker.

I hope
that our lips
get stucker and stucker.

So let’s osculate now,
I can’t help myself.

Oh, sorry, I thought
you were somebody else.

People Person People

Pete Macpherson
was very much a people person
and, like all people person people,
found nothing more agreeable
than meeting people
in person.

He would get together
with others
of the people person sort.
He would think of them
as the people people for short.

Penelope Merson
was not a people person.
When she saw
Pete Macpherson,
her mood would worsen.

The Man Who Was Trapped Inside A Stock Photography Catalogue

You will see me smiling
on overcrowded tube trains,
gloating over my home insurance policy,

pointing triumphantly at a sales report,
to the incredulity of my colleagues,
in corporate brochure spreads,

beachcombing with my Facebook family
in a glossy back page advert
in a doctors’ grubby waiting room.

I’m pristine; my white teeth gleam,
blue eyes twinkle, I possess no wrinkles.
My hair is impeccably tousled.

I am subject to the tyranny of perfection;
an ad agency’s immaculate conception
with inbuilt marketing collateral damage.

Just for once, I would like my spreadsheet
not to add up, or my shirt to be stained,
or have my stock photography wife and kids up

and leave me when my drinking gets too much
following poorly-made investments with the money
I stole from a charity box for crippled orphans.

At least it’s quiet in between assignments,
as I sit and wait here, in the catalogue,
and reflect upon this terrible beauty
we have both been born into.

The Love Song Of Brian H. Bilston

La belle Una Stubbio, flicki-kicki subbuteo,
Lei è well beautio, charade di muteo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When I have finished this quorn and mushroom pie,
And cleared away the table;
Let us go, through sterile shopping malls,
Consumer cathedrals
Of bargain baskets in poundshop aisles
And cut-price calendars of Harry Styles:
To lead you to an underwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What are you on about?”
Let us go and work it out.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Barry Manilow.

And indeed there will be time
For selfies in fastfood restaurant toilets,
Or dirtied department store changing rooms;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare your face for Instagram;
There will be time for Facebook and for Twitter,
And time for all your life’s minutae
To be spread like butter across the sky;
Time for blackjack in the new casino,
Before the taking of a frappuccino.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Paolo di Canio.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I care?” and, “Do I care?”
Time to turn back and listen to Cher,
With my newly grown facial hair —
(They will say: “Throw his pipe into a bin!”)
My frayed tank top, wearing thin,
The quadrupling of my double chin —
(They will see the fade of tattoos upon my skin).

I should have been a piece of unsuspected lego
Embedding myself into the soles of yellowed feet.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall subscribe to UK Comedy Gold.
Shall I become thin and frail? Do I dare to eat some kale?
Regardless, I will always hate the Daily Mail.
I have heard the boy bands singing on the radio.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them dancing on Saturday night talent shows
Prowling the stage with their hair blown back
When the wind machine whirls and their jaws go slack.
We have suffered the agony of the buffering page,
Lapsed into a sleeping silence, the uncomprehending frown,
Till Katie Hopkins wakes us, and we drown.