Month: June 2016

Com  ppance

Things work both ways, of course.
And so the EU left our language,
waited not for any half-mumbled    logy,
bade no adi   .
And the   rosceptics,
felt no    phoria,
outmano   vred as they were.

Words found themselves misconstrued.
There were bitter f  ds
raised fists, Fr  dian slips,
few remained n   tral.
Unemployment rose –
amongst mass   rs, chauff  rs, n   roscientists –
and mus  ms closed.

The country got roomier
and rh   mier,
a mausol  m to memories of imperial grand   r,
mixing racial slurs
with a sip from a glass of Pimms
and a snip of secat   rs.

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I am sorry but I cannot accept …

I am sorry but I cannot accept the post of Prime Minister,
For there is little in my history that’s suitably sinister,
No financial irregularities, no offshore accounts,
No stock-piling of wealth in ever larger amounts.
No public school background, no Oxford, no Cambridge;
No late night liaisons with the head of a pig.
My character’s flawed also, it pains me to say;
I lie – at best – only three times a day,
I have shown compassion, empathy, contrition,
So I’m afraid I am unsuited for this position.

I am sorry but I cannot accept the post of England Manager,
For whilst I tick the box entitled ‘well-meaning amateur‘,
I worry that my grasp of tactics is too strong,
That I might be able to understand what is wrong
And how to change it. I can also be meticulous
In my preparations, a trait which would be ridiculous
In any manager. I have a track record of winning games,
By creating teams, not just picking names,
And getting them to stick the ball in the goal,
So I’m afraid I am unsuited for this role.

In Which the Poet Throws a Party to Celebrate his Birthday only to Discover that Nobody Bothers to Show Up

Wearing my most daring
tank top, I arrived downstairs
fashionably late,
just before quarter to eight;

the invitations I’d sent out
ten days before
had clearly stated it started
at seven thirty-four.

I put on Russians by Sting.
It wasn’t long
until things
were in full swing.

As so often, on such occasions,
I made for the kitchen,
hanging out
with the Pringles,

who were delightful,
and twenty rather nonchalant
mushroom vol-au-vents.
Six skittish tins of Fosters

enticed me back
into the sitting room
to join in with the party games:
Hold the Parcel (forty-two minutes),

followed by a few rounds
of Musical Statues
(defeated each time
by a po-faced Victorian floor lamp),

and finally,
a game of Sardine,
in which I hid
inside the airing cupboard,

curling up
for three days
on an inexpertly-folded fitted sheet
until I found myself.

On Learning that I Share My Birthday with Donald J. Trump

My parents always taught me that it’s good to share,
what’s mine is yours and what’s fair is fair,
but now these teachings have taken a bump
since I discovered my shared birthday with Donald J. Trump.

With others there is much that I’m prepared to share —
my thoughts, my friends, my lunch, this chair,
my wi-fi password, my cat, my bicycle pump —
but I will not share my birthday with Donald J. Trump.

So I shall fortify the fourteenth of June,
build a wall to keep out this bigoted loon,
too strong to knock down and too high to jump;
I shall not share my birthday with Donald J. Trump.

O Do Not Ask If I Am Beach Body Ready

O do not ask
if I am beach body ready.

Observe how the folds
of my stomach ripple
like the wind-pulled waves.

Feel these pale buttocks,
smoothed by the sand-grains
of time.

Note these milk-white limbs,
useless and stranded,
washed up whalebones.

Consider the tufts of hair
which sprout on my shoulders
like sea-grass.

And listen to the lapping
of my socks
at the shores of my sandals.

And you ask me
if I am beach body ready?