Dedicated to the passenger in front of me
when
you
recline
your
seat,
it is difficult
for me to eat
Selected poems
Do not go, lentil, into that good pie
Assorted Poems, Selected poemsDo not go, lentil, into that good pie
Lest it should burn not bake upon the tray,
Rage, rage against the oven turned too high.
Soybeans and chickpeas may also die
For the pulses quicken upon their way,
Do not go, lentil, into that good pie.
The pastry turns crisp and black as the night
And the scarred legumes turn to darkened grey,
Rage, rage against the oven turned too high.
And so we, like pies, when the end draws nigh,
Have charcoaled remains grieved, too, in a way,
Do not go, lentil, into that good pie.
No, do not go, lentil, into that good pie.
Rage, rage against the oven turned too high.
When I’m Gone
Assorted Poems, Selected poemsWhen I’m gone
from this world
let them say:
“He never quite managed
to seize the day.
He fought but failed
to keep shyness at bay.
He was unlikely to star
in Fifty Shades of Grey.
But he could stack
a dishwasher
in an efficient way.”
Anthem for Doomed Ruth
Assorted Poems, Selected poemsIt was Ruth’s own fault,
to tell you the truth;
she smoked like a chimney
and then fell off the roof.
How Walter would cross a busy road
Assorted Poems, Selected poemsHe would stride
through a subway
and barely falter
but, for some reason,
a bridge over-troubled Walter.
Ode To A Weather Girl
Assorted Poems, Selected poemsI write you poems
and send you flowers
you give me hailstones
and scattered
s o
h w
e r s
Morrissey’s Fridge
Assorted Poems, Selected poemsMorrissey was filled
with sudden self-doubt
as he shut his fridge door;
did the light never go out?
MONETISATION
Assorted Poems, Selected poemsThe ad said
MONETISE YOUR FOLLOWERS
so he thought
he would respond
by painting them
in the changing light,
like waterlilies
in a pond.
In the Departure Lounge
Assorted Poems, Selected poemsIn the departure lounge,
she drew him near,
then softly whispered in his ear,
not words of parting’s
sweet, sweet sorrow,
but DON’T FORGET THE BINS tomorrow.
This is one of those poems without any rhymes
Assorted Poems, Selected poemsThis is one of those poems
without any rhymes,
like the kind you may read
in the Sunday TimesTelegraph.
For the real poet, you see,
rhyme’s deleterious,
when you want to be seen
as poignant and seriousprofound.
Rhyming is childish and trivial;
it smacks of the frivolous.
But I’ll throw in some half-rhymes
of which you may be obliviousignorant.
This is also one of those poems
that ends with a metaphorsimile,
like the silence of writing paper,
untouched in the letter drawer.
