Selected poems

Whither the spoons?

Assorted Poems, Selected poems

Whither the spoons
in my cutlery drawer?
Of spoons it is empty
but it used to hold four.

I checked the dishwasher,
and I scoured the floor
(then scoured it again,
just to be sure).

Whither the spoons
in my cutlery drawer?
Of knives and forks,
I have plenty in store.

But what use is a knife
except as a saw?
And what good is a fork
except as a claw?

Whither the spoons
in my cutlery drawer?
For scooping and stirring,
it’s the spoon I adore.

And should one day you look
at the shallow-bowled moon,
ponder the poet who perished
for want of a spoon.

Lapse

Assorted Poems, Selected poems

Housework got neglected,
dirty dishes stacked,
because people
had cats
who sat
on their laps.

Careers were stalled,
all plans got scrapped,
because people
had cats
who sat
on their laps.

Whole cities crumbled,
economies collapsed,
because people
had cats
who sat
on their laps.

Aliens invaded,
Earth got attacked,
while the people
with the cats
who sat
on their laps,
just sat there
with the cats
who sat
on their laps.

A Farewell to Arms

Assorted Poems, Selected poems

he found
a mound
of a million dismembered sleeves,
piled up like leaves,
chopped and lopped
from all the world’s
tank tops

sleeves
which grieved
and felt bereaved

sleeves
which felt
they had underachieved

disarmed,
embalmed,
lacking in vim,

left out on a limb

Poem For International Yoga Day

Assorted Poems, Selected poems

You should never
do yoga
in a toga;

it’s hard.
Far better to wear
a leotard.

But do check first
it’s not
a leopard

in case you place
your life
in jeopard

y.

Kiss

Assorted Poems, Selected poems

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.

The Love Song Of Brian H. Bilston

Assorted Poems, Selected poems

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.