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.
Frisbee whizzing
through the air
above our heads
over the sand
into the water
onto the waves
out to sea.
You cried a lot that day.
Frisbee was a lovely dog.
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.
I’ve never seen
Game of Thrones.
To me, it’s one
of those known unknowns.
Does it rhyme with “scones”
or “scones”?
Sometimes I feel so alones.
it’s not the way you walk
it’s not the way you talk
it’s the way
that you wield
a spork
queenly exponent
of hybrid cutlery
you make my stomach
utterly
fluttery
one minute,
your pronging
fills me with longing
the next,
you scoop to conquer
it’s driving me bonquers
elegant elision,
practised precision,
your spork
lights the spark
in my heart
Footballers’ hair
floats with the majestic grace of a swan
through the air.
Footballers’ hair
which is unkempt or tousled or dirty
is rare.
Footballers’ hair
bounces and flounces and announces itself
with flamboyance and flair.
Footballers’ hair
makes grown men weep when its lopped off locks
lie abandoned by the stylist’s chair.
Footballers’ hair
is brushed and blow dried and brylcreemed
with care.
Footballers’ hair
when muddied from footballs is the cause
of despair.
For footballers’ hair
is more hallowed and holy
than the Lord’s Prayer.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
Splendorous hobnobs, bourbons, custard creams
arrive unbidden in my nightly dreams
and occupy the waking thoughts of days.
I love to dunk thee in my cup of tea
at breakfast time and at elevenses,
at three o’clock and half-past sevenses,
and at supper time thou dost comfort me.
Thou art there for me and never grumble,
thou make me feel like I’m not a misfit,
thou dost pick me up whene’er I stumble.
For thee, the whole of my life I’d risk it,
for I love the way that cookies crumble
and none shall take my beloved biscuit.
There was death amongst the daffodils
the day Fleur took her secateurs
and ran amok through the flock
of haughty culturalists in the Chelsea gardens
without so much as a beg your pardon.
Roses were red, violets were too,
ears were sheared, nosegays chopped,
toes trimmed and green fingers lopped,
as Fleur took the lawn into her own hands
and mowed them all down.
Even the failure of Lady Pru’s azalea bed
became overshadowed by the trail of dead
and the herbaceous borders
filled up with her slaughters.
There was carnage in the carnations,
annihilation amidst the anemones,
hysteria in the wisteria,
nastiness in the nasturtiums.
Nobody could remember
a flower show bloodier.
Someone had even been nipped
in the buddleia.
Reader, please beware
of the Clarkson apologist.
Here’s how you can find out
if you’ve got one in your midst.
He’s the kind of man who says
global warming does not exist.
Defends his golf club’s ban on women
then claims he’s not sexist.
He illustrates homosexuality
through the limpness of a wrist.
Still talks about the two world wars
and then clenches his right fist.
Bemoans the bloody immigrants
of which his England now consists.
Every night he drives home
his terrain response Range Rover pissed.
I could go on
but I’m sure you get the gist.
First they came for the origamists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not an origamist.
Then they came for the sports shop assistants
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a sports shop assistant.
Then they came for the Mexican entymologists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Mexican entymologist.
Then they came for the Michael Jackson impersonators
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Michael Jackson impersonator.
Then they came for the recycling
And I did not speak out
Because it was the right day for the recycling to be taken.
Then they came for Katie Hopkins
And I did not speak out
But merely pointed at the cupboard in which she was hiding.
Then they came for the mime artists
And I did not speak out
Because I was a mime artist.
Then they came for me
But my mum spoke out
And told them to go away.
