Conservative Party HQ Lunchtime Menu

Some poems

Deprived shrimps

Money-glazed smirked ham

Scorn fritters


Battered electorate,
with a basket of crushed hopes
and slow-cooked fatigue

Half-baked notions,
idling on a soft bed of privilege,
served with a thick faux pas sauce

Kids in blankets,
deep-famished, with a deprivation of vegetables
and a relish reduction

Toads in the hole,
with golden hand-outs in a thick rich gravy
(self-serving only)


Eton Mess

Fudge (ten different flavours)

There’s a Supermarket Where the Library Once Stood

Assorted Poems, Some poems

There’s a supermarket where the library once stood.
I sometimes forget that it’s now gone for good.
Last week I asked if they had any Flaubert.
A shrug in response. ‘The cheese counter’s there.’

There’s a supermarket where the library had been.
I’ve been reading some Dhal in ‘Indian cuisine’.
No golden tickets, witches or giants, of course;
just chickpeas and lentils in a creamy spiced sauce.

There’s a supermarket where the library once was.
I had tried to hand back an old Grapes of Wrath.
Sorry, they told me, but it’s really too late,
they’ll be shrivelled and well past their best-before-date.

There’s a supermarket where the library once stood.
A Sainsbury’s Local has bulldozed my childhood.
The library had been starved of state funding, I guess.
Take books off the menu and live well for less.

Remembrance Of Things Pasta

Assorted Poems, Some poems

She blew her fusilli,
my pretty penne,

when she found me watching
daytime tagliatelle.

Je ne spaghetti rien,
I responded in song,

but she did not linguini
for long,

just walked out
without further retort:

a hard lesson to be tortellini,
orzo I thought.

And so here I am
on my macaroni

and now my days
feel cannelloni.

Love in the Time of Cauliflower

Assorted Poems, Some poems

Please marrow me, my beloved sweetpea,
so that we may beetroot to our hearts.
Lettuce have the courgette of our convictions
and our love elevated to Great Artichoke.

Don’t leek me feeling this way, my dear,
such lofty asparagus can’t be ignored.
I am a prisoner, trapped in your celery;
Don’t make me go back to the drawing broad beans.

We all carry emotional cabbage:
love is chard and not inconsequential,
but may our passion be uncucumbered
so that we reach our true potato.

Oh, how your onions make my head spinach,
reduce me to mushrooms, broccoli, defenceless.
Only you can salsify my desire,
and I, in turnip, will radish you senseless.

love poem, inadvertently written with auto-carrot switched on

Biscuits: A Love Sonnet

Assorted Poems, Some poems

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.

The Great Famine

Assorted Poems, Some poems

The day the driver from Ocado
was late with her escargot,
Margot exhibited great bravado.

She had an insight into the plight
of the starving of Africa
as she waited patiently
for her celeriac and paprika.

She could see how
civilizations might fail
through focaccia gone stale
and for want of some kale.

And she thought to herself sadly
of those who sat drably
sipping on the dregs
of last night’s Chablis.

With some charity or other,
she set up a small direct debit
and then stoically rustled up
a smoked haddock rarebit.