on a beach in Bournemouth in ’79,
holidaying with some parents of mine,
i attempted to dig a tunnel
down to Australia
the project was a failure
but the memory of that day stayed;
i should have used a bigger spade
Poem
The Power of a Homophone
Assorted Poems, Selected poems“Sometimes the power
of a homophone
comes out of nowhere
and hits you,
like being struck
by a ten ton truck”,
articulated Laurie.
Why the chicken crossed the road
Assorted Poems, Selected poemsI saw the chicken cross the road,
deep set in contemplation.
So I put my cap on and followed
to end all the speculation.
He ducked down an alleyway,
then suddenly stopped dead
below a sign that gently swayed,
upon which said The Gag’s Head.
On the door, he went knock-knock
“Who’s there?” “Me. Chicken”
He was quickly ushered in
and the plot began to thicken.
I peered in through the window
to get a better look at the place;
the first thing that caught my eye
was a horse with a long face.
The horse was looking at something
black and white and red all over,
while stroking a dog without a nose
who emitted a terrible odour.
Next to them was a big chimney,
smoking in front of his son,
and Pikachu who had missed the bus
because nobody poked him on.
An Englishman, Irishman and Scotsman
were all standing there in a group,
talking to an elephant in a fridge
and a fly doing breaststroke in soup.
The chicken ordered himself a beer
and began a night of boozing
to escape from a joke of a life
made not of his own choosing.
I looked on sadly for a little more
before deciding I’d better split;
the first rule of joke format club
is nobody talks about it.
Night Vision
Assorted Poems, Selected poemsTo see at night
with extra clarity,
make sure the food
you eat is carroty.
But if you make
your meal mushroomier,
then the darkness
seems much gloomier.
Priorities
Assorted Poems, Selected poemsOliver spent his days
fashioning word sculptures
hewn from the alabaster
of the English language,
using his imagination as a mallet
and his wit, a chisel.
His wife, Denise, sighed
and wished Oliver
would get a move on
in fixing the dripping tap
in the downstairs bathroom.
DESEMICOLONISATION
Assorted Poems, Selected poemsFollowing the Pedants’ Revolt,
it was clear the semi-colons had to go.
Nit-picking sticklers sickened
by the centuries of their abuse,
misuse and misplacement oversaw
their displacement overseas.
Sentenced to de-sentencing,
they found themselves deported
to semi-colonies where
they could do no further harm.
Related clauses were reunited
or sadly, in some cases, split up.
Occasionally rogue semi-colons
would still be found; in a newspaper;
an obscure monograph; a badly-written poem.
The rebel writers would live in fear
of the knock at the door and
the heavy boots of the grammar police.
Sometimes these authors would
suddenly disappear, mysteriously,
before they had even fini
The Explosion
Assorted Poems, Selected poemsNEVER put a Minto
in a Vimto.
That’s how the dinosaurs
became extincto.
The Tomes of Death
Assorted Poems, Selected poemsShe died
at the side
of the road,
collapsed
from the weight
of her load.
On the paving flags,
tumbling out
from her bags
were three tomes
she’d tried
to carry home:
1001 Films You Must See,
Books You Must Read,
and Food You Must Try
Before You Die.
A Surprise Ending
Assorted Poems, Selected poemsWe all have a book in us;
but only a few
have two.
Like Howard,
who devoured
The Selected Plays of Noel Coward
but to his surprise,
before his very eyes,
he saw his abdomen distend
and it came out Howard’s End.
Whither Spoons?
Assorted Poems, Selected poemsWhither 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 up
at the shallow-bowled moon,
please ponder the poet who perished
for want of a spoon.
Brian Bilston