Nasal Hair

Tags

Beauty, Consumer Goods and Services, Hair, Hair Care, health, Nasal hair, shopping, Types

It is not fair,
My nasal hair,
I couldn’t care
If it was never there.

But I have lots
of nasal hair
And the fact its there,
Means that I do care.

Which is why
Oh nasal hair,
I have to stare
In the mirror a lot.

To make sure
You’re not coated in snot.

Mum.

Tags

mother, mother's day, mum, mutter

Many people don’t
Understand me like my 
Mum.

Most of the time they
Underestimate my abilities,
Missing the mark monumentally.

Many people make
Untrue judgements and try to 
Manipulate me.

But not my mum.

Rough

Tags

afghanistan, British Army, bums, Business, Desert, drifter, Hard, High-speed rail, hobos, homeless, ignorance, judgement, mental_illness, mind, Squaddy, veterens, Wind, Wine tasting descriptors

Sleeping,
Head against the
Hard slabs of
This mantle.
The Squaddy listens,
to the soft
cooing of pigeons
and the legion of
voices, resounding
around his own skull.
It is rarely a quiet day.

Sleeping lightly,
the trauma flashes past
his eyes like a high speed
train, whipping up

the hot desert air
as it speeds
past.

Cardboard bunker,
nothing to stop
the wind stealing
it away. His paper
defences against
nature still let in the cold
stares from passers by
who just think
he is lazy.

Tidying

Tags

addiction, Baking, Business, Consumer Goods and Services, creative, creative writing, Dough, family, Flour, food, love, Plastic wrap, poem, Poetry, Powdered sugar, Prosody, rhyme, romance, Sheet pan, verse, writing

The dust has gathered,
Like some sort of grey and hairy
cling film.  And yet I still
wonder how it got here.
After all,
we only dusted last week.

Presents and things,
still homeless from
late home arrivals from
relations, filed in bags
around the house
awaiting their placement
in the advanced house
organisation system,
cunningly disguised
as neatly organised piles of
stuff.

I take two tablets of
Procrastinol, settle down
and wonder how much  more
we can leave to
tomorrow.

Slam

Tags

competition, creative, creative writing, mental, poem, poems, poet, Poetry, poetry slam, Prosody, verse, writing

Up for the slam,
Its over, wham bam.
Three minute wonder,
no waffle,
Just poetic thunder,
To blow the minds
of the judges in the room,

As they watch you
Pull out poetic plooms,
From your alagorical,
metaphorical,
categorical
creative hole in your head.
Scream till you turn red,
at emotions and love potions,
and stories that seem to
pop from nowhere in your poem
About that thing that made
you really mad.  Or about
The banality of television
Or the destruction of
rain forests or the
Worst Thing Ever.
Cold Tea.

Scream it at the top
of your voice.
Show that you’re not just
a poet, but a sensitive
soul who feels stuff.
But don’t perform it too
Quickly.  I don’t want to be
picky but I want to understand,
what you’re actually saying.

Its like boxing with words,
Literary Athletics,
Football with Bookends,
Metaphoric word
tobogganing off
K2, because you know
It could be you.

It could be anyone of you
Who goes home with first place,
The one who ran the
Marathon over
Long Word mountain
and back down the other side
Over Tongue Tied Peak
and on to the flats of
Rapturous Applause
to cross the finish line,
and drop to your knees
To caress the Warm Fuzzy Feeling.

Ode to an Old Computer

Tags

Apple, boffin, Business, computer, creative, creative writing, G3, games, geek, Michael Jackson, nerd, poem, poems, poet, Poetry, PowerMac, Prosody, shopping, ShopStyle, United States, Venice, Video Games, writing

Apple IMac(de) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Your ROM chips are old,
You DDR is getting seedi-ar
with age.  Your CMOS battery
has seen most versions of
whatever operating system you use.
Yet here you are, next to my desk,
Being used, given no rest.
You’re still loved by me even when
You were given to the bin men,
And now you’re Taking up my space, using
Electricity with your graphical simplicity,
This is an ode to you Old Computer
And of course, I don’t have any remorse
Over giving you a Brother, someone
to keep you company as my attention
turns to the next addition to my
recycled, diabolical collection.

Waving at Trains

Tin cans
trundling on tracks,
Transporting the tired
and the
drunk.
There are people, that
wave.  
The passengers onboard
worthy of
acknowledgement.

I wave back,
the only one.
Appreciative of
the validation
that being where I was,
meant that much that I got
a wave.

The Crush or Why Girls Who Work In Your Office Are Not Good Girlfriend Material

Tags

creative writing, found_poem, joy of sex, nsfw, poem, Poetry, verse, writing

“Bidets turn me on!”
“and Breasts…”
“but not Buttocks”. I wrote. I could see her across the office, her
Cassolette placed on her desk. She made me want to
Croupade, like a fangirl. I freely admit I dreamt of us in a
Cuissade as I nibbled her
Earlobes and stroked her with some sports
Equipment that randomly appeared. Oh we
Flanquetted whilst I ate some
Food that just happened to appear too. But for some reason her mum appears full
Frontal with her grey pubic
Hair, and then she starts commenting on my
Handwork. Its strange because its a reoccuring dream that
Kisses the darker part of my mind. I die a
Little death everytime I have it. Normally the dream ends on the word
“Lubrication” and I run screaming and wake up.

Matrimony scares me. And she knows it. She keeps talking about
Menstruation, and how she hates the
Missionary position, which I like. She says her
Mons pubis is so large its like third boob. I introduced her to
Mouth Music, a Norweigan metal band but she doesn’t ‘get’ them. She said she likes
Naval uniforms. I said my favourite painting is
La Negresse by Matisse, she said she likes Dulux. Her
Posture is terrible, yet I still want her. She’s not in to
Quickies, and hates amongst other things
Rear entry and the way the male
Scrotum looks like a turkey. I think she has eyes for the
Showerbath salesman that keeps ‘popping in’, his tanned
Skin and buff physique and perfect posture. I keep hearing him talking about
Standing positions? Must be salesman jargon for targets, and a
Tongue Bath? A new model of showerbath? But I have the
Upper hand, I just read in the Joy of Sex about the
x position.

Naked Apes (18+)

Tags

book, creative writing, found poetry, joy of sex, nsfw, poem, Poetry, prose poetry, Prosody, rude, sex, verse, writer

The first word of each line is taken from the contents page of The Joy Of Sex: A Gourmet Guide by Alex Comfort M.B., Ph.D. It makes a bit of sense… This is from the first section entitled ‘Starters’.

Beds were pushed together in the hotel room, so they could hear
Birdsong at morning when the alarm went off. Some
Birth Control fell on the
clothes, strewn on floor, Manfred saw this and thought
“come again?” as he reached for his
deodorant, he knew he could take out the bar from his
foreskin and make
love to her without having to worry about his Just For
Men spoiling the mood. But it was only a matter of time when
Naked apes, shaved and wrinkly floated through his mind, their
Nakedness ruining the mood for himself and his
Normal girlfriend. The image of apes softened his
Penis, and with that he knew that
Playtime was over. He skulked in to the Bathroom

Pubic hair clogged up the sinkhole, all he wanted was some
Real sex, he stared at the sink, it was
relaxation that he needed.
“See Manfred, I love you and I don’t care about your,
size, just so long as you show me love and
tenderness”,
variety is the spice of life, but ever since Manfred took her
virginity, his fascination with Naked Apes, with their hairy ape
vulva, and their long thin penises kept him
waking up in cold sweats. He needed a real
woman. One with hair.

Unravelling the Universe

A poem in which I ponder the justification for space exploration when we need to invest in sorting things out back on Earth.  One of those ‘controversial’ opinions I try to express poetically but end up offending people.

Unravelling the Universe?

Its like a confluance of indignation,
the way the stems of the universe fly
by, like nebulaic moths fluttering around
a bright light on a remote pathway in some
obscure part of a provencial area
of some small country,
on some continent.

It was created,
it wasn’t random
it wasnt created
it was
random.

Where does the creation start and the disorder stop?
Where does the mandibles of human speculation
lose their sharpness and become interdimensional dreams?
Like a teabag in a blender.
Like a Wilderbeast in a 100 metre sprint.
Like a Stephen Seagal movie that actually,
makes sense.

Many universes, many decisions many answers.
Chaos flutters, like a butterfly but it has no effect
on the cosmos apart
from what can be
described in the world of equations and algebraic
patterns,
numbers and quantum
formulae that make you wonder,
why?
Here is existance, isn’t it nice?
Do we care?
Here is the world, lets fuck it up and ruin it, aren’t we clever?
Do we care?

How do you make water out of oil?
How do you make food out of bank notes?
How do you make medicine out of radio waves?

How has space research changed our lives?
Cling Film. Lots of fucking Cling Film.