Tonight: Headlining Stanza Extravaganza at the Artisan Gallery in Torquay

Stanza Extravaganza Poster

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Up and coming dates…

Putting my poetry hat on, I will be making a few appearances in the next month.

24th June – Pucker Poets in Plymouth.  One of the contenders in their poetry slam!

16th July – Word Circus, Ways With Words Festival in Dartington.  Honoured to be able to perform at this prestigious festival.

20th July – Taking The Mic, Exeter. Exeter’s premier Open Mic night.|


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Pete, where’s the remote control?

There were too many tanks.  Too many fire breathing goats bleating
For the blood of the president.  Too many missiles pointing
to a blood red sky.

The autonaut counted the beans,
Floating through the vacuum of the dustbin.

There were too many beans,
Floating through the carrot holes in the skins.

Circuits broke, pulses ripped through the
Oxygen lines. There was no stopping the

Endless cataclysm that faced the
International Space Station
All because someone wanted

To eat more pulses.

The idiots screamed at the monitors
As morons broke through foil skin causing mass

Decompression of the chamber.  There was no sound

Because the vacuum ate the autonauts as they were ripped through the
Side of the spacecraft through a hole the size

Of a carrot.

There were too many monkeys.  There were too many
Tamborines playing in the ears of the clergy.

There were too many tanks.  Too many fire breathing goats bleating
For the blood of the president.  Too many missiles pointing
to a blood red sky.

The blood red sky
Wretched through the stigma of the silent washing machine.

There was no sky. It was just an illusion created by
Industrial Light and Magic one evening whilst bored of working on Star Wars movies.

Endless corpuscles, reigning down on commuters, the size
of melons.  Two men were killed when a one smashed through the
Windscreen of their motorised aubergine.

And now they itch.  Everywhere they itch like
They are wearing giant itchy woollen jumpers. 
Every hair on the body of every ant
That has ever existed is now itching your
Calf muscle.

But its OK because Bill Clinton and is magic Y-fronts has just
Walked through the front doors of your local Ikea to the theme music of
Fun House, because its a whole lot of fun and there are prizes to be won.

Don’t get stuck. Don’t get lost in the ball pit. It is the gate to fluorescent hell. It will
Devour your soul.

There were too many tanks.  Too many fire breathing goats bleating
For the blood of the president.  Too many missiles pointing
to a blood red sky.

I ordered a massive steak at a vegetarian restaurant.  The chef
Curled up in a ball and served himself. 

He shouted profanities at me
As I tried to eat his shoes, but he got up and
threw me out of the restaurant.

I went to Burger King.  I hate Burgers.

You’ll love me when you smell the grease between my toes.
I smile when you do that, I smile when you don’t.


Don’t regret your whole life, it is only the end of time.

There is much to do here is there? Its a bit boring. 
I like that man over there, he has no hair.  Like my antithesis. Hairy opposite.

Zebra Zebra Zebra. The end.

There were too many tanks.  Too many fire breathing goats bleating
For the blood of the president.  Too many missiles pointing
to a blood red sky.

Snapping open a can of Coke,
I woke from a dream.  

I remember the goats. That is all.

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The Nile Crocodile & The Snickers Bar

Alfie had wondered what the commotion was about
When the tapeworm returned home.

There wasn’t any food left, they’d run out of money months ago,
But still the tapeworm demanded to be fed with melon boats.

“There is no point having a tantrum” Alfie pointed out.
The tapeworm sulked for days.

Things had been bad between him and the Tapeworm since Alfie
Lost his job as a Pizza Topping.

After much soul searching, Alfie left the shoebox and returned
To the hotel in Ipswich where he had been born.

His mother, a half eaten bowl of porridge, thought he was a failure and
Would use every opportunity to mention this.  Alfie hated her.

His father however was more accepting of his lifestyle.  There wasn’t
Much he could do to upset his father, he was placid, stable and calm.

Tension in the hotel grew when the tumbled artichoke pinned itself to
The venison steaks and Alfie’s Mother used this as a perfect excuse

To blame him for everything that had gone wrong during his stay.
In some strange way he missed the Tapeworm. At least he wasn’t rude.

An argument ensued and Alfie stormed out of the hotel, his mother
Waving her dirty spoon at him has he left with his bags.  

He knew no-one. So he went back to the Tapeworm and fed him melon boats
That he stole from Argos. At no point did the Tapeworm notice they were

Actually catalogues cut in to the shape of melon segments.

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Times New Roman

This is the reply to this letter.

Dear Times New Roman,

The dust settles on your,
suited shoulders.
Years of dandruff and carcasses
of small dead insects fall from
your dusty, miserable ceiling.

When I first met you, your
grace and charm was like a
regal procession through the
streets of a regency Spa town
Within that Spa town reside residents who
Give their children
names like, Tarquin
and Esmeralda and Priscilla, watched
your stiff and uniform, movements
as you grandly made us all realise
you were in fact,

Every Friday your ‘boil-in-the-bag’ cod,
Every Tuesday you watch re-runs of
Yes, Minister
with a small tin of
Boiled sweets on the right hand
and a mug of Horlicks on the left.

Every single book in your house has
been catalogued and dusted every Wednesday
as you work through the letters of the alphabet
giving new meanings to words
that have already been discovered,
just because the original meanings
might not necessarily be exacting
to the modern world of today.

But you’re not modern. You’re old.
And not in that cool way that
Space Hoppers and chopper bikes are cool.
You’re. Not. Cool.

You try to be,
Oh you tried.
You reinvented yourself as
Trebuchet.  Positioning yourself
Miles away.
Your former self.

The sad thing is that your
Plastic surgery addiction hasn’t helped
You just look like some sort of demented elf.

You need help.
So please.
Stop ringing me,
Stop writing me.
Please piss off and stop
Telling Word to default to you
When it doesn’t know what else
To use.  He’s older than you
And losing his marbles,
Stop taking advantage of
Such an old program.

And please,
Don’t try to start that whole
‘It was so much better in Word 97’
Line because it is not 1997 anymore.

Its 2016. You need to stop living
On the ground and
get with the in-cloud.

I’ve written a letter to my solicitor.
Guess what font I’m using?

Kind Regards,
Comic Sans

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Bagging Are’ya OR A silly poem about the complexities of Self Services Machines

Please put your item  in the bagging area,
If you don’t the assistant
might stare at ya’
And if they are pissed off,
he might even glare at ‘ya
Because you’ve not put your item in the
bagging area.

The unexpected item in the bagging area,
Fills shoppers with that dread,
Like being bitten by a terrier,
On the derrier,

Its enough to make a grown man cry
And even scarier,
You might get an assistant that is even
than the other one.

“Excuse me…Sorry…Hi, can I just…excu…Hi…”

The assistant asks ‘ya
Why haven’t you put your item in the bagging area??

“Well you see I did, but this stupid machine
Has just taken a disliking to me…
Oh thank you, sorry, I never have much luck with these machines”

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This space is hallowed.
There are rules to be followed.

The air is loud with smells that interrupt.
No voices, just a quiet
grunt of acknowledgement.
You can only hear the shuffle of feet,
the clink of a belt buckle.
Outside the rumble of the buildings
mutter to themselves, traffic
and life pass by,
ignoring the Toilets.

In the cubicles
Where there is never enough space
Cubicle Hoppers check each one
For the cleanest seat before committing to it.
The Tissue Landers line their seat, regardless.
A lone courtesy hook on the
back of each door offering

Some wish to be forgotten here,
From the day.
From the world.
Not just evacuating bowels
But evacuating themselves
from the chaos.

Chat but rarely make
Eye contact.
Awkwardly making conversation,
But only at the sinks.

And then there is
The cleaner. Who just pops
Through and tops up the
Loo rolls.

They have seen everything,
Men at their most vulnerable,
Found things, beyond imagination,
Too terrible to utter.

The vow of silence each cleaner takes
Gives them distance between themselves
And the inhabitants of this room.

When the cakes are cut,
When the loo rolls are topped up,
The sinks shine in song,
In tune to the spontaneous
Chorus of the urinals.

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