The Super Deluxe Performance Poem

This is not a ‘performance poem’
This is the latest high-end performance poem
With titanium punctuation
And gold leaf grammar.
This is DELUXE.

Because this poem
Is gilded luxury, it is
better than any other poem
You have seen, read, heard
Or even thought about.

Its imagery is sprinkled
With shards of crystal rimmed
Bubbles, coated in caviar.
The capital letters are carbon
Resin sealed and if these stanzas are
Not long enough,

You can upgrade to our SUPER DELUXE
Package that gives you opulant
Ornamentation on each verb and noun.
The SUPER DELUXE package comes in three sizes

If you decide to upgrade whilst reading/listening
To this poem we will include a 50 inch 4K display too,
So you can read this poem without
Straining your eyes.

A number of celebrities have been
seen in Beverley Hills with multiple copies
Of this poem. Rumour has it that
Paris Hilton sports a copy of it next to her iPad
And it has been confirmed that Wayne Rooney
has a copy framed in his toilet.

This poem has nearly ended.  If you wish to upgrade
to the XL package please say so now.

Congratulations you’ve upgraded this poem
To the XL package. We are officially in SUPER DELUXE MODE.
Which is costing you £2000 per line,
And they said there was no money in poetry…

Inaddition to the hand crafted rarity of this
Plush prosody, you receive a certificate
of authenticity and a
display case.

Don’t try to eBay this poem,
Don’t try to forge or copy it.
You will only lose its context, it will corrupt
Like a file on a cheap memory stick.
This poem has been designed by Sir Jonathan Ives,
Steve Jobs would have presented
A keynote about it.
That is, what it is.

It is autographed by Elvis,
Etched by Rembrandt
Endorsed by Obama,
Read by Stephen Fry
Reviewed by Jay Rayner
Followed by Mark Zuckerberg
Conditioned by Italian monks that live
In a secretive monastery,
high in the Dolomites.

But now the XL package is coming to an end,
Fancy more?
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You’ve upgraded to the XXL SUPER DELUXE PLATINUM Tariff.

Here, the ride gets smooth.
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As endorphins flow through your blood,
Stimulated by the sheer poetic perfection.
This poem is purer
than Mother Teresa’s left elbow,
In fact each copy comes lightly dusted
In the bones of any saint you specify.

Fancy a scented copy? We can create
Perfumed paper scented with moments
from history. What did it smell like when
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Not only will you smell your chosen historical moment,?
But gently infused will be a chemical
which will let you experience that moment through
a combination of LSD and quantum mechanics,
Will actually send you there.

Your trip will be recorded in full HD
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and family.

The XXL package is coming to an end,
Soon this poem will not be
in your life.

Soon you will need it back,
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No contract. Just your soul.

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Saturday Night Haiku

Saturday night is
Often spent in front of a
Bad film or series.

But tonight we are
Now watching The Rum Diary
Starring Johnny Depp

Hunter S Thompson
Will always be a in my
Heart, drinking whiskey

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Playground bullies,
beating feathered
Brothers to the bird table.

Like a sandpit sod who
Kicks over the creations of
other children, the starling is just
bigger than the other table birds.

Vulture-like in the passerine world,
They bash the bird feeders
like a voloceraptor might
peck at a carcass,

Vulgar little problem bird,
Problem vulgar little bird,
Never understood at the bird table.

Devoid of manners,
No cutlery or serviettes,
The Blue Tits avoid them
The Robins give them a wide berth
The Coal Tits make fun of them
behind their back, but smile sweetly
when they see them.
The Great Tits are too
distracted playing pool
and fighting with each other to realise.
the Starlings have nicked their pints…

The bad boy birds,
Hob nailed hooligans,
beating away the competition in gangs.

Black feathers,
Spotted white like
Studs on a biker’s jacket.
Born To Be Wild emblazoned on
Their wings, as they ride into the
hot on the tail
of the next bird feeder.

If you’ve never seen a garden bird
Driving a 
metaphorical motorbike
Up to the 
symbolic cafe diner
That the Bird Table 

Look out at a freshly laden
Bird Table and
Stop for a few minutes
and wait for The Gang to arrive.

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Blue Tits

Feathered, bouncing balls.
Winged wonders to cats,
tree hopping
peanut tigers.
On the prowl for crumbs and cake
That has just gone
Out of date.
Passerine planets
orbiting our bird tables.
Darting in and
out of bushes
in a fuzz of blue and yellow.

Gold top grabbing
Cream supping
Stick legged garden louts,
Tweeting, more than
Stephen Fry
They fly
Low and fast,
past branches and trees
With scary and efficient ease.

Their cousins,
Brown and brash are
Greater than they are.
But they don’t care.

Family reunions are spent
With Blue Tits rolling their eyes
As Great Tits fight amongst themselves
Over who got to the Pool Table first.

Blue Tits take their turns,
Waiting patiently whilst the Robins
And Starlings hammer the bird feeders
With no grace or etiquette,
accepting their place in the
pecking order.

They’d rather eat slowly and not
in haste.
They don’t mind too much
if they have to wait
for the dessert to come.

They are buddies with
The bushes and the hedgerows.
Blue Tits are Symbiotic nature 
Dependent on our hanging bird feeders,
Lover of lard balls and
winter treats.

This is one little garden visitor
I hope we can keep.

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The Revenge of The NIMBY

The grenade exploded 
with a deafening sound, 
It came crashing, splintering, 
and thundering down.
Shards and sheets of burning turbine, 
lying on the ground.

I don’t know where I managed to find,
This piece of high explosive munition
But in my dream it came to me
To help me fulfil my mission.

To rid the world of these 100ft weeds,
A massive cosmetic scar,
On the hills and in our seas,
But no more would they ruin and mar,

Our green and uninterrupted scene,
The paranomic vista,
My view from our bedroom window,
Ruined by these renewable blisters.

These bloody greens, with their greeny ways
The massive conspiracy,
That exists to keep them in work
And keep me in misery.

Oh no the climate might possibly change,
oh no its going to get hotter,
Climate change? You can’t fool me
I’m just going to go
and start planting
my vineyard in the
allotment, thats
quite enough.
Thank you.

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Train Karaoke

I am
On a train Somewhere
Outside Teignmouth.

It is very noisey.
Trains can’t sing Karaoke.
Nor can I.

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Night Out

The bleary morning after,
Recounting the battle.
Drinks like opponents, defeated
One by one.
I struck them with my
sword of ‘Party’ and now
Dead bodies on the battlefield,
Empty glasses on a bar

We staggered home from the war
and celebrated with cheese on toast,
our victory parade was slightly
staggered as we
clambered in to bed,
too drunk to

But a morning after reveals
The true wounds.
Wallet present, phone present,
keys must be present
because we got back in to the house.
Dignity? Where’s my dignity?
Alcohol lost the battle
But we certainly haven’t
won the war.

The photographic evidence,
Gurning smiles,
Half opened eyes and lots of
‘new best friends’ who
I don’t know.
And that text message…
All of those text messages…

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