The Ballad of Gerry The Gay Viking

I went out hiking
With my buddy Gerry,
Who was a Viking.
And he said he was in love.

As we stepped over rocks and streams,
He shared his viking dreams,
To be with his one love, Sven.

Of course I have to say,
That Gerry’s preference was men,
Not that you’d think that he was gay,
As he didn’t fit a stereotype.

Gerry said that stereotypes
Were societies bonds, chaining him
To the image that the media portrays.
And you never see a Viking that is gay.

I shrugged as we walked through
The forest, climbing the mountain
as he rabbited on about
gay porn and how none of them
seem to have beards.
Which to him was a bit weird.

We disagreed on this point, but
we didn’t have much time to discuss
the matter as we ran in to a mother bear,
with cubs.

We both stood still.  I didn’t breathe. I waited.
But Gerry wasn’t very good at bear confrontation and ran for it.

Despite my best attempts at beating the bear with
a large stick that I had been carrying,
Gerry’s fate was sealed.  I threw a rock at the bear and
hit it square on the head but it was too late.

His dying breathe was unintelligable. It sounded like
He was gargling mouthwash, but it was blood as his
internal organs bled within his torso.

I could tell in his eyes that he knew Vikings were
not cut out for hiking.  I could tell in his eyes he knew
That his love for Sven was now not to come to anything.
And in that moment his life slipped away and
Gerry the Gay Viking, was no more.

I tracked down Sven a few weeks later.
He was also a gay viking who had been away in Nepal
Teaching english to happy Nepalese kids.
Given his location he had not received news of Gerry’s demise.

He was stunned.  His horned helmet slipped off to reveal the
shock of red hair that Gerry had said he had fallen for.
Sven didn’t cry, but tears streamed from his eyes.

As he confessed his love for Gerry, with whom he had met
At the Viking Expo in Stockholm only last year.

Sven learned to live with the grief after a while, but still he
keeps a photo of himself and Gerry in a frame above his
Chez long.  When Sven returned from Nepal, he started a counselling
Service for gay vikings who were struggling with their
sexuality.  It was incredibly rewarding work.

I felt reassured, had Gerry confessed his love to Sven,
They would have been incredibly happy together, raiding, pillaging
looting and enjoying Mohitos on their longboat as they travelled the world.

Sometimes I remember Gerry’s eyes on that mountain journey,
The way they lit up when he stopped me mid-trail and
said how ‘Sven lifted him up over the moon’, and that
‘his feet never touched the ground after I saw him for the first time’

Because this is exactly how I felt for Gerry the first time I met him.

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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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