Wordsmithing

I don’t live for poetry

I conjure up a chrysalis of words

And wrap myself tight in the blankets

Eyes wide shut behind rose tinted glasses

The real world scares me

This ever present I is not a symbol of my vanity

It’s a buffer between the real world and me

Right now I am a surgeon

Sharpening my scalpel

I’m ready to perform open heart poetry

There’s more money in cosmetic poetry

Trimming fat and fixing noses

Hallmark cards

Colour-blind roses

There’s more respect in Neurosurgical nuances

There’s grit and truth in metallurgical monoliths

Nobody understands placebo poetry

But we all feel better afterwards

Don’t we?

I like my medical metaphor but they don’t call us surgeons

In fact the best of us are called wordsmiths

So my scalpel’s cast aside

I send the nurse out for a sledgehammer

I take the issue of the day and I beat the ever loving crap out of it

I thrust my thoughts into a furnace

Temper my hopes

Quench my dreams in oil

Lose three fingers to the toil

And maybe if I’m good enough

I’ll push the world and all its ugliness

Through a white hot iron crucible

And come out with something beautiful

Summertime

It’s summertime the poet’s time

Its daffodils and shit

Everyone’s on the circuit

They’re champing at the bit

They’re bidding to be

The best the British Isles

Has ever seen

The poet laureate that Duffy

Could only ever dream

Latitude’s the one you want

Don’t forget The Fringe

And there’s always YouTube

For your poetic binge

There’s rhymes half-rhymes and similes

To satisfy your needs

With accents like mine

Grammar Nazis are always pleased

I’m afraid that I don’t like to rhyme

Off of the page

But I’m not one to say no

I’m rhyme’s Nicolas Cage

I might be getting older

But I’m still concerned with rage

So give me a bloody booking

I’m sure to own the stage

Poetic Exorcist

I took singing lessons from a tone-deaf cunning linguist
And became a comedian poet
Ghost Writing for the spirit of a kid who can't flow
Yet Wishes he did

I fill my notebooks with digital ink spots
Because instead of the bass for me the pen drops

And having always killed I pen a poetic ode
Entitled 'Disregard the Cops'
With a side note that like bad dogs
It's the hand on the leash to blame for the beast

In the mirror I see a psycho mental giant
In a land of giant slayers who don't know jack
Breaking the ice with every step
Polar bears are fucked till I'm kept in check

Jessica drowns alongside Jesters
Rocking everywhere from Chickentown to Chester

Disproportionately proud of chest hair

Can't afford to leave the nest

Yeah

I took singing lessons from a tone-deaf cunning linguist
And became a comedian poet

Trouble is

Now I think I know it 

Ikeanomics

A standout tree's and old oak
Propped up by the roadside
Giving out O2 so we don't choke
Brothers chopped down for bespoke signs
Ye olde joke signs

But in these times
Flatpack furniture from fast pines
We've swapped a tree, yeah it looks nice,
for a bed stand and shelves and
Open plan Kitchens
Tops coloured sandy-tan

Which looks nice too
Which is unhelpfully natural
A fact overlooked
By some hippy dippy book
That cries out for
And authentic Oak Tree table
To hold your homoeopathic remedies

And would never dare question
Our right to a warm home
But seven billion oaks we just don't own
So this self assembly shelf's
A sustainable source of wealth

Consumerism is bad
Sign your belief in this hemp bound book
£50 a pad 

Oh to be left in peace

Oh to be left in peace, instead of pieces

Let me lay this out like it’s a literary thesis

There is darkness in everything sweet, like stones in peaches

And I have enough of those in me to form sandy beaches

Not saying I’m a luminary no siree

And it’s not exactly pitch black dark inside of me

But everybody is twisted to some degree

Some just embrace it a lot more easily

I’ve been told at times that I seem cocksure

And sure I have a cock but to me there’s a lot more

I’ve got a supercomputer that fucking misfires

So all my conversations are subject to crossed wires

The two things I hate most are hypocrites and liars

But it shouldn’t break the Hippocratic Oath to hasten dying

I really don’t like poetry that doesn’t rhyme

But that last bit was cutting it fine and this bit doesn’t

If I ever go in a time machine I’ll come back to here

Well that doesn’t mean that I didn’t do it

Maybe there’s just a rule that you shouldn’t

And I didn’t want to get fucked up by the time police

I’m not in pieces my future just left me in peace

Words of Future Past

Hello it’s you

Or rather, it’s me, but you’re me too

Although, by the time you’re reading this

Every cell in your body has split

And grown, and died

We don’t use phones by the way, and your niece can fly

I’ve got some advice for us

And you’d be well placed to listen because

I’ve checked the other timelines and you don’t make it if you

Don’t listen

First off, put the paper down son it looks unprofessional

Remember this is a stage not your public confessional

Not living in London is not the reason you haven’t made it

So don’t move there expecting that doing so’s gonna change shit

I’d use less dick jokes if I were you son

Let your wit shine through instead of puns it’s not done

Free will exists but to be on the safe side

That lass with the blue hair’s one hell of a rough ride

Don’t read this bit out, oh shit too late

But I’ve drawn you a map, the G-spot’s here mate

I’ve got to go now and throw this message down the time stream

But make sure you see someone about that weird tooth dream

The Blue and Pebbledash House

I don't want to be political, I just want to make you laugh, And tell this funny story of how I fell into the bath

My story starts at the end of a night out on the lash, As I stumbled back to my house which is blue and pebbledash

I fumbled with my keys and then I heard a splash, as they fell into the puddle which was filling up the path

I slammed into my front door and with a mighty crash, I tore it from its hinges which I admit was daft

But the blow it served its purpose and I was in at last, Although my head was all befuddled and I learned slightly gashed

I went into the bathroom and turned on all the taps, and looked into the mirror which was in two parts cracked

Just my luck I thought as the blood turned black, and I felt a cold shiver running down my back

My legs began to tremble and I reached for the bath, And the cool ceramic edge on which I perched and sat

Perched and pondered, why aren't I this strong, sober, the mood turned sombre as I mulled this over

And over the edge of the bath I was slipping, I could feel only air where once I'd been gripping

My body was folded in over itself, In a way not becoming of future good health, and why did I do this, so damage my health?, I'd been running you see, from what but myself