I've always believed in honesty
Say something to my face
But don't do that and not explain
You fucking basket case.
Whisper it gently
I 'secretly' like the 'poetry scene'
Not just my fellow working class poets
Even the middle class and all shapes inbetween.
Some of the hipster cunts I can't stand
But in the main I'm polite
It's all part and parcel
Of a spoken word poetry night.
As I said, whisper it gently
Some of those 'weird ones' are OK
I really can't get angry with them
So tempers never fray.
That almost changed
After I tried to be polite
Having enjoying being part of an event
I went to shake someone's hand goodnight.
It was someone I hadn't seen for a while
Not so much a friend but someone I knew
Holding my hand out to say hello
That's when I nearly blew!
Trying to ignore me
He went to turn away
I was bemused to say the least
Didn't know what to say.
"Turncoat and a traitor"
That is what he sneered
Did I really hear that right
This is fucking weird.
It tool a moment to register
Is that what he said
What's the cunt on about
Trying to mess with my head.
Like I'm really bothered
I'm not playing to your tune
Spouting a load of drivel
You're just fucking loon!
You've tried to wind up the wrong person
As you'll find next time we meet
When I ask you next for an explanation
You'll be in for a treat.
If you want to play silly Pilley
Two can play at this game
And it's not one that I'll lose
For you more's the shame.
I'm not one of those you can bully
In your poncy luvvie style
I thought it best to tell you
This might go on for a while.
That's until you make an apology
Say you made a mistake
Cos you can't intimidate me
You muggy cunt hard man fake.
A middle class no-mark tosser
Who hails from Southend-on-Sea
Do you really think little Essex boy
You're going to intimidate me?
I wouldn't meekly take what you said
At football from one of my own
To a traitor and a turncoat who I used to like
Can you reap what you have sown?
Dulwich Poet 29th August 2017
(Last Saturday, after reading at a poetry event, one of the 'performers' refused to shake my hand, and called me a 'traitor and a turncoat', then refused to explain...)
Tuesday 29 August 2017
Saturday 19 August 2017
"All Poets Are Cunts"
This was the name of someone else's poem
Down the years I've pulled off some stunts
But can I knock up a rhyme
That basically calls all poets cunts?
Would that therefore include me
Yes, I suppose it should
If you think I qualify as a cunt
All well and good.
So who are the ones who are
The ones who get my goat
The ones that annoy me
Who get my poetry cunt vote?
First of all it's called Spoken Word
The clue is in the name
Don't give me your failed comedian routine
It's not the fucking same.
Polite applause if you like me
If not please mutter and tut
But none of that clicking your fingers
It really does my nut.
Headliners and features
You should have your set planned
"I was going to do this but now might to that.."
Is what I really can't stand.
You've had a month of planning
You're here to entertain
All your indecisiveness
Starts to drive me insane.
Don't get me started on floor spots
The ones who over-run
If only this were America
I'd shoot you with a gun.
You might not like my poetry
Think I'm a bit of a cock
Fair play I can cope with that
At least I stick to the clock.
Then there's the talkative hosts
Who I don't really wish ill
But if you want to be centre of attention
Put yourself on your features bill.
As for the ones who turn up
And fuck off after they've read
Now matter how good they are
Total cunts it must be said!
It's like going to a football match
And pissing off at half-time
I can't understand your reason
Never mind your rhyme.
As if poetry cunts aren't enough
There's Poetry Wankers as well
I give you Shoreditch and Dalston
Those middle class tossers from hell.
I'm talking about those hipsters
Who I take the piss out of when I write
Laughing at themselves as I do
Too dumb to even bite.
Despite the title of this poem
Poetry I really like
You can't all be total cunts
Or I wouldn't come to Open Mic.
There's 'Diamond Geezers' Like Ernie
Who has nights like Platform 1
A weird and wonderful variety
That makes it such fun.
Not forgetting the headliners
That keep it weird and fresh
None more so than tonight
A talented lad called Spesh!
Dulwich Poet 19th August 2017
( After going to the August 'Platform 1 Poetry' at the Poetry Café, I went over to the pub for a drink after, with the host, and a few of the poets. In the random conversations Ernie, the host mentioned that he one wrote one called 'All Poets Are Cunts'. Also there was Spesh, who is one of the feature poets next month. I took the title as a 'challenge' and am going to 'surprise' them by reading this at the upcoming September event, in a few weeks, as part of my five minute Open Mic slot)
Down the years I've pulled off some stunts
But can I knock up a rhyme
That basically calls all poets cunts?
Would that therefore include me
Yes, I suppose it should
If you think I qualify as a cunt
All well and good.
So who are the ones who are
The ones who get my goat
The ones that annoy me
Who get my poetry cunt vote?
First of all it's called Spoken Word
The clue is in the name
Don't give me your failed comedian routine
It's not the fucking same.
Polite applause if you like me
If not please mutter and tut
But none of that clicking your fingers
It really does my nut.
Headliners and features
You should have your set planned
"I was going to do this but now might to that.."
Is what I really can't stand.
You've had a month of planning
You're here to entertain
All your indecisiveness
Starts to drive me insane.
Don't get me started on floor spots
The ones who over-run
If only this were America
I'd shoot you with a gun.
You might not like my poetry
Think I'm a bit of a cock
Fair play I can cope with that
At least I stick to the clock.
Then there's the talkative hosts
Who I don't really wish ill
But if you want to be centre of attention
Put yourself on your features bill.
As for the ones who turn up
And fuck off after they've read
Now matter how good they are
Total cunts it must be said!
It's like going to a football match
And pissing off at half-time
I can't understand your reason
Never mind your rhyme.
As if poetry cunts aren't enough
There's Poetry Wankers as well
I give you Shoreditch and Dalston
Those middle class tossers from hell.
I'm talking about those hipsters
Who I take the piss out of when I write
Laughing at themselves as I do
Too dumb to even bite.
Despite the title of this poem
Poetry I really like
You can't all be total cunts
Or I wouldn't come to Open Mic.
There's 'Diamond Geezers' Like Ernie
Who has nights like Platform 1
A weird and wonderful variety
That makes it such fun.
Not forgetting the headliners
That keep it weird and fresh
None more so than tonight
A talented lad called Spesh!
Dulwich Poet 19th August 2017
( After going to the August 'Platform 1 Poetry' at the Poetry Café, I went over to the pub for a drink after, with the host, and a few of the poets. In the random conversations Ernie, the host mentioned that he one wrote one called 'All Poets Are Cunts'. Also there was Spesh, who is one of the feature poets next month. I took the title as a 'challenge' and am going to 'surprise' them by reading this at the upcoming September event, in a few weeks, as part of my five minute Open Mic slot)
Tuesday 15 August 2017
"Walk On"
I've never learned to drive
So don't own a car
Train ,bus or Shanks' Pony
Travelling near or far.
I'm not getting any younger
Body falling apart
Soon I'll be on my way to the cemetery
Coffin chucked on a horse and cart.
But before that happens
I'm scared of a living hell
Not being able to walk anywhere
I'd rather be in a padded cell.
Happy to stroll all over
Whether it's one mile or ten
But my tootsies are playing up
Frightened I won't walk again.
Paranoia creeping in
Scared they'll chop off my big toe
If that ever happened
It would be the final blow.
I don't think I'd manage
Certain I'd never cope
If I couldn't stroll about town
I'd give up all hope.
That's the way my mind works
Even though I'm 'sane'
If they chopped my toes off
I'd hop in front of a train.
I went to the Foot Clinic early
Shitting myself nervous as fuck
Certain they'd send me to hospital
Which would just be my luck.
Instead the nurse scalpeled the crap
Checked out my bruised infected toe
It certainly wasn't perfect
But it had some way to go.
It needs a bit of resting
Me to take more care
My big toe may be a little mashed up
But at least it's still there.
Dulwich Poet 15th August 2017
( I have an on-going problem with my foot. It's mainly the big toe, and recently it was badly bruised, so I went to my local Foot Clinic earlier than my scheduled appointment. Unsurprisingly it's not as bad as I feared...my on-going nightmare is amputation, which HAS happened to a few mates of mine, who have had toes chopped off!)
So don't own a car
Train ,bus or Shanks' Pony
Travelling near or far.
I'm not getting any younger
Body falling apart
Soon I'll be on my way to the cemetery
Coffin chucked on a horse and cart.
But before that happens
I'm scared of a living hell
Not being able to walk anywhere
I'd rather be in a padded cell.
Happy to stroll all over
Whether it's one mile or ten
But my tootsies are playing up
Frightened I won't walk again.
Paranoia creeping in
Scared they'll chop off my big toe
If that ever happened
It would be the final blow.
I don't think I'd manage
Certain I'd never cope
If I couldn't stroll about town
I'd give up all hope.
That's the way my mind works
Even though I'm 'sane'
If they chopped my toes off
I'd hop in front of a train.
I went to the Foot Clinic early
Shitting myself nervous as fuck
Certain they'd send me to hospital
Which would just be my luck.
Instead the nurse scalpeled the crap
Checked out my bruised infected toe
It certainly wasn't perfect
But it had some way to go.
It needs a bit of resting
Me to take more care
My big toe may be a little mashed up
But at least it's still there.
Dulwich Poet 15th August 2017
( I have an on-going problem with my foot. It's mainly the big toe, and recently it was badly bruised, so I went to my local Foot Clinic earlier than my scheduled appointment. Unsurprisingly it's not as bad as I feared...my on-going nightmare is amputation, which HAS happened to a few mates of mine, who have had toes chopped off!)
Monday 7 August 2017
"Not Quite The Extra Mile"
So much for the 'Magic of the Cup'
This was really dire
To describe it as anything else
You'd have to call me a liar.
ballooning over the bar
Or wide of the post
I never thought they'd score
Practically given up the ghost.
Second half only 'enlivened'
By a bout of 'handbags' not skill
A bit of a brawl and shoving
Was the only thrill.
Until deep in stoppage
Tower Hamlets got the only goal
With extra-time and penalties looming
It got us out of a midnight finish hole!
Not a contest I will savour
But it still beat staying at home
Judging by the big attendance
I certainly wasn't alone.
A bit of 'dodgy accounting'
I heard it was officially 68
Maybe if you doubled that
You might be close to the gate.
There were some of those groundhopping types
Who did a count of their own
Someone said 147
Official figure well blown.
The home side were delighted
Celebrating at the end
Totally shameless after that 'performance'
clearly round the bend.
Maybe they're just 'unwell'
With that 'Cup Fever' disease
Bottom line is they're in the next round
Cavorting as they please.
The football might not have been the greatest
Should've given Mile End a wide berth
But I didn't have the benefit of hindsight
And this is still the greatest competition on earth.
Dulwich Poet 7th August 2017
(I went to an FA Cup extra-preliminary round replay tonight, at Mile End Stadium: Towers Hamlets versus Broxbourne Borough...not the greatest of games I've seen!)
Sunday 6 August 2017
"Cup Magic"
Today I went to an FA Cup tie
In the extra-preliminary round
In truth I've got to be honest
It was to 'tick' another ground.
Despite what the Big Boys believe
The Cup doesn't start in the New Year
It's right now in early August
With clubs that are small beer.
Their 'Cup Final' would be
Drawing a club like my own
Dreaming of a giant-killing
When all my hopes would be blown.
Today's not about Dulwich Hamlet
Just the two teams on the pitch
St. Margaretsbury against Burnham Ramblers
Hoping to strike it rich.
Not compared to Neymar
For who two hundred million was found
Whoever wins this tie today
Will pick up just over a thousand pound.
But for me this is real football
Traditional 'kick, bollock and bite'
Granted not as skilful
But not a prima donna in sight.
The only WAGs in the ground
Are four legged with a tail
A billion light years away
From the likes of Gareth Bale.
The 'Hoppers' might be annoyed
Programmes gone long before the start
But does that really matter
When this is football's beating heart?
Contrary to what we're told every year
The magic of the Cup's still alive
I'm experiencing it here at Station Road
Despite both side being only Step Five.
Dulwich Poet 6th August 2017
(A cup tie on a Sunday, switched from the day before due to the cricket club playing at the same venue. New ground for me, so why not?)
In the extra-preliminary round
In truth I've got to be honest
It was to 'tick' another ground.
Despite what the Big Boys believe
The Cup doesn't start in the New Year
It's right now in early August
With clubs that are small beer.
Their 'Cup Final' would be
Drawing a club like my own
Dreaming of a giant-killing
When all my hopes would be blown.
Today's not about Dulwich Hamlet
Just the two teams on the pitch
St. Margaretsbury against Burnham Ramblers
Hoping to strike it rich.
Not compared to Neymar
For who two hundred million was found
Whoever wins this tie today
Will pick up just over a thousand pound.
But for me this is real football
Traditional 'kick, bollock and bite'
Granted not as skilful
But not a prima donna in sight.
The only WAGs in the ground
Are four legged with a tail
A billion light years away
From the likes of Gareth Bale.
The 'Hoppers' might be annoyed
Programmes gone long before the start
But does that really matter
When this is football's beating heart?
Contrary to what we're told every year
The magic of the Cup's still alive
I'm experiencing it here at Station Road
Despite both side being only Step Five.
Dulwich Poet 6th August 2017
(A cup tie on a Sunday, switched from the day before due to the cricket club playing at the same venue. New ground for me, so why not?)
"Down by the Riverside"
It's been such a long day
On my way from a game
I decided to go walkies
Only myself to blame.
I could've been back at the station
For the five nineteen
But at one stage this evening...
Well I've got to come clean.
I thought I wouldn't get home
If it started to get dark
I envisaged dossing
In a local park.
Rather than jump on that train
I strolled along the River Lea
I thought I knew where I was going
Same old stupid me.
The path took some sort of diversion
No signs around
Right there in front of me
Was a caravan and camping ground.
I tried to get back on course
Checking left and right
I knew I wasn't far from Broxbourne
But no markers in sight.
Heading down an overgrown footpath
Hoping it was approximately going my way
And now my plates were hurting
For this walk I'd start to pay.
I crossed over a railway line
But no path by the train
I seriously considered turning back
Despite my growing pain.
I came to a smaller river
Thankfully a local walked past
He pointed me in the right direction
I'm heading home at last!
I kept to the path by the water
And there it was like he said
I really couldn't believe
Tonight I'll sleep in my bed.
I never thought I'd say this
But there's no more beautiful sight
Than spying Broxbourne station
Just as dusk turns into night!
Dulwich Poet 6th August 2017
(Yesterday I was in Hertfordshire, to watch a game of football. Instead of getting a train straight back I thought it would be nice to walk along a bit of the River Lea & pick up a train a couple of stops down the line...thankfully I made it, but got a little lost on the way...)
On my way from a game
I decided to go walkies
Only myself to blame.
I could've been back at the station
For the five nineteen
But at one stage this evening...
Well I've got to come clean.
I thought I wouldn't get home
If it started to get dark
I envisaged dossing
In a local park.
Rather than jump on that train
I strolled along the River Lea
I thought I knew where I was going
Same old stupid me.
The path took some sort of diversion
No signs around
Right there in front of me
Was a caravan and camping ground.
I tried to get back on course
Checking left and right
I knew I wasn't far from Broxbourne
But no markers in sight.
Heading down an overgrown footpath
Hoping it was approximately going my way
And now my plates were hurting
For this walk I'd start to pay.
I crossed over a railway line
But no path by the train
I seriously considered turning back
Despite my growing pain.
I came to a smaller river
Thankfully a local walked past
He pointed me in the right direction
I'm heading home at last!
I kept to the path by the water
And there it was like he said
I really couldn't believe
Tonight I'll sleep in my bed.
I never thought I'd say this
But there's no more beautiful sight
Than spying Broxbourne station
Just as dusk turns into night!
Dulwich Poet 6th August 2017
(Yesterday I was in Hertfordshire, to watch a game of football. Instead of getting a train straight back I thought it would be nice to walk along a bit of the River Lea & pick up a train a couple of stops down the line...thankfully I made it, but got a little lost on the way...)
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