"Facebook Statusing"

(This is a Facebook status from a friend of mine, Ian Gannon, with responses from myself, and another friend, Andrew Tucker)

Ian:
I have one poem this month from a judge

You stand before me today
For crimes you have to pay
Your in the dock giving it large
But I find you guilty as charged

...poetic justice — with Dulwich Poet

Me:
Not a bad rhyme
But what was the crime?
So stop being a tease
And tell me please!


Ian:
The defendant had no class
The ball to me he refused to pass.

Me:
That's because you're a greedy git
And also one who's never fit
Only had a hat-trick up at Alloa
Cos everyone else was a shower
Celebrating with tatties and mince
Dining out ever since!

Andrew:

 Gordon Bennett. Whats all this?
Gannon with a poetry diss?
I thought he'd have a little more class,
still Dulwich Poet has kicked his arse!

 

Ian:

I refused to be drawn into these limericks ;-) (that usually upsets poets )

 

Andrew:

Refuse to be drawn into limericks?
Typical Gooner with his smarmy tricks.
Just because he knows hes beat.
Left the kitchen cos he can't take the heat!

 

Ian:

I just can't think of anything that rhymes with tucker !

 

Me:

Plenty of things rhyme with Tucker
But I'm not being drawn in like a sucker
Just glad of his support as an old mucker
And unlike Gannon his rhymes are pukka!

 

Dulwich Poet 31st January 2014

 

(As stated at the top, a mate of mine, using my real name on Facebook, tried some poetry banter with me. I responded and Andy joined in. A bit of nonsense really, but why not?)

"Honey Monster"

It was one of those stories
That sound insane
You can’t take honey
On a plane.
I could understand
If it was something funky
Like Justin Bieber
Smuggling a monkey.
But to stop you boarding
With a small honey jar
That’s taking security
A bit too far.
Atheist Richard Dawkins
Looked to  heaven in disbelief
Her Majesty’s Customs
Now a honey thief!
Bombs and knives you understand
But how can a jar of honey
Be on the list that’s banned?
Confiscate his honey
And Bin Laden has won
He didn’t die in vain
His work is all done
That secret weapon from the hive
No wonder Al Qaeda thrive.
Honey in your armoury
Is the bees knees
If one tiny jar
Can make an airport freeze.
Now I’ve to tell
Something even more funny
Than the man who lost his honey
When I flew from Scotland
On my way home
They actually confiscated
My Glasgow Celtic snowdome!

Dulwich Poet 28^th January 2014

(Richard Dawkins, the well known atheist, was stopped from bringing a jar of honey through customs,  at Edinburgh Airport, at the beginning of November. It made headline news. On  12^th November, at ‘Poetry Unplugged’ the host of the open mic evening, Niall O’Sullivan, read a poem he wrote about it out. It inspired me to write this one, for the next time I went there, which is tonight. It’s a poem that I’ve partly thought out in my head already, so was very easy to jot down)

" Sexy Football "

You just appeared
Behind the goal
In your Clapton Ultras scarf
Singing along and having a laugh.
Becoming Dulwich Hamlet
For the day
I went all ‘fantasy football’
And turned you gay.
Of course you weren’t
When I checked on Facebook
And even if you were
At me you’d never look.
Nothing wrong with that
I have a dirty mind
Even if you’re not
One of my kind.
We’ll pop over to the
Old Spotted Dog
To say hello
See you singing and chanting
Putting on a show.
“Ooh…Clapton Ultras!”
And the “Sexy Football” one
With you never imagining
I want more than Scaffold Stand fun!

Dulwich Poet 22^nd January 2014

( A couple of weeks ago Dulwich Hamlet were away to Kingstonian, on a Sunday. And in with our fans was a young Clapton fan, one of their  strongly anti-fascist ‘Clapton Ultras’ supporters. Not only was he great to talk to…he was bloody gorgeous, but I’m not going to tell him that!  )

"Get That Pen Out"

On the tube
Not counting the stops
But conscious of them
Getting closer…
Closer
To the end
Of that poem
You’re writing
To kill the time.
Almost there
Punchline in your head.
Doors open
Jump off
Hold that thought
But you never do
And it’s gone forever.
Which is a fucking nuisance
To say the least.
Such is the nature
Of the poetry beast.
It also explains why
There’s no final flourish
To this piece of rubbish.

Dulwich Poet 22^nd January 2014

(This one is about when you’re writing something, but have to stop, like when getting off a train, and you have a great line in your head…think you won’t forget it…but always do!)

"The Family First"

From A to B
To C to D
It’s all one gigantic
Learning curve for me.
Picking up a book I like
Possible inspiration for open mic.
One year on
I’ve reached the M’s
A lot I don’t follow
But plenty of gems.
Past the Mac’s
Almost think out loud
If this was by me
Would my mum
Have been proud?
Imagine if my name
Were on that shelf
I know it wouldn’t
Bring me wealth
But there’s no other poet
By my surname
For once in my life
Wouldn’t have brought her shame.
My thought’s go back
To Neil Kinnock’s broadcast
When he talked of university
First of his working class
When that was shown
All schmaltzy and sleek
I knew I’d never
Emulate my brother
And always be the freak.
It wasn’t a shock
Something I always knew
I’d always been the least liked
Every year I grew.
Back in my late teens
I had a poetry phase
One or two
Earned silent praise.
One on transport
Got into her Union news sheet
So I guess she was proud of me
No mean feat.
There was another
On Breakfast Telly read out
Which I’d put in her Mother’s Day card
So really…deep down
She must have loved me.
Many a time I knew
I’d let her down bad
My life was a mess
And constantly sad.
I find it so hard
Not to look back in the past
What’s happened has happened
Life’s die has been cast.
Even though she knew I was gay
It was never something
We could say.
Maybe even though
My Mutti’s long dead
In me she can believe
If I keep on writing
And try to achieve
Not the first in the family
To wear a mortar and board
But to have a poetry book published
Of my own accord.

Dulwich Poet 22^nd January 2014

(I wasn’t sure what direction this poem was going, as I started to write it. It began with me changing my books over in the Poetry Library. I’ve been borrowing books from there now, for about a year.  I’ve started at the A’s (alphabetical order) and continued to slowly work my way along the shelves,  trying to read whatever caught my eye. As I got to the M’s…I checked if there was anyone with the same surname as me, there wasn’t. And I began to dream if, one day, I would be the first with my family name, to have a book on those shelves…)

"Too Late"

She’s running
Arm outstretched
I see her
Through the windscreen
So does the bus driver
As I am reading
A poem about
Masturbation.
I am sat behind
A perfect view
By the driver
Who is a young man
Glancing
Up at his mirror
As I have been
Glancing at him
Certain I catch
A smirk across his chops
He has the power
Pulling away
He is as excited as if
He is pulling himself off.
I am left wondering
Whether he had a hard on
And come in his regulation
Bus driver’s trousers.
The thought
Makes my cock stir
But I am too scared to ask.

Dulwich Poet 22^nd January 2014

(On a busy single decker bus, the driver is a good looking young man. As he starts to pull away from a bus stop a woman sticks her arm out, hailing him to stop, but he ignores her)

"Your Own Rules"

Explain to me
Why you drive
At a crawl
Driving ME
Up the wall
Gently braking
Time you’re making
With a pretence
That makes no sense
Of keeping to
Your precious timetable.
Yet when it suits
You don’t give two hoots
Like a bat out of hell
Stirling Moss out of his shell
Barely noticing a bus shelter
As you go full pelter
To suit yourself
Ignoring our good health
Almost too frightened
Danger heightened
To head for the door
In case we fall to the floor
As you hit the brake
While we scream
“For fuck sake!”
A pretence of customer first
By regulations you are cursed
Automated messages
Regulating the service
Well versed.
Moronic robotic spiel
When getting me from A to B
Should be the deal!

Dulwich Poet 22^nd January 2014

(It really annoys me when a bus goes deliberately slow, to ‘keep to a timetable’, when in reality in London, very few buses appear to run to the timetable. But they drive like crazy, when they need to make up time, to finish their shift.)

"What might Have Been"

Was tonight the peak of your career
Not even old enough to buy a beer
FA Youth Cup at The Den
Never to grace a Pro ground again.
Chance of penalty glory
Missed and froze
That’s how the fickle hand
Of football fate goes.
Millwall’s lion cubs
Were two nil up
But sharper Blades pulled it back
For penalties in the Cup.
It’s a good night
To be a young Blade
Another round or two
Some will have it made.
A rich contract
Set up for life
Rest on the scrapheap
On the dole and strife.
One or two might stay in the game
Non-League at Champion Hill
If there’s the belief
Or even the will.
The alternative’s a postman
Pushing bills through your door
Dreaming of what might have been
You know the score.
Watching ‘Match of the Day’
Thinking ‘That could have been me’
As you play Sunday pub league
With a big beer belly.

Dulwich Poet 20^th January 2014

(I saw Millwall draw 2-2 with Sheffield United tonight, after extra time, in the 4^th round of the FA Youth Cup.  Millwall lost 8-7 on penalties. Very few of the players on the field will end up making a career as professional footballers, some of them will become semi-professional, playing various levels of non-league. The rest…who knows?)

"When The Wind Blows"

Hard as wood
Rock hard…
Bench in the laundrette.
Minding my own business
As the washing
Goes round and round
In a circle.
Story of my life.
And off he goes.
Bedding out of the drier.
Folding his warm sheets
Ever so neat
Before going
Out of the door.
Don’t mind me.
I can take the noise
And the cold biting wind
Blowing in from the street.
He was so polite
To the bored girl
Behind the jump
With the lack of a smile
And the permanent hump.
No “Goodbye, thank you”
Even “Have a nice day.”
There may have been a response
A faint grunt maybe.
And not in the farting sense
As she wasn’t even capable
Of that sort of hot air.
Which is why
I couldn’t say
To the first bloke
“Oi! Were you born
In a fucking barn!”
Deep breath, stay calm
I can always get up
And close the door myself.
But I won’t.
Not because I don’t
Particularly want to.
It’s more of an inconvenience
Than a hardship
As I zip up my jacket
Outweighed by the pleasure
Of forcing the miserable one
From the back of the laundrette
To get off her arse
To block out the cold
In the vain hope
It might warm
Her heart up a little.
 
Dulwich Poet 15^th January 2014

(The boredom of sitting in my local laundrette!)

"Getting Off"

Such a simple request
Excuse me please
Don’t just stand there
Look at me and freeze.
I know the train is packed
You know the train is packed
As you are the one
 By the bloody  door!
I realise we’re crushed
Like battery hens on a farm
Not my intention
To cause alarm
And I don’t mean to cluck
But are you really that stupid
WHAT THE FUCK!
One step off is all it takes
To allow me on the platform
That’s the space it makes
Then you can get back on
Your rush hour train
And not look at me
As if I’m insane.
So use your brain
And some common sense
So I don’t have to swear and push
Which causes you offence.

Dulwich Poet 13^th January 2014

(It really annoys me, when trying to get off a packed train to work, when I’m standing by the door, then ask the person right in front of the door to move, and like the stupid woman this morning, they look and you, and say  they can’t move. And then get the hump when I respond “Just step on the platform, you fucking idiot!”)

"All The Fun of the Barnet Fair"

When I go to the barbers
It’s a number one
Not that it’s cheaper to get done.
At the most  I’ll splash out
A tenner
With nothing fancy
Like mousse or henna.
A closely cropped short is easy to do
Plus I then save a fortune
Not needing shampoo.
Now I don’t expect Mr. Cameron
To lose his locks
Him going bald
Would cause a few shocks.
“Cancer chic” is hardly the rage
Even in this day and age.
Could be he’s missed a trick
At the dispatch box
Instead of his policies
Headlines would be shorn locks.
His well coiffeured hair
Sums up all that is wrong
When he gives his barber
A New Years gong!
When he gets it done
It’s hardly cheap
Ninety quid a time
For the smarmy creep.
What on earth
Makes a trim worth that price
I’d expect something chucked in
That’s extra nice
Not just something
‘For the weekend’
That packet of three
At that price I’d expect
A blow job thrown in for free!

Dulwich Poet 11^th January 2014

(I wrote this after it was recently announced that the stylist who cuts Prime Minister David Cameron’s hair,  Lino Carbosiero, was awarded an MBE in the recent New Years Honours list, and that Cameron pays £90 to get his hair cut by him)

"It All Adds Up"

Eight
Ten
Thirty two
Thirty seven
Thirty
Thirty
Forty nine
Twenty seven
Seventeen
Twenty two
Twenty nine
Fourteen.
Random.
Nothing like.
A round dozen of figures.
What do they mean?
To you...nothing.
To me?
An achievement.

Dulwich Poet 11th January 2014

( I started writing poetry on Saturday 5th January. I had no idea if I would enjoy it, or how many I would write. These are my monthly totals for the year of 2013.)

"Poster Boy"

He’s hardly been quiet
Always full of voice
Now he’s the star of the show
Pin Up Boy of choice
Arms laden with books
With chequered shirt
Maybe not chosen
Just for his looks!
Posing as if the shelving king
Which really is the funny thing
Hold more than he does on an average day
He hardly earns what the Council pay!
Possibly if that were his returns norm
Despite that still goes down a storm.
Ready to dump them
On top of the stacks
Finishing off a job
Is a skill he lacks.
Just like ‘lunch on time’
Is a crime
Or serving  a customer individually
Is never fine.
He’s not capable of counter work
One by one
He has to ‘multi-task’
Until football talk’s done.
Now he’s the Pin Up Boy
He can do as he likes
Ignoring ‘strictly speaking’
Does as he likes
With no worry of
‘Out after three strikes’.
Let’s be honest
It’s rather fitting
That poster boy Rodney
Did the photo sitting
For he’s our Duty Manager
Self-appointed
Had to be Poster Boy anointed.
So even though I call him
‘Bonkers’ by name
I’m honoured to grab
His coat tails of fame
Time to scrap the branch name
Over the door
Now it’s welcome to the
Sir Rodney Bonnick Library
For evermore!

Dulwich Poet 10^th January 2014

(A jokey poem, after a colleague had his picture taken to adorn leaflets and posters to promote the small branch library I work in, and we are all ribbing him, calling him ‘Poster Boy’!)

"Playing With Fire"

We're supposed to be a nation
'Elf and Safety mad
But he's got away with it
Bullying Bullingdon cad.
Over five hundred firefighters
Will disappear
Ten stations close today
To start the New Year.
Three are in east London
So we can let them burn
But South of the river
Will they ever learn?
Lewisham Hospital
They wanted to close
Tens of thousands
Hit the streets
The working classes arose
Full of anger
And ready to oppose.
That was a battle
Ordinary folk won
My next comment
Will maybe stun:
Why they bothered
I cannot see
With no fire stations around
You're brown bread
Before A & E.
It's only a matter of time
Before there's a major shout
You're going to die
Because the firefighters
Are all out!
Every appliance left
Busy on the street
So you die in a fire
Will Boris take the heat?
As night follows day
There'll be blood on his hands
That much I can say
With his head in the sand.
Waffle this, bullshit that
Bamboozling with posh words
Winning votes with his
Cheery posh chat
Making fools of The Sun reading
Thick as shit herds.
Wake up you fools
It's time to condemn
Get rid of Boris
Before you end up in the Crem!
Here's a thought-
No matter what spin
Or smoke and mirrors he tries
It could even be one of his
Toffee nosed twits friends who dies
Real smoke and fire
Doesn't recognise class
Which sums up the entire farce.
I have no doubt
This will end in death
Lungs filled with smoke
For your last breath
All because of his bastard cuts...
From which I hope he won't be immune
Boris on the way can't come too soon
On his namesaked push bike
When he's squashed under a lorry
Dead by a thousand cuts
With one of his lackeys saying sorry

Dulwich Poet 9th January 2014

( Huge cutbacks have come into force across the London Fire Brigade, pushed through by the Conservative Mayor of London Boris johnson, against public opinion, and also against the elected representatives of the London Assembly)

"Queer Zine"

It's a word.
One that I hate
So out of date
But reclaimed
And named
As a label
Of our own.
My word of choice
Is the one
That gave us a voice
But now means anything but.
How gay is that?
Whatever you use
However you say
The one thing I am
Is proud to be gay.
It's what often defines
The poetry I write
And takes over my thoughts
When I wank late at night.
And now I'm inspired
Though I never will
Lacking in confidence
Or spare time to kill.
Planning my 'Queer Zine'
In my head
Without a clue
How to distribute
Or make sure it's read.
Add in some football
With observations of life
Sureptitiously photocopied
And I might find a gay wife!
I'm not being unkind
When I say I'm no catch
Might just showcase my 'mind'
And find a fella to match!

Dulwich Poet 8th January 2014

( There was a free event at the Poetry Library tonight, about the publishing of 'Queer Zines'...who knows, maybe one day I shall publish a zine of my own poetry!)

"Stuck for Choice"

　
One for six pounds
Two for ten.
Three for fifteen.
I have no idea for what
It was a sticker stuck
On the going up escalator
To the Overground
At Canada Water.
Bargains galore
Who could want more?
Well that depends
If there's a mean to the ends.
Please no, not tops or socks
So soon after christmas
Unimaginative gifts
Too polite to moan
And cause rifts.
Possibly t-shirts
Would you want three of a kind
Unless they're Pink and Blue
Or rude tight boxers
There goes my dirty mind!
Put your cards on the table
Nothing wrong with that cheap label
Austerity deals to be had
Maybe business is that bad
We are all in this together
A discount rent boy wearing leather.
Far too cheap for a fuck
Even I know that much.
But maybe a bargain bucket
Eastern European suck.
Now that would be a touch...literally!
Not that I pay for sex
If only I were that rich
With money no object
For my young blonde blue eyed bitch!
Pick of the Prague porn boys
Just one lottery win
And they'd be my well kept toys!

Dulwich Poet 8th January 2014

( I saw a price sticker on an escalator on the Underground, after getting off the Jubilee Line. I had no idea what I would write about, or if I would at all. I noted the prices, and scribbled this a few hours later, on the way home from a 'Queer Zine' event at the Poetry Library!)