Tuesday, 8 October 2013

The Cabinet Shuffle

Lets all do the Cabinet shuffle
(step to the Left, jump to the Right)
Sidestep all the real kerfuffle
(shimmy to the left, wiggle to the right)

Battle through the media scuffle
(Star to the Left, Mail to the Right)
When they ask a question, waffle
(stretch to the left, bend to the right)

Do it like they do in Brussels
(kiss to the left, bise to the right)
Do the Bump and do the Hustle
(twerk to the left, twank to the right)

So take your partners, strut your stuff (all
drift to the left, shift to the right)
and Breakdance to the cabinet shuffle
(twist to the left, spin to the right)

Thursday, 6 June 2013


Incorporating the 18 obsolete words from the article by Carmel Lobello in Death and Taxes online magazine, available at: http://www.deathandtaxesmag.com/195348/18-obsolete-words-which-should-have-never-gone-out-of-style/

Thou bookwright! Honest worker thou art not!
No soda-squirt all day upon his feet!
No curglaff wakes thee to thy morning’s draft,
but gently into day sat on thy arse.
Spermologer, beef-witted in thy writ

that renders englishable witless phrase 
and jirbles tyromancy on thy page.
Thou groakest at the world without true bite
in pussyvan at
A queerplunger doth labour more than thou,
thou sloth in lunting slouch! Get thee a trade!
Support thy snoutfair wonder-wench with squirrel,
that zafty california widow who
inspires thy drivel! Get thee honest work!

beef-witted: Having an inactive brain from eating too much beef.
bookwright: An author; a term of slight contempt.
California widow: A wife whose husband is away for any extended period.
curglaff: The shock felt when one first plunges into the cold water.
englishable: That which may be rendered into English
groak: To silently watch someone eating, hoping to be invited to join them.
jirble: To pour a liquid with an unsteady hand.
lunting: Walking while smoking a pipe.
pussyvan: A flurry, temper.
queerplungers: Con-artists, scammers.
resistentialism: Seemingly spiteful behavior shown by inanimate objects.
snoutfair: A person with a handsome countenance.
soda-squirt: One who works at a soda fountain in New Mexico
spermologer: A picker-up of trivia, a gossip monger.
tyromancy: Superstition of divining by the coagulation of cheese.
with squirrel: Pregnant.
wonder-wench: A sweetheart.
zafty: A person very easily imposed upon

Tuesday, 30 April 2013

God Bless Google

‘Google is now regarded as being as trustworthy as religious institutions, according to a new survey of Britons.’ (Sky News, 30th April 2013)

Our Google Docs that art up in the Cloud,
hallowed be thy synchronisation.
Thy Gmail come,
thy Searchbar be done
in Google Earth as it is in Google Chrome.
Give us this day our daily animation
and forgive us our typos
as we forgive them
that don’t spellcheck their websites.
And lead us not into eBay
but deliver us to Google Wallet,
for thine is Google Page Rank,
Google Maps and GoogleApps
forever in the ether.


Monday, 29 April 2013


When the barley straw
in the pond de-composes,
frogs will hip hop back.

Thursday, 25 April 2013

Darwin’s Goldfish

‘Meet Aussie the goldfish who swims upside down’
(The Daily Mail 08/08/08)

Even the goldfish
are starting to rebel,
swimming upside down,
bored with the status quo.
The rest of us wish
for alternatives as well,
but walking upside down
is probably not the way to go.

A sideways leap?
An idealistic rebound?
Or shall we all just go on swimming
this way up and round and round?

I'm afraid the human race
Has missed it's niche.
It appears we’ve been
out-angled by a goldfish.

Friday, 12 April 2013

Wicker Woman

  (on the resurgence of  the song 'Ding, dong, the witch is dead' on the death of Margaret Hilda Thatcher, 1925-2013)

So those in power want to ban the song.
They feel the water lap around their boots.
This time it’s someone else. It won’t be long
Before it’s their turn knee deep in the sluice.
Ding dong, the doorbell rings. Who’s at the door?
Let’s hope it’s not those badly mannered poor
With their demands of equal this and that.
God help us, now the ship deserts the rat.
The witch is dead and tap, tap here’s the wake
With fire in their eyes to light the stake.
The crone is gone, but here’s her legacy,
A world of ‘trickle up’ economy.
The wicker woman waits upon the hill
If you won’t light the kindle then they will.

Saturday, 6 April 2013

Could Be Verse

It ain’t effing poetry,
It’s just effing verse,
It ain’t laureate material
But it could be effing worse.

At least I don’t my words invert
The rhythm make to fit
Or use crass colloquialisms
To rhyme with other shit.

My sentences is grammatical
My punctuations alway’s right
And their ain’t no spling mistakes
In the pottery wot I writes.

My themes is esoterical
My whatsits erudite
My handwriting is… something or other...
In the pottery wot I writes

I never just repeats a phrase
To fill in extra space
In the pottery what I rights
The write word’s the in the rite place.

So maybe it ain’t "literature"
And maybe it ain’t art,
But it ain’t been effing plagiarised
Cos nobody else writes pottery like wot I does.

Thursday, 4 April 2013


I’m very anxious nowadays whenever I go out;
it seems these new Precariat are suddenly about.
The implication is that they are lager swigging shirkers
who mix with manual labourers like cleaners and farm workers.

They rent their homes instead of buying them like decent folk
and live on less than twenty thou a year. No doubt they smoke
and take drugs too. Apparently they are quite dangerous
because their lives are unpredictable, precarious.

They are the rioters, protestors, knee-jerking despair,
without a future, without hope, a job, a life, a care.
And yet, I do not see them when I step outside my door,
the world seems just the same to my eyes as it did before.

I’ve looked under my mattress where I keep my money hid
in case the banks collapse again. I’ve looked in next door’s skip.
I’ve asked my social worker and my cronies down The Bear.
We cannot see these Precariat people anywhere

Wednesday, 3 April 2013

The Burrow of London

Hop from train to train
- pop out of holes like rabbits
from stops Underground.

Tuesday, 2 April 2013

The Big Lie

The working class is split, the country’s stuffed.
A divided society is what we’ve got.
The Lie is that there is a ‘Them and Us’.

They have too many bedrooms; one’s enough
for wasters, addicts, scroungers, useless blobs.
The working class is split, the country’s stuffed. 

They don’t think like we do, do different stuff,
like eat odd food and worship different gods.
The Lie is that there is a ‘Them and Us’. 

They’re ginger, black, disabled, have big butts,
They cheat on benefits or steal our jobs.
The working class is split, the country’s stuffed.

The government has got us up the duff;
We’ll all be old one day, without a job.
The Lie is that there is a ‘Them and Us’.

We point the finger on demand and cuss -
'We' might become ‘Them’ given different odds.
The working class is split, the country’s stuffed.
The Lie is that there is a ‘Them and Us’.




Oh google, how you flirt with me! Two poems found in search of me! My blog, my profile pic, my tweets, my Linkedin profile! This...