I, Phone,
take you, Human,
to be my loyal, wedded plaything,
to have and to hold you,
to praise and to scold you,
to own and control you,
with pop-ups and pings,
in wickedness and by stealth
to fire off darts
of endorphins and toxins
direct to your heart
from the day of unboxing
‘til death us do part.
Jack and Jill
went up the hill
but then Jack fell.
What the hell?
Was it a trip?
Was it a slip?
Where was Jill?
Why did she only
come tumbling after?
A strange disaster.
Up Jack got
and home did trot
though in nursery rhymes
you never get up
after a fall
like Humpty Dumpty
who drank ten green bottles
and fell off a wall
and think of baby,
cradle and all.
Yes up Jack got
and that was brill.
But still,
where was Jill?
Jack went to bed
but in nursery rhymes,
you never get up
when you go to bed
after banging your head
like the old man snoring
who never saw morning.
Jack wrapped his head
but he’d internally bled
and soon he was dead
leaving only questions
like who was the beneficiary
under his will?
And where oh where
oh where was Jill?
This poem delves into the curious language spoken by only one person in the world: The Speaker of the House of Commons.
The question is:
Do the eyes have it?
As many as are of that opinion say eye.
Eye.
Of the contrary opinion, no.
No.
Division. Addition. Subtraction. Multiplication.
The eyes have it.
So do the noes
and the ears and the mouth.
The whole face has it.
Clear the lobbies.
Bring up the bodies.
This poem was inspired by the title of the Rock N Roll Politics podcast.
Politics is Hendrix and Jagger.
Politics is swagger and crash.
Politics is going to the moon
in a hot air balloon.
Politics is getting punched by trolls
and battered by polls.
Politics is being thrown off the rodeo
and scrambling on again.
Politics is cocaine.
Politics is propane.
Politics is Buster Keaton
on a runaway train.
Politics is Super Mario,
falling down mountains,
climbing up holes.
Politics is swinging from high to low,
from yo to yo,
‘til they tell you to go.
Politics is rock n roll
but it’s the audience who smash the guitar
if they don’t like the show.
Analyst ask why.
Dog say hungry.
Analyst say your flesh and blood.
Dog say I know. I not proud.
Analyst ask about puppyhood.
Dog say tough. Not enough food. Dog eat dog.
Analyst say ah. That’s why dog eat dog.
Dog say thanks.
Dog pay.
Dog go home.
Dog hungry.
Dog eat dog.
Is this some kind of joke?
asks the barman.
No, says Paddy Irishman.
Ah, I get it,
says the barman with a wink
as he pulls out a gun.
THIS IS A STICKUP.
That should cure your hiccups.
For God’s sake,
says Paddy Irishman,
sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
Can a man not just walk into a bar
and order a bloody drink?
A short poem of warning that was broadcast as part of a feature about moths on the Today programme on BBC Radio 4.
Never incur
the wrath of a moth
especially if
you’re a man of the cloth.
I once attended a talk about leadership, where I learnt about the concept of “VIM”…
We hugged
and slapped high fives
like it said in the book.
NOW THE VIM THING, I shouted
THE VIM THING? she screamed.
VISION, I shouted
VISION, she screamed.
INSPIRATION, I shouted
INSPIRATION, she screamed.
MOMENTUM, I shouted
MOMENTUM, she screamed.
THAT’S THE VIM THING, I shouted
THE VIM THING, she screamed.
We hugged
and slapped high fives
like it said in the book.
Then my cleaning lady
went back to work.
