Poems
Stephen Fry is Following Me
Stephen Fry is everywhere, Stephen Fry is following me,
The last voice that I hear at night, the first face that I see each day,
Stephen Fry is following me,
He’s peering through my windows, he’s telling me how to vote,
I’m scared to look at money in case his face is on the note,
The Television is out of bounds because I know old Fry is there,
But now I’m scared that he might simply pop out of thin air,
He’s on our children’s bags of crisps, he’s in our private tweets,
He knows when we’ve been dreaming because
He’s there between the sheets,
He’s lurking in our lavatories just behind the bend,
So he can catch you unawares and advise your business end,
Yes Stephen Fry is everywhere, there’s nowhere that he ain’t,
He’s Tweeting on his fryPhones and teaching Da Vinci how to paint
He knows the perfect method for making cups of tea,
or fetching sunken treasures from the bottom of the sea,
Stephen Fry is following from the cradle to the grave,
But even in the after-life he’ll still be there on Dave
Look around the hospitals, hear the babies cry,
See their tiny faces, they all look like Stephen Fry
For Fry’s the father, Fry’s the son, Fry’s the holy ghost,
Fry’s the mountains, Fry’s the air, the rivers and the coast
Fry’s the cities, except Birmingham, the villages and towns,
I do quite like him actually but I wish that he’d calm down.
14.4.11
Da Boyd from Noo Yawk
There once was a boyd from Noo Yalk
Who’s owner did teach him 2 tawk
His mouth was so doydy it really annoyed me
So I moydered dat boyd wid a fawk
April 2011
Michael
In a green green room there’s a green green man
And he rocks and he rocks then he rocks some more
He sways and he rocks as the green ship sails
Through the green green seas and the tar black floor
The floor starts to rise as the anchor is tossed
And the boards start to creak with the souls of the lost
And the crew calls out and the ghosts call back
Our hearts are green and our lungs are black
We’re sailing to the Colony, we’re sailing to the Colony
On a tall green chair our captain sits
Shivering his timbers in his dark glasses
And he smokes as he watches and he drinks with the fish
And he ticks our names on the passenger list
There’s Cunty, and Cunty, and Cunty’s been in
And she needs a shave or a brand new skin
And he’s not long for this dear old world
Time to settle up love like a good old girl
On a torn green chair there’s a thin green man
And he rocks and he rocks then he rocks some more
And he sways and he rocks as the green ship sails
Through the green green seas and the tar black floor
And the crew start to sing and the ghosts join in
And the ship sails on through the nicotine fog
It’s man overboard as the old girl roars
And the glasses fly across the Ouija board
And the floor starts to rise and the boards start to creak
As the ship sets sail from old Dean street
And the girls start to cackle and the men start to swear
And they powder their noses in the you-know-where?
We’re going to the Colony, we’re sailng to the Colony
And it’s man overboard as the old girl roars
Above the luckless, fuckless Dean street whores
And he smokes and he watches and he drinks with the fish
And he welcomes you hope and he kisses your lips
And you know when he does he means it
And you know when he does he means it
We’re going to the Colony Room, we’re sailing in the Colony Room
Through the green green door up the green green stairs
There’s a place for the ones who never said their prayers
Muriel, Ian, Michael – you’re ship will always be there
2010
The Hipster
I caught a Hipster, he was tame, I kept him as a pet
I fed him cheese and old baguettes and Gauloises cigarettes
I played him Jazz and read to him, the novels of the Beats
I changed his water twice a day and gave him stripy sheets
But he did tire of Hipsterdom, of fug and velvet drapes
Til one day I came home from work to find that he’d escaped
I searched the town’s bohemian haunts and called his Hipster name
But O’ my little Hipster was never seen again.
April 2011
Some short stories for short people on short nights.
Cuckoo
Patricia was unwell, that was patently obvious. Since the miscarriage of our child she had stayed in our flat in a state of utter despondence, staring with her back to the windows at the bare walls. I tried as best I could to raise her empty spirits but it was of little use. The child we had for so long yearned for, had alluded us once again, with all its concomitant emotional devastation.
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