In Your Corner

——————————————————————————————

In Your Corner

Come on in, sit yourself down.
Are you ok? Are you sure?
You don’t look at all well.
They did say at the bus stop,
and Sheila saw you at the Doctors.
Not the old trouble again we hope?
Now tell us all about you.
We’ve heard so much!

We’re not ones to gossip.
Know you’ve had it rough.
That rotten business at work.
A bit harsh, escorting you
off the premises. Like a criminal.
Said so last night in the pub,
when they were slating you.
My, how they yack on!

As for her in the shop
with her gab-gab-gabbing.
We put her straight.
None of her damn business
however much vodka you buy,
even if it is a Tuesday night.
Same for the pregnancy test.
We told her: you have issues.

More tea? Another biscuit?
And oh yes, mustn’t forget:
in the hairdressers last week.
Your split ends apparently.
And it’s disgusting, their sniffing
about all the weight you’ve put on.
And the state of your skin.
You do know Boots do that stuff…?

You can’t help it. Always been
a bit hormonal. They can’t expect
you to be balanced. Normal.
Highly strung, that’s the thing.
Who are they to judge? To talk
about you? To go on and on and on?
So now, tell us everything. You know,
we’re here for you. We’re in your corner.

 

 

And with a poem about idle talk, I couldn’t resist including this. Very torn on which version to include, but went for Fun Boy Three with the excellent Terry Hall…

Dentures (The Return)

A re-post of an old one from last year. This poem is on my mind at the moment because I may be reading it at a spoken word event this week…

 

Dentures

The dentures are surprisingly realistic.
He had been sceptical at first.
How could something manufactured
and synthetically glued to his jaws
recreate the natural, pure, organic joy
of that first puncture of a virgin neck?
But…

The bite is pleasingly precise.
Especially after a tiny bit of his own
cunning custom-sharpening.
(They don’t do that on the NHS.)

He finds himself bearing down with
renewed finesse, as in his insatiable youth
a few centuries past. In more recent times
he’d began to fret, fearing his performance
and enjoyment would be marred and curtailed
by failing loose fillings and gum disease’s
inevitable receding creep. Indeed,
it had impeded his pleasure considerably.
He had dreaded losing an incisor
in a used up young lady.

But now, his crafted smile sets him free.
Once again he is the thirstiest seducer
he has ever been. She is flesh: prime,
pristine and ripe for bleeding.
Feisty little barstool-percher:
Daddy’s Princess by day,
prey to lust by night.
And to him. She bucks a faint flutter
of flight against his tightening grip.

Hunger stabbing earlier and finally dark,
he’d stalked closing time’s reckless hour
of the feckless fuckless. Slurrers of hope,
over experience. He saw her. (Albeit fuzzily:
must remember to get that free sight test.)
Her eyes were bloodshot and fever-hazed.
Now, feeling the fire bump in her wrists
and ooze hot from her new-cut vein,
he knows… She saw it in him, with
the certainty of twelve vodkas:

she saw he was not “past it”.
(Thank you! Thank you! I love you!)
Some things are “false”, yes my sweet,
but no need for Viagra here.

He widens his lips over her split skin,
tearing it further, digging in deep.
A “kiss” is too demure for this.
He sucks and groans and drinks:
she is strong – like addiction’s kick.
Blood sluicing with lingering Steradent:
mint-rusty tingle and adhesive aftertaste
to the greedy gorge of his tongue.

Until he is done. Sated.
She is quiet. Still.
Emptied…

Later, he watches them,
stowed safe in their jar,
floating in reddening mist
and chemicals before dawn.
They smile.
He is weary now, tired – like they say
of graves. These days he needs his rest.
And sometimes a mug of Horlicks.

Charity – A Pantoum (Oooh, get me!)

To be read with irony switched to full…

Charity

We’re doing all this for charity.
We like cute kids with no hair.
Cancer-pretties give us clarity:
they remind us maybe to care.

We like cute kids with no hair.
Those less fortunate than us.
They remind us maybe to care.
Some folk do make such a fuss.

Those less fortunate than us.
We like it when they’re grateful.
Some folk do make such a fuss.
We are not just Sunday-faithful.

We like it when they’re grateful.
Disney trip photo-ops rewarded.
We are not just Sunday-faithful.
Even help the dribbling retarded.

Disney trip photo-ops rewarded.
Cancer-pretties give us clarity.
Even help the dribbling retarded.
We’re doing all this for charity.

In The House With The View Of The Lake

In The House With The View Of The Lake

They’re dredging the lake.
Yes, that’s right – the dog-walking route.
You can see it better from the kitchen.
Go on. Take a look. Over the hedge.
So glad Jim finally got round to
pruning that dreadful tree last week.
It quite spoiled my view.
I find I need something nice to look at
while I’m peeling the potatoes.

Be a dear and put the kettle on.
Yes, I know what you mean:
it is like something on telly
with all that tape cordoning it off.
They’ve even had those fierce
German Shepherds out!

Yesterday, I popped down
to see if they needed anything.
A flask of coffee or some ham sandwiches.
I’d have given them my special chutney.

They’ve got all this… equipment,
aside from the diving stuff.
And people are walking round
all very business-like, very serious,
but in silly paper suits. And booties!
Imagine! Big men in floppy white booties.
But then, it’s no place for a lady.
(Although there are women there too:
one gave me a most unnecessary sour look.)

I left them to get on with it:
they seemed quite keen for me
not to be troubling myself.
Impeccably polite, they were.

There was something in last week’s paper.
A missing girl, same age as my Emma,
but… thankfully my girls aren’t like that.
Running around town in short skirts,
drinking and squealing like hyenas.
No, I didn’t know her,
but there was a picture:
you know the type.

Oooh, look! Something’s happening.
Quick – pass me my glasses.
They’re bringing something out.
It looks quite big, doesn’t it?
Quite heavy.
I wonder….

Yes, I think there’s some fruitcake in that tin:
help yourself. Of course it’s homemade!
What do you take me for?

Dentures (A Poem Of Vampires And Ageing)

Dentures

The dentures are surprisingly realistic.
He had been sceptical at first.
How could something manufactured
and synthetically glued to his jaws
recreate the natural, pure, organic joy
of that first puncture of a virgin neck?
But…

The bite is pleasingly precise.
Especially after a tiny bit of his own
cunning custom-sharpening.
(They don’t do that on the NHS.)

He finds himself bearing down with
renewed finesse, as in his insatiable youth
a few centuries past. In more recent times
he’d began to fret, fearing his performance
and enjoyment would be marred and curtailed
by failing loose fillings and gum disease’s
inevitable receding creep. Indeed,
it had impeded his pleasure considerably.
He had dreaded losing an incisor
in a used up young lady.

But now, his crafted smile sets him free.
Once again he is the thirstiest seducer
he has ever been. She is flesh: prime,
pristine and ripe for bleeding.
Feisty little barstool-percher:
Daddy’s Princess by day,
prey to lust by night.
And to him. She bucks a faint flutter
of flight against his tightening grip.

Hunger stabbing earlier and finally dark,
he’d stalked closing time’s reckless hour
of the feckless fuckless. Slurrers of hope,
over experience. He saw her. (Albeit fuzzily:
must remember to get that free sight test.)
Her eyes were bloodshot and fever-hazed.
Now, feeling the fire bump in her wrists
and ooze hot from her new-cut vein,
he knows… She saw it in him, with
the certainty of twelve vodkas:

she saw he was not “past it”.
(Thank you! Thank you! I love you!)
Some things are “false”, yes my sweet,
but no need for Viagra here.

He widens his lips over her split skin,
tearing it further, digging in deep.
A “kiss” is too demure for this.
He sucks and groans and drinks:
she is strong – an addiction’s kick.
Blood sluicing with lingering Steradent:
mint-rusty tingle and adhesive aftertaste
to the greedy gorge of his tongue.

Until he is done. Sated.
She is quiet. Still.
Emptied…

Later, he watches them,
stowed safe in their jar,
floating in reddening mist
and chemicals before dawn.
They smile.
He is weary now, tired – like they say
of graves. These days he needs his rest.
And sometimes a mug of Horlicks.

This song is nothing to do with vampires or dentures… but seeing as I was thinking a lot about teeth and biting whilst writing this, I think I’ll allow myself the small indulgence of including it here.

Special

The lovely people at dVerse have invited posts tonight on “Poetry” – normally I’m not big on poems about poems, but here’s an old one I have a sneaking fondness for…

And you can see the original prompting post at the following link… these are always worth  a read…

http://dversepoets.com/2012/07/12/poetry-on-poetry/

(NB: Please read with irony switched up to full… thank you.)

Special

Oh! Though “Oh!” is sad
cliché, a pastiche of the
notion of a poetic soul’s
posturing misery. Proles

can only dream to freak
such speechful suffering.
The guff of claiming our
special buffed grey place,

the ace of bad art, scars
more glittery, bled deeper:
the mere dumb reader
could never reach such

crunched lows of pain.
Awed with distain, paws
of the devil’s mutts on
our satanic artists’ butts.

We cut so deep, we cry
much harder. Ardent and
pure and smug and sure
we are special. So special.

The Recurring Hoodie (in light of “cardigan-fever”)

Sooooo…. Prompted by the responses (both online and off) to my recent “semi-erotic cardigan” post, I felt compelled to revisit a poem I posted here back in the early days of this blog… It’s not “erotic” (not even a “semi” – fnar, fnar) but I thought it might like another outing…

Yes, this is an old “reposting”, but new poems will be posted very soon… I’m not slacking, honest!

Hoodies

I like wearing hoodies.
They keep my head warm
and my hair dry
and you get a zip to play with.
… zzzzzzzzip up!
… zzzzzzzzip down!
… zzzzzzzzip up!
You get the idea.

I like wearing hoodies.
You can get pink ones
and fluffy ones
and ones with bunny ears
and kitten paw mittens
to keep you all snuggly.
I would like one with a furry tail,
but don’t think they make that yet.

When we were kids it was
duffles and puffas,
old-school kagools,
anoraks and pacamacs,
velcro, press studs and wellies.

When we were teens it was
trench coats and army surplus,
full length leather and “vintage”
wool great coats reeking of
damp dog and dead people.
(‘cause we were all so cool.)

Now I like wearing hoodies,
but I do have a belted mac
and I have a leather jacket
and I have a long wool coat
which doesn’t smell of dogs or death.
(‘cause that wouldn’t be cool in my 30s.)

I like wearing hoodies.
I like to keep my head warm.
(I’d look a tit wearing earmuffs,
or a balaclava, or a bobble hat.)
I like to have a zip to play with.
… zzzzzzzzip up!
Ok, ok, I won’t start that again.
But I don’t like to riot, thanks.

NB: Non-UK readers may wonder what the “riot” bit is about. This poem was written after the 2011 riots in London and other UK cities – there was much talk in the media at the time of “hoodies” being symbolic of criminal tendencies among young people – which is of course complete rot. So this poem was designed to play on that…

Wooing

Wooing

I don’t need a handsome prince to take me away
from all this. Or a chauffeur driven car or even a
bus. I don’t need a magic carpet or a flying man
in lycra tights and a cape. I can’t be arsed with

all that fuss. I don’t need a white knight on a big
stallion to fight for my honour and save me. No
time for a teenage vampire too scared to come
near for fear my scent might deprave him. No

Neanderthal tough guy will get to drag me back to
his cave by my hair. I will not be snared by wizards
and potions (Isn’t that date rape?) or drugged limp
in any beardy scientist’s lair. I am no one’s trapped

fair maiden with virtue untainted. I don’t need brash
heroics or to be claimed or rescued. Did no one ever
think to leave Sleeping Beauty to nap in peace? Now
that’s clear, we can get better acquainted. Come here.

Bear Arses for Valentines

Bear Arses for Valentines

Give me £4.99 supermarket roses
wobbling on the point of wilt.
Or two for eight quid. A snip!
Cellophane-strangled, thornless
and fake scented.
Force-grown, dip-dyed,
red to prove passion.
Or something.

Give me a “personalized” card
bought online, just for me.
Send off a gurning snapshot
and they’ll do the rest:
sign it and lick the envelope
and post it to S.W.A.L.K. through
my door, forensic without
your fingerprints.
Once you’ve paid them.

Give me a big pink teddy bear
yanked from a furry squash
of identical card-shop bears.
Stitched on smile, paws sewn
to cushions saying “I wuv oo”
to show you do, you do.
Tomorrow half-price, still smiling.
Paws still pinned to cushions can’t
even scratch their own bear-y arses.

Wasp

Wasp

Autumn-slowed, lazy buzzing,
opportunistic – anything weak and juicy.

Crushed windfalls decaying in dead leaves.
Tender pink child-palms clapping in playgrounds.
Tasty sandwiches unwrapped for lunch in the park.
Floral perfume, neck-warmed and drifting to tempt.
Three-day-matured roadkill stray dog. Maggoty good.
Ooh yes… She twitches, then…

homes in, hangs around, annoys and injects.
Feeds and infects. Small-scale parasite,
nearing the end of her use to her nest.
(She was only reproductive.)

Not welcomed and not loved, anywhere:
no honey to bribe benign smiles.
Just a flying flick of recurring irritation,
hovering unwanted, that sound in your ear,
always in the way, always in your face.
She makes her presence felt,

stinging on a whim,
spiteful and quivering.
Because she can.
A little threat.
A little power.
She is end-of-season drunk, fuzzy body
swollen with stolen nectar, high on
swooping to prey. If she is soon to die,
she will hurt someone first.
She will make them sorry

they didn’t show her more respect.
Sorry they saw her as a pest,
something to be whacked at
with a rolled up newspaper,
sworn at and shoved away,
batted out of the window.
Or simply squished.

I could almost be sad for her…

She wanted to be the Queen Bee,
but really she is just a wasp.