As I lie
Beneath clean sheets
Shedding the day
And all its stuff,
Of human dust,
Into the tray
And is filed away
My friend Tracy’s got a beautiful nose
With a strong and inquisitive blend,
The shape is cute and really suits –
It leans back and turns up at the end.
The bridge of her nose is a nice, relaxed slope
That doesn’t get in the way
Of a face that is honest and open with hope –
A beautiful nose has our Tray.
Her nostrils are cool and reside in the shade
Of an impudent snout that is perfectly made
For smelling the world and its numerous scents
And to challenge the motives of advancing gents.
This nose is well-balanced – not crooked or bent,
Yet it still remains humbly displayed.
Its mysterious caverns are hollowed and honed
To compliment the line of the bone
Of this nose that is parked in an excellent space –
She has gorgeous nostrils, has Trace.
This nose likes a laugh and it likes a good think,
The curve is learned and wise,
And it can sniff out a stink without having to wrinkle
Her huge brown Canadian eyes.
With her creative juices, it’s an artistic nose;
A haven for hankies, the Queen of all colds,
A nasal nirvana for all Eskimos –
The pick of the crop, a joy to behold!
But my friend Tracy doesn’t like her nose,
Although most think it fits her just fine.
Now, I’m not too crazy with the one I own,
So maybe she’d swap hers with mine?
S H E E T S
. . . home.
A PRISONER OF
O K e . . .
THE SLEEVE WaSP
In a railway queue in October
I felt something between
My left wrist and my denim jacket
Just by the ticket machine.
It was a Sleeve Wasp!
A Sleeve Wasp –
Resting from its Summer spree
In safety from the ground.
Perhaps he’d hitched a ride with me
To regain some Sleeve Wasp dignity
(Well you never know)
I said, “Listen up, you Sleeve Wasp,
I’m catching the Express
You may come with me.”
The Sleeve Wasp said, “Please, yes!”
“On condition,” I replied,
“That you promise to remain inside
My denim sleeve
when the Ticket-Guard arrives.”
“I promise!” said the Sleeve Wasp,
“I’m skint, so I will hide.”
So we boarded the train to London,
The little Sleeve Wasp and me,
And true to his word, not a wasp-sound was heard –
In my sleeve he’d fallen asleep.
But now on my sleeve
I must wear a wasp-wreath
Because he was dead just before Haywards Heath.
Beaming thru fog:
The Golden Gateway to the stars
Displayed upon the chests
Whose medals have been won
For the Army of the Dead that
Meat within a bun.
What comes first,
The Nuggets or the Muffin?
It’s a tough old choice
On McDonald’s Farm.
And bumbling through the blur
Of a bloodshot hotplate haze,
Purple trousers crease
And tightly greet.
Is Darren who
At eighteen shows off
The moustache of ambition.
He reflects upon the many
Mop-wet slippydamp tiles,
By fake fluorescent, fixture-fitted
Primary coloured smiles.
Careful, don’t slip up son…
In this neon nether-Neverland
Small Peter Pancakes like to run,
Wee Wendy Burgers wallow
In the polystyrene Yankee fun
That little darlings always swallow.
Lazy parents yawn, lost
Boys and girls twist and gurn to
Hard-core technojungleragga and
Eat and eat and eat and EAT
In sound-bite celebration
Of another year consumed.
Fifteen minutes later they are
Spat out for another
With golden teeth,
Painted lips smack
And picked out in the sights
Of the many strip-search lights
Sit King Burger and his Sprites
Of the Clown Table.
Swathed in the greedy glare
Upon his throne – a plastic chair,
He courts attention and rashly mentions to the munchkins
Sprawling banquets of his past,
Jamborees on Summer evenings
Where the food was never fast.
Ten year olds scoff
And belch into cartons.
He administers pardons
And gets the Shakes.
His cardboard crown has slipped
As the chips are downed and dipped
With too much relish.
Oblivious to the children’s glee,
He’s missed the simple novelty
Of Cramelot’s absurdity.
No cutlery you see.
Fingers and thumbs,
(one nod of the head, keep moving).
“You got it” –
If superstition wasn’t so deeply rooted
I would keep you forever
Because the forest you pine for
Is no longer your home,
It’s over the hill
And far away –
An empty field of spent land mines
For Christmas Day.
So, one more night you can stand
Before the habitual
Dressing-down at dawn
Will relieve you of medals
Awarded for ritual,
In fearful violation
Of a sacrificial decoration
On a Greatcoat
Then with the bucket unwrapped
From your base
You’ll slope by the bins
In the cold of New Year
And I’ll turn a blind eye
From the warmth of my place,
Pretending you never
Existed in here
And Life will resist you and
The once-evergreen thing
That is welcome no more
To spend Thirteenth Night
As a skeletal sight:
Browned-off and naked,
A spindly eyesore
With no room
In a world that a
Few weeks before
Had dragged you in through its front door.
Now I’m hung-up,
The planet’s hung-over
And you’ve come down