A Depressing Thought

I heard a rumour that the proper realms of poetry are Love and Death. Well, I’m only twenty-three, so I won’t be talking about death. And I find myself under an encroaching suspicion that love operates in a similar manner to memory. When you remember an experience you are not remembering an experience. You’re recalling the latest recollection of that experience. Like a photograph of a photograph of a photograph. No matter how good the camera, you’re still haemorrhaging pixels. What if love is the same? You get one shot. And every subsequent love is a sketch of the first. the sketch may have been done in a steady hand, with a Blackwing on paper of 120gsm. But it’s a sketch nonetheless. It’s taken from a model.

Peter

Peter was a funny boy

Who’d masticate raw cabbage;

He’d drop dry leaves into his mouth

And crunch them like a savage.

Peter was the kind of boy

For whom the age-old adage,

“Eat your greens and you’ll stay lean”,

Was stooped in excess baggage.

Peter was a quirky boy

Who made up his own language,

Codifying leafy greens

As pudding good enough to ravage.

Someone Observed on the Tube

She had the face

Of someone on the cusp

Of fame,

Eyes vying for space with cheeks,

Eyes very convex, like fishbowls

Granted centrepiece,

Granted the entire sweep of

Her adoring oglers.

Her trousers were maroon leather;

I thought it clever how they matched her handbag.

Schooled

I thought I was the homonym phenomenon,

But today an eight-year-old informed me that chilli is a contranym.

Longevity

I am going to live to 150;

No one believes me, but I will.

I’ll see my great-great-grandkids born

And squeeze the sprites into my will.

I’ll fill with letters an escritoire,

Each signed by the hand that scratches the arse

That sags upon the royal throne

Like a funeral falling into farce.

I’ll visit the deathbeds of all my chums

And bid them fair adieu:

“See you in 70 years my friend,

And sorry about the feeding tube.”

New Year’s Party

Theme: anything for a dollar bill. Setting: south-south London, Uber territory. Two, three jabs of punch and a pastel John Dory. Restless thirty-thirst, seeking mutual thrill. Idea! We know it’s drink talking, but drink tells good stories. Follow our liquid raconteur out on to the grass. Instant blow to seat a weaker man firmly on his arse. I’m sorry but I’m so angry. Recompense, freeze. Feel like sounds have thickened in the drum. Back inside giggling with our paper cash prize, Informing every ear what it missed with its eyes. My own ear, for now, bust like a lip. For another dollar I’ll swallow that tulip.

Dean

I once knew a boy called Dean,

Who was bullied for being fat,

Which I suppose is a good enough reason.

Bad Eggs

Whisking up the northern line,

An egg in every seat;

I’d like to crack their stipples shells

To get at that white meat.

Whisking up the northern line,

An egg has cracked itself;

The kind of egg my mother has

Me put back on the shelf.

Whisking up the northern line,

One clucks into its phone;

This egg will make bad omelettes

And underglaze a scone.

Friday Night

Things to observe when you next go clubbing:

Pre-cooked boy with the python eyes.

Reptilian man tastes pressure.

Gay friend plays the boyfriend disguise.

Ascents like an M.C. Escher.

Pretty girl shirking with a cheek,

Too meek to stamp or claw an eye.

He cradles into her tired week

And moves his hands down to her sly.

All this you’ll see and waive, because

Mate, honestly, I was so waved.

Sorry

The A in DNA stands for apology.

People will give a pass to astrology

But not to that.

That confuses me because I love a good sorry.

I’m a contrition addict, and sometimes my sorries

Contradict their surroundings.

I apologise for emails

Both pragmatic and necessary,

And I apologise to 4×4 drivers

When I semi-run on zebra skins.

Oh, sorry: the DN stands for Deoxyribonucleic.