Poem #67

Fear that I frittered my teenage years

And will stay playing catch-up

For however long I’m here;

Fear that a taut abdominal wall

Is the only partition

Between me, Joe Bloggs, et al.;

Fear that I can’t yoke words like Danny Brown,

Or spill seventeen pitchers

Of wit whilst acting the clown;

Fear that I do things I knew I would not,

Fear that my old-old-self I,

By necessity, forgot;

Fear that my idols are far less than their prattle;

Fear that i don’t really fear

This fear list

At all.

Poem #66

Like a chest-height transvestite

I keep low but dress tight;

No respite when I rewrite

My freeflow from last night-

I’m a gaslight to a mineshaft,

I’m Blackdamp to a windpipe,

Squawk Canary Wharf

Round a circuit board

‘Til you withdraw

Your E-vite;

Sangfroid through Freudian slips

That I pitch low through a split lip,

I say callipygian instead of thicc

Because pentasyllables sound slick.

Poem #64

If you abandoned a baby in a jungle,

Delegating daycare to some savvy primate

Who tutored the kid in matters fruit and fungal,

Which snakes to curve, and those upon which to predate;

If the adolescent bloomed on seeds, nuts, raw meat,

And thought in pictures, having no scripture to browse,

Perforating the air with grunts and whines for speech,

Shameless (with no suitor to impress or arouse);

If the grown-up, venturing in one direction

From twilight to twilight, infers their world to be

Tree, tree, tree, then returns, a content complexion

Their only strip of fabric in the tree, tree, tree;

If all this, then who, with confidence, can argue

That the human’s surmise is anything but true?

Poem #63

The year is 2020,

And we’re past the age of plenty;

Our Brexit we have scuppered

And our trade deal’s in the gutter;

Streets froth with violent hooligans

Who loved the European Union.


May submits her resignation-

Boris now will rule the nation.

And as we face grim indigence,

He suggests we all stay vigilant:

Cloak your purse and hide your wallet

(Police cuts mean we won’t find who stole it).


But the PM has a trick up his sleeve,

A ploy to get the masses back on Team Leave:

First, a trip abroad, to woo the ancient Nubian,

Followed by Britain’s application to the African Union.

Poem #62

We met a guy outside Oxford station,

Whose accent, by my guesstimation,

Synched cockney and northern Australian.

From behind his grill he wore a permagrin,

Vending a limited menu therein

(With the odd translation in Mandarin).

When, at length, I enquired about these

Infrequent Hanzi, he replied, ‘If you please,

They reconcile my commercial needs.

If all were translated, people might see

My humble grill as an outlet Chinese;

So to preserve my name as a barbecue,

I determined only to gloss the most select few.

But, because I orientally spell some,

My Chinese clients always feel welcome.’

Unsure what else I might feasibly say,

I nodded,

‘Understandable, have a nice day.’