I asked the owls if you loved me true

I ask the owls
If you love me true
They only say
Tawitt Tawoo.

I ask the owls
Why I feel so blue
They only say
Tawitt Tawoo.

I ask the owls
What shall I do?
They only say
Tawitt Tawoo.

I ask the owls
The meaning of life
They only say
Tawitt Tawoo.

I say to the owls,
Is that your best advice?
Is that the way it is?
Is that the deep and meaningful
Consensus of the universe,
Is that It?
Is that all there is?
What good are you, owls,
What’s the bloody point?

Swivel headed mouse munchers.
Nocturnal namby pambies.
Solemn pointy eared gawkers.
Tawitt bloody tawoo.
I’ll show you where you can stick
Your tawitt bloody tawoo.

My mad ranting
Frightened them away.

I ask the cuckoos
If you love me true
They only say
Cuckoo, cuckoo.

I replied,
That’s not what the owls said.

What shall we do with the blocked-up sink?

The Ballad of the blocked-up sink

What shall we do with the sink that’s bunged up?
Call for a plumber and wait for the thumbs up?
Or poke it with a stick and see what comes up?
I think I’ll fetch my plunger.

Plunge plunge
In the sinkhole
Plunge plunge
In the sinkhole
Let’s do this ourselves
And shut your stink hole
We don’t need a plumber.

You saw me pumping with the plunger like a mad thing
I suppose it’s exercise that’s not such a bad thing
At the end of the day the only really sad thing
Is if we have to call a plumber.

Plunge plunge
In the sinkhole
Plunge plunge
In the sinkhole
Let’s do this ourselves
And shut your stink hole
We don’t need a plumber.

This plunger that I’m using is one that I cherish
The rubber on it has started to perish
All this plunging is making me peckish
We don’t need a plumber.

Plunge plunge
In the sinkhole
Plunge plunge
In the sinkhole
Let’s do this ourselves
And shut your stink hole
We don’t need a plumber.

I don’t think it’s working in fact it’s getting worse
It’s like some kind of jinx or perhaps a horrid curse
I must say that it’s sensual or is that quite perverse?
We don’t need a plumber!

Plunge plunge
In the sinkhole
Plunge plunge
In the sinkhole
Let’s do this ourselves
And shut your stink hole
We don’t need a plumber.

I don’t mean to be mean or perhaps a little blunt
This plunger is useless it’s bearing such a brunt
Our neighbour’s must be wondering what we’re doing each time I grunt
Sounds like we’re having fun, though.

Plunge plunge
In the sinkhole
Plunge plunge
In the sinkhole
Let’s do this ourselves
And shut your stink hole
We don’t need a plumber.

Getting in to it now though it’s hotter than the summer
Now you’ve called for help that really is a bummer
It’s not a ménage a trois, folks, he’s just the plumber
But the neighbour’s don’t really know that.

Plunge plunge
In the sinkhole
Plunge plunge
In the sinkhole
We can’t do this ourselves
And shut your stink hole
OK let’s call a plumber.

The Doors – A poem for LGBT and human rights

For those who are the exquisite hidden in cupboards.
For those who fortune denies because they refuse to shout.
For those who would otherwise shine so bright were it not so dark and needlessly so.
For those who are more conscious than the jaded so- called moral imperative.
For those who multicolour the beige.
For those who feel that burning pounding quick-tempo heartbeat tick- tick- ticking absolute proof down deep within.
For those who don’t want to upset anyone.
For those who are being true to themselves.
For those who love.
For those who would dearly like to love but never will so long as they’re fumbling in the pitch dark.
For those who would spread compassion if given the chance.
For those who stand tall and proud in the face of ignorance.
For those who challenge the invented with the blinding torch of truth.
For those who caress and whisper sweet nothings and then open their eyes to find an empty bed.

For those who don’t want to shock and close the door voluntarily.
For those who care too much.
For those who feel they have no brothers or sisters.
For those who feel they are the only person ever ever ever ever to feel this way.
For those who make a thousand tiny differences a year.
For those whose revolution will knowingly take longer than their own lifetimes.
For those who would otherwise be flogged or hanged or stoned or cast from the safety of decent thought by those who profess to know the truth of words written fluently yet deliberately twisted ambiguous in order to hide the cultural anger seething beneath.
For those who delete their browsing history.
For those who try to prisze open a door knowing that it will be slammed shut but keep on trying nonetheless.
For those who paid the ultimate price.
For those who resort to secret languages and those who give in and try to decipher filled with the eager promise of just knowing.
For those who are afraid.

For those who never will.
For those who see the world quivering ecstatic and reach out with trembling fingertips ever so eager to be a part yet knowing deep down they never will because they are really not as brave or as fortunate as those who colour the world with love.
For those who hide behind masks of dubious preferences just to make it look like they are one of the crowd.
For those who are furious.
For those who are curious.
For those who log on with an alias.
For those who dance ecstatic the most writhing sexual beautiful hypnotic dance but only to themselves alone alone alone in the mirror.

For those who feel that everything is hopeless faced with ninety- six percent against, newspaper editorials, fuming spitting evangelists, political bullies, idiots with guns and clubs and religious texts, charismatic spirituality, cultural commentators and peddlers of hatred.
For those who burst out so fast that the world never could catch them.
For those who burned up too soon.
For those who took a chance and flowered briefly, then disappeared, leaving behind them the hint that if done differently it might actually work.
For those who are vehement in their love.
For those who are just plain unlucky.
For those who are scared.
For those who are scarred.
For those who would otherwise be sacred.

You are the real
And your time will come
When superstition loses and common sense takes over.
Pile up your love right now
So that when the doors finally open
It will all come tumbling through.

I’ll never be employee of the week

I’ll never be employee of the week

You see their face in photographs
So proud in shirt and tie.
It’s an accolade I’ve never had
And I often wonder why.

Of course I work the best I can
With all the skills that I have got
‘Hello there!’ I’m supposed to say to customers
Instead of my usual ‘What?’

I try to learn certain procedures
And apply them to my job.
Apparently the company frowns upon
Calling a customer a ‘jumped up nob’.

Explain where you’ve used initiative,
My boss said the other day.
I haven’t thumped anyone in weeks,
Was the only thing positive I could say.

Our health and safety policy
Ensures that risk is now no more
Though it doesn’t specifically mention
Racing office chairs across the shop floor.

One moment a young trainee starts
Months later in the ranks he supersedes’ ya
Calling him a spotty faced squirt
Only leads to a grievance procedure.

Apparently a stock count is essential
Though the store room is in such a mess
It saves so much time if you can
Just try and give an educated guess.

Asked if I’d cash up the till
It’s a chore that’s no longer in my range
After I told my line manager
That I’ve developed a fear of change.

A workshop in customer services
Is something I’ve been asked to join
Since someone came in for a refund
And left with a knee in the groin.

And then there’s a sudden malfunction
With the self service automated scanner
Apparently it’s not company policy
To repeatedly hit it with a spanner.

An employee of the week I’ll never be
Nor a candidate for an actual promotion
My home made sign in the window, ‘free shoulder rubs’
Caused something of an unwanted commotion.

It’s time for your annual review,
My line manager this morning said.
We looked at each other and just sighed
And then went to the pub instead.

There’s nothing more evil than salad

There’s nothing more evil than salad.
It’s a good chew spoiled.
And since they outlawed chocolate as a salad dressing,
All the fun has gone out of it.

You never see someone enjoying a salad.
They just have this grim determination
Followed by smug satisfaction
As they continually point out that they had a salad for lunch.
Aren’t I good?
Oh you’re so smug.
I really enjoyed my pasty.

There’s nothing more evil than salad.
It’s the lunchtime equivalent of a punch in the face.
It’s why cows always look so miserable.
It’s why people who eat salad
Always look so miserable.

There’s nothing worse
Than having a belly full of celery
And an instant regret in your own existence.
A whole afternoon with it repeating on yku
Like a bad episode of CSI,
A reminder of what a martyr you have been
With your salad.
But they don’t give out medals for that,
No sir.

They’ve started painting McDonald’s green.
That’s not fooling anyone.
They’re putting more lettuce in burgers now.
It’s just the tip of the iceberg.

My lucky pants are getting a bit too tight, now.

I’m wearing my lucky pants
I think they’re a bit too tight.
They’re squeezing all sorts of things in.
It’s a feeling I really don’t like.

But I’d never want to get rid of them
Not once in a month of Sundays
So many good things have happened to me
While I’ve been in these undies.

It’s awkward when I’m wearing them
They’re affecting the way I walk.
I ran for a bus this morning.
People are starting to talk.

Every time I’ve had a blast
It’s these pants that I’ve been in
At first it was a coincidence
I’ll never throw them in the bin.

It’s kind of become a ritual
Excitement invariably starts
The moment that I put them on
And cover up my parts.

If I do well in a place
Where ordinarily I’d blunder there
The only excuse that I have
Is to blame it on my underwear.

But now they’re getting tighter
It’s almost borderline kinky
These pants that did so well for me
Can now be described as slinky.

If I have to give a speech
And be heard right at the back
My voice goes higher as I realise
They’ve gone right up my crack.

People can tell when I’ve got them on
There really is no mistaking.
The friction as I walk it really is
The cause of some serious chafing.

So many good things have happened in these pants
And one or two just after
I used to feel like a sex god in them,
But now there’s only laughter.

I’m wearing my lucky pants
And with them life used to be a breeze
I still put them on when I need some good luck
But instead there’s just a tight squeeze.

Bad Uncle

Bad Uncle

I really am a bad uncle.
I’m really not that good.
I never buy them sweets or things
Like a proper uncle should.

I really am a bad uncle.
Not once did I show consternation
When I made them get the tennis ball back
From inside the electricity substation.

I really am a bad uncle
Being with them is terribly tiring.
I told them the meaningless of existence
When they asked to hear something inspiring.

I really am a bad uncle
Hey uncle, have you brought us some sweets?
No I haven’t, I said, but hey, just for fun
Help me go through these tax return receipts.

I really am a bad uncle
They wanted chicken nuggets for tea.
The vindaloo which I made was ever so hot
And they left it, more for me!

I really am a bad uncle.
Let’s watch TV they said!
So many cartoons and great things to watch
I put on the Snooker instead.

I really am a bad uncle.
I thought that I knew how to treat them.
Let’s go out for the day, hooray they said
We went to the local arboretum.

I really am a bad uncle
I interrupted their tumbles and spills
And sat them down for a chat about how
To save seven to eight percent of annual heating bills.

I really am a bad uncle.
I seldom buy them a gift.
No wonder when I turn up at their house
They always look slightly miffed.

I really am a bad uncle.
I’m probably a disgrace.
They’ve never been to my house,
They’d clutter up the place.

I really am a bad uncle.
Let’s play football, uncle, they said.
Let’s not, I replied.

I really am a bad uncle.
I’m awfully glad they’re not mine.
I once was asked to babysit
They made me spill my wine.

I really am a bad uncle.
Come now, it’s time for bed.
But it’s only four in the afternoon,
One of the buggers said.

I really am a bad uncle.
I hate their high squeaky voices.
My sister seems so pleased with them
Who am I to question her life choices?

I really am a bad uncle
And as such on my record there’s a blot
The yelling, the screaming, the tantrums,
Those kids have to put up with a lot.

An Ode to Swindon

There’s a little town I visit
I go from time to time
Every time I go there
I come home feeling fine.

I arrive and I’m ever so happy
Get off the London train
I see the sign on the platform
Swindon is its name.

A pulsing rhythm drumbeat
Where nothing gets you down
You can shove Paris up your arse
Swindon is a proper town.

It’s got a lovely coffee shop
Somewhere in the middle.
And according to a friend of mine
It’s got a kick ass Lidl.

The tower blocks they built here
Look like their balanced on stilts here
No one ever wilts here
In this jewel of Wiltshire.

Going into Swindon
Always makes me hyper
Knowing it was the birthplace
Of Billee Piper.

No other place compares to it
None can barely complete
It’s like a night of hot hot sex
In Brutalist concrete.

The Edge from U2 almost bought
A pair of trousers here
The man in the pub has got no arms
He plays the piano by ear.

I’ll give my heart to Swindon
That’s my solemn vow
It’s got more canals than Guildford
It’s got more soul than Slough.

My friend Jeff gets an orgasm
Every time he sees the place
Unfortunately he lives there
He keeps his curtains closed just in case

He gets a glimpse of Swindon
You can hear it when he does
Every time I visit the place
I get a real good buzz ( so does Jeff).

It’s a place of lust and urges
And a sense of unbridled passion
I’m starting to think that this whole town
Will start to come back into fashion.

(This is a rewrite of a poem which I wrote originally during the interval at the Swindon Poetry Slam about five years ago. Amazingly I got to the final and just missed out on winning the damn thing.)

Not every Icelandic saga is full of blood and guts

Gather ye and hear the tale
Of Flurgen Flurgensson the farmer
Whose adventure in the rugged ice fields
Is one of the lesser known dramas.

Did Flurgen Flurgensson one day set out
To count his many sheep
And in the rugged ice fields of Iceland
Did Flurgen Flurgensson have cause to peep

Upon the honest beauty of Netta
Who happened to be passing by
Did Flurgen Flurgensson then let out
The most plaintive heart felt sigh?

Said Flurgen Flurgensson to his sheep,
‘Her beauty will forever be out of reach.
That my heart should make a leap,
What lesson is this that fortune doth teach?’

That night he dreamed of shape shifting berserkers
And his heart was now a mess
He thought he’d better visit Netta’s father
And to him duly confess

That he could not live a moment longer
In a world in which they were apart
He’d give his right arm and perhaps six sheep
If she would give him her heart.

Upon the way on a cold spring day
With lambs a-bounce around him
Did Flurgen Flurgensson not come to his senses
With a thought that did truly confound him?

That he might lay down his conscience
And ask for the hand of sweet Netta
Only for her father to point out to her
That, really, she could do a whole lot better

For who was he but a lonely shepherd,
In charge of a straggling flock
And she was Netta whose beauty was radiant
And he was a bit of a cock.

So Flurgen Flurgensson prayed to the gods
And mighty powerful Thor
To come and save him from his predicament
A battle as fierce as war.

And did not Thor then speak to him,
And say, wait on the mountain top?
And within three nights the problem will be solved
And all your heartbreak stop.

So Flurgen Flurgensson climbed the hill
And waited three whole days
And amid the frostbite and Arctic winds
His eyes began to glaze

And the steel fingered wind it ravaged him
And existence then suddenly seemed to pass off
That every moment of every day
All he could think was, I’m freezing me arse off.

Back down in the valley to claim his sheep
Where the weather was slightly less freezier
He’d forgotten Netta even existed
Thanks to the cold induced amnesia.

And so he went then on his way
Memory loss had erased all his trouble
But he’d also forgotten his mother’s birthday.
She hit him with a shovel.