Performance poet and Professor of Whimsy
I had a wonderful time performing at Guilfest yesterday at the Literature Tent, brought to you by Fiery Bird. I taped my set, which you can hear below. The poems I performed were
Blimp
Plop
Big Bag O’Pants
The Nature Reserve
Shakka Lakka Boom
Thank you for reaching out to me.
It seems that everyone is reaching out to me
These days.
Every bloody email,
‘I’m reaching out to you’,
Like I’m drowning.
The only thing I’m drowning in
Are emails saying
That someone is reaching out to me.
So here I am reaching back.
Reaching out.
Reaching up!
Where are you on high that you should
Reach out,
Reach down,
That I am so lowly
As to be reached out to?
Thank you for your email, you knobhead.
Where were you that time a black hole
Manifested itself in my air fryer?
Where were you that time I got
Knees in the groin by a nun?
Where were you that time
I heard a rustling in the public litter bin
So I went to look but got the bin lid stuck on my head
Wedged by my ears
And the rustling was a rat and the rat
Bit the end of my nose and clung on
And I tried to pull my head clear but the bin lid
Came off
And I went racing round the park
With a bin lid stuck on my head
And a rat clamped on the end of my nose
And I was shouting, get it off, get it off?
Where was your reaching out then?
No reaching out was done.
No stretching a metaphorical arm across
The formless void that separates us.
That void is there for a reason.
I’m thinking of renaming myself Sid.
Sid seems the sort of name
That people don’t reach out to.
I’ve never known someone called Sid
Get reached out to.
No reaching out to Sid.
Actually I’ve never known someone called Sid.
But if I did know a Sid
I wouldn’t email saying I’m reaching out
I’d just say, hello Sidney,
Do you mind if I call you Sid?
Reaching out is bollocks.
Reaching out is bollocks.
I think I’ll say it a third time,
Reaching out is bollocks.
Please stop reaching out.
I hate reaching out.
Cease this reaching out.
How corporate crap is reaching out.
How benevolent, you tosser,
With your reaching out.
Stop your reaching out.
I thought I’d just
Touch base.
I thought I’d just
Touch base.
Draw a line under it.
Kind regards, kind regards,
Reaching out, touching you,
Bugger off.
Here’s a new poem for you. It’s only eight lines long, and it’s about identity, I suppose.
Hello, here are three poems I performed the other night. Flurgen is a new poem and this was its first ever recital. I hope you like them.
That tiny mouth
Screws tight like a cat’s arse.
His eyebrows arch down
Like wiper blades on a
Written off Citroen.
He closes his eyes screwed tight
And makes the same sort of noise
As the grunt my gran lets out
After banging her shin on
The coffee table,
And then he makes another sort of noise,
Similar to that uttered by someone
After they’ve realised they’ve
Stepped
Barefoot on a slug.
That’s noise number two
He wrinkles his nose
And some snot comes out.
It’s there on his upper lip like a green
Hitler moustache.
His shoulders are pale white
But there’s a semi circle of orange.
He smells of chip fat and fudge.
He quivers for a bit
Like an old fridge turning itself off.
Soaked in sweat, he
Collapses onto the bed,
The bouncing motion of which
And the big slap
He delivers to his own belly
Causes the moistness to fly off,
Flobber around the room
Like one of those big dogs with drool
When it shakes its head.
He then makes a noise
Which might be laughter but sounds
Like a
Cat about to throw up a fur ball.
Donald Trump
Enjoyed his orgasm.
Earlier in the year I went to Norway and went up a mountain in the Arctic circle. And when I was at the top I could think of nothing better to do than film a poem. It was very cold.
Robert Garnham