Tag Archives: lgbt

In the Glare of the Neon Yak

In the Glare of the Neon Yak is a riproaring piece of spoken word storytelling set on a sleeper service in the middle of winter. A train full of circus performers are being stalked by a mysterious entity which seems to mean more than just its eerie manifestation. A portent, an omen, the Neon Yak symbolises dark times. Will our hero find love? Will Jacques, the tight rope walker, get back together again with his ex, the circus clown? Does the secret of the Neon Yak lie in the hands of a randy old lady? Has the buffet car run out of sausage rolls? Will Tony the Train Manager find where they’ve put Carriage F? An hour show combining poetry, storytelling and music, In the Glare of the Neon Yak is the sparkling new show from spoken word artist, Robert Garnham.

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Selfie!

Take a selfie with your camera,
A selfie with your phone,
Put your selfie up on Instagram
The moment you get home.

Take a selfie at an angle,
A selfie all a kilter,
Manipulate with photoshop
And add hashtag no filter.

Take a selfie in the rain
A selfie soaking wet
Put the selfie on your Facebook page
No ones liked it yet.

Take a selfie do a duck face
And another just for luck
Do the duck face thing so well that
People think you are a duck.

Take a selfie at a wedding
Take a selfie by mistake
Take a selfie with the coffin
As you’re grieving at a wake.

Take a selfie for publicity
A selfie to get wealthy.
Take a selfie of yourself
While you’re posing for a selfie.

Take a selfie tag a friend
Take a selfie tag a mate
Take a selfie suck your cheeks in
My god have you lost weight?

Take a selfie with a selfie stick
A selfie in a pose
Hold your phone at such an angle that
People can see right up your nose.

Take a selfie in Westminster
Take a selfie in perhaps in Chelsea
Take a photo of a friend and say
My god, it’s a someone-elsie!

The A303 isn’t as long as it used to be (It shrunk)

The A303 isn’t as long as it used to be
(It shrunk)

In prehistoric times,
Apparently,
The A303
Didn’t stop at Exeter,
But kept on going.

Continental drift played a part,
Of course.
Dinosaurs, and then
The Romans
Used it to go to
Present day Nova Scotia.
There were tea rooms, so peaceful,
Very pleasant.
Mind you, no
Motorways in those days.

Genghis Khan
Got stuck behind a tractor.
Emperor Napoleon
Got stuck behind a tractor.
The Earl of Effingham
Got stuck behind two tractors.
And I bet he was
Effingham.

The Moon was slightly closer then.
Stone Age man
Worshipping cats eyes gleaming
Brighter on account of the Moon glow
Not quite so far
For Armstrong and co to go.

Cowboys in the layby,
And the hunter gatherer clans of Wiltshire
Refused to welcome outsiders.
Mostly we just
Left them to their own Devizes.

Juicy

https://youtu.be/KUP7KC3r-ZY

This is the show that I was supposed to have toured the U.K. with this year. Alas, it was not to be.

Life can be so juicy at times. Juicy like a sweet apple, filled with goodness. It’s the small things that make it so ripe for exploration, for prodding and poking. Robert Garnham’s new show is an hour or so of performance poetry and spoken word, comedy rhymes and whimsy by the bucket full.

With poems about life, LGBT issues, being envious of beards and the pitfalls of fancying a surfer, Juicy culminates in an extended theatrical piece about love and lust set at an airport departure lounge.

Multiple slam champion and longlisted as Spoken Word Artist of the Year in 2016 and 2017, Robert has performed everywhere from the Womad Festival to London Gay Pride. He has recently featured in a tv advert campaign for a U.K. bank.

Why on earth was I made to join the Scouts?

Why on earth was I made to join the Scouts?

Why on earth was I made to join the scouts?
My parents hoped it would get me out and about.
The only thing it did
was implant in me a doubt
That I was anything like the other boys.

There was so much that I really couldn’t do
Like light a fire or paddle a canoe
The one thing it instilled in me
was being part of a crew
And the fun that I could have with the other boys.

It wasn’t the sort of place where I’d leave my stamp
Or go on hikes, across the moors we’d tramp.
Although in hindsight
it taught me everything about camp
From singing songs with all the other boys.

We’d cut down burly trees with a big old axe
And have to always strive to do our max
Dressing up in drag
singing along to backing tracks
Which is what I did with a few of the other boys.

It was a time of lust and strange hormones
In an age before we had any mobile phones
We’d use morse code
to feel somehow less alone
And chat and bitch about the other boys

We were taught that life could sometimes be quite bitter
And after camp we’d pick up all the litter.
Who on earth has plastered
the tent in tinsel and glitter?
That was me and one or two of the other boys.

We had to swear an oath to Baden Powel’s mission
Take a course in tying knots with deadly precision
We never went that night
cos it clashed with Eurovision.
Which I watched at home with all of the other boys.

Our leader started to think that things were amiss
Or maybe that we were probably taking the piss
Don’t look so sour I said,
just give us a kiss
And that’s how I left the scouts and the other boys.

The Ballad of the Lonely Bus Driver

I am the lonely bus driver
Driving round the town.
Always on the same old route,
It really gets me down.
I am the lonely bus driver
You don’t know how I feel.
The only thing that I caress
Is the steering wheel.

I am the lonely bus driver
In my big machine
It’s such a thrusting rusting bus
It’s really quite obscene.
I always get you home safely
It is my duty of care.
Although I’ll jab the brake six times
When you’re on the stairs.

I really like to drive my thing
I go the extra yard.
I make it look quite easy but
I’ll assure you it’s very hard.
I pulled up at a bus stop
And the lady there did say
I’ve never seen one as big as that
And it’s kind of tapered towards the end.

I am the lonely bus driver
I often use the clutch.
I drank a cup of coffee and
I spilled it in my crotch.
The wipers sweeping back and forth
Are powered by solenoids.
And sitting here eight hours a day
Has given me, (deep sigh).

I recall my wedding day
It was my personal hell.
She left me at the altar and
She took the dog as well.
I had to return the wedding gifts
And people made a fuss.
That’s Ok, I told them all,
I’ve till got my bus.

So if you catch the number six
Be sure to sit at the back.
Jovial customer service is
Something that I lack.
I’ll let you get on board my bus
If you flash your pass.
And when I see another bus
I will flash my headlights.

Why have your shorts got so many pockets?

Why have your shorts got so many pockets?
Why are there pockets galore?
Who looks at their pockets and thinks, you know what?
I really could do with some more.

Pockets aplenty and pockets sublime
There’s a pocket on each of your knees
Pockets on pockets and poppers in pockets
Now, where on earth are your keys?

Why have your shorts got so many pockets?
Your shorts they must weigh half a tonne.
A pocket on your thigh and two on each side
And you’ve even got four on your bum.

Why have your shorts got so many pockets?
Is it a sign of alpha male maturity?
So much metal, probably best not to wear them
While going through airport security.

Why have your shorts got so many pockets?
Do you carry lots of spanners and such?
I’ve never seen shorts with so many pockets
There’s even a pocket on your crotch,

Zippers and poppers and buttons and Velcro
And poppers and zippers god knows why.
Stand at the urinals desperate for a pee
You’ve forgotten which one is your fly.

Why have your shorts got so many pockets?
Have you really got so much to do?
Or are you a short wearing deadly assassin,
Your shorts being camouflaged too.

Why have your shorts got so many pockets?
Is it something for which you might brag?
‘Look at me with all of my pockets!’
What’s wrong with a carrier bag?