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.
You know what it's like. It's just gone three in the afternoon And you get a sudden pang For casserole. Not quite as full on as a stew, Not quite as funky as a hot pot, Not quite as opaque as soup Nor even a broth with its Meaty meaty chunks, Casserole, winter warmer, Dumpling soaker, Casserole casserole casserole, Mmm mmm mmm!
Traipsing round the supermarket aisle Where is the casserole? This'll take a while I tell you what will a-make a-me smile A glimpse of casserole, I would run a mile Like a character from mythology, a personal trial Casserole casserole casserole, Mmm mmm mmm!
Excuse me mister manager Supermarket manager Where is the casserole, Don't hold it back! Excuse me mister manager Supermarket manager Where is the casserole, It's something that you lack!
Casserole casserole casserole, Mmm mmm mmm!
And the supermarket manager said
2.
I am the very model of a supermarket manager We have so many bargains here we'd see off any challenger We sell our food in tins and packs and sometimes in a canister And if somebody makes a mess I have to call the janitor. I am so damn professional I'm nothing like an amateur Our shelves are always fully stocked, our sugar it is granular I make a daily sales forecast with several parameters We have a fine display in here of spoons and forks and spatulas Our singles night is Wednesday the place is full of bachelors I am the very model Yes I am the very model Yes I am the very model Of a supermarket manager!
(He is the very model of a supermarket manager!)
I have so many colleagues here and staff and several underlings I go straight home it's getting late I strip down to my underthings I'm not about to come on to you if that is what you're wondering Cos I'm a decent sort of chap though often prone to blundering The music that I hear at night is shopping trolleys trundling It fills me with a strange delight I cannot stop from shuddering A queue of shoppers in a row, the slowest till is the one working Our motto is Grab What You Can, a philosophy which underpins Our shareholders and chief exec, our profits they are funnelling I am the very model Yes I am the very model Yes I am the very model Of a supermarket manager!
(He is the very model of a supermarket manager!)
But I don't know if we've got Casss-errrrrrr-roooolllllle!
I'll ask Janet.
Oh, Janet?
3.
What?
You got any of the good stuff, Janet?
And iiiiiii-eeeeeee-iiiiiiiiii-eeeeeee-iiiiii, Will always loooovee Souuuuuuuuuupppppp.
No Janet, the other thing?
Oh yes.
(To the tune of Alejandro, by Lady Gaga)
I've looked everywhere In the stock room But I haven't got a pack n't got a pack. In the freezer In the stock room Not even in the chiller on the shelf.
You know that I love casserole, Hot like stew or a sausage roll At this point I do suggest Pot Noodle
Don't look like we Have got any Casserole -ole, I'm not your babe With casserole Haven't got none, Not in a pack Nor in a box Just a small back We haven't got We haven't got Any cass'role.
Any cass'role Any cass'role Cassy cassy cass'role Cassy cassy cass'role
Any cass'role Any cass'role Cassy cassy cass'role Cassy cassy cass'role
Stop, please! Just let me go!
I've got a spillage in aisle six.
4.
Tell me young man, Why do you like casserole so much?
I live a life devoted to it And it often gets me grumpy That a common misconception is That it's cold and ever so lumpy.
A casserole is different And lifts me high anew It fills me with a warmth inside That you don't really get with stew.
And stroganoff can bugger off Please take away that bowl And if you really love me true Just give me casserole.
I spent a night of bliss with Trish So sexual so winsome so fetching She gave me a plate of beef bourgignon I spent the whole night retching.
Casserole casserole casserole Just the sound of it makes me tingle. Casserole casserole casserole. It's probably why I'm still single.
5.
I'm sorry I can't help you With that food that you do seek The only thing that I suggest Is to come back next week.
Our casserole it takes its toll And I really don't want to harm ya Perhaps young man I could tempt you With a chiller fridge lasagne?
6.
Dinner. I want for dinner A dish that I can have with wine It's the one thing on my mind. Hunger. Increasing hunger. An empty stomach makes a growling sound It's enough to bring me down.
This supermarket hasn't got any casserole. And now I will take my leave!
Came in Around 3.30 Thought it would only take a smidge Headed to the chiller fridge Empty It was so empty A gap where obviously it should have been Everyone could hear me scream.
This supermarket hasn't got any casserole. And now I will take my leave!
Stocktake, The latest stocktake It says you had some yesterday Now they all have gone away Checking The best before date This supermarket Hasn't got It hasn't got Any casserole This supermarket Hasn't got It hasn't got Any casserole And Now I Will Leeeeeeaaaaavvvvee!
I wish I lived in a bungalow One floor is enough for me. I wish I lived in a bungalow No upstairs for me don’t you see? It’s ever so static I’d feel so ecstatic And going upstairs Only leads to the attic I wish I lived in a bungalow One floor is enough for me.
I wish I lived in a bungalow My god it would be the best. People would visit my bungalow And ask, hey where’s the rest? People would call They’d stand in the hall They’d look around And say, ‘Is that all?’ I wish I lived in a bungalow One floor is enough for me.
I wish I lived in a bungalow I’d go from room to room. I’d only need one plug you see When I use the vacuum. It’s ever so static I’d feel so ecstatic And going upstairs Only leads to the attic I wish I lived in a bungalow One floor is enough for me.
I wish I lived in a bungalow Though people might think i was odd Saying, “he lives in a bungalow, He’s really a miserable sod”. I’d have no cares I’d ignore their stares There is no cupboard Under the stairs I wish I lived in a bungalow Or perhaps a ground floor flat.
I wish I lived in a bungalow My bedroom down the hall. Would I get bored of my bungalow? No, not a chance, not at all. It’s what I adore I’d be thrilled to the core My plan only has One major floor I wish I lived in a bungalow And be closer to planet earth.
I wish I lived in a bungalow Imagine the plaudits and glory Like the Star Wars franchise the place Only has the one storey. It’s what I’d do Without much ado The downstairs loo Is just called the loo I wish I lived in a bungalow Also, I’m ever so lonely.
I wish I lived in a bungalow My life would be a ballet I wish I lived in a bungalow Or possibly a chalet. There’s nothing I’d lack A garden out back The vibe it gives off Is that of a shack I wish I lived in a bungalow One floor is enough for me.
I wish I lived in a bungalow You try it, you can’t go back. I wish I lived in a bungalow Perhaps in a cul-de-sac. It’s made out of brick I get such a kick You can keep your stairs They’re making me sick I wish I lived in a bungalow With Darren from the coffee shop.
I wish I lived in a bungalow It’s something I’ll always regret. Nothing better than a bungalow, You can keep your maisonette. That’s my intent The hours I’ve spent It’s one step away From being a tent. It wouldn’t be far You can visit by car You can come right in The door is ajar. I’d make my stamp Buy a standard lamp You’ll have to admit It’s kind of camp I wish I lived in a bungalow I wish I lived in a bungalow I wish I lived in a bungalow One floor is enough for me.
They were made for each other. He was a trainspotter, And she was chuffed to have met him. She was a Pisces And he looked a bit like a trout. They were definitely made for each other.
His favourite music was grime. And she worked for Windowlene. She liked doing jigsaws And he liked eating biscuits. They both started with the edges first.
I love you to the Moon and back, he said. She said, what if it’s a full moon? He said, I’ll come back when it’s empty. He said this with a twinkle in his eye Which he was due to see the doctor about. He said he was an artist, a genius when he had a brush in his hand. She said, great, I need the bathroom decorating.
He was a locksmith. She held the key to his heart. The other was left with a neighbour. They composed a melody about Haribo Gummi bears. When they were together They made such sweet music.
She only celebrated World Book Day Which is just as well because He had a collection of atlases. One day they were walking when a Protractor fell from the sky. He looked into her eyes and said, ‘heaven must be missing an angle’.
He was a pessimist. She told him to stick his chin out. It didn’t work. The bus went straight past. She told him that she was an optimist. He said, so’s my sister. She works in Specsavers.
She was so resourceful. When the cat died she turned it Into a footstool. It looked awful But at least it was made from Scratch. They both loved animals. He said, have you seen the dog bowl? She said, yes, and he’s good At snooker, too.
They had similar interests. He read War and Peace And she posted a lot on Twitter. Both have 280 characters. He was a terrible speller. He made a big banner, WILL YOU MARRY ME? She said, Who’s Mary?
He said, Will you always remember me? She said, yes. He said, Will you always always remember me? She said, yes, yes. He said, Will you always always always remember me? She said, yes, yes, yes! He said, knock knock? She said, who’s there?
Let’s face it, there are far too many spoken word artists and poets called Tom. This poem was written about six years ago and it’s about one of them. Or maybe all of them. Or none of them. Anyway, you decide!
It was filmed about six years ago, too, by John Tomkins.
Tom
Chisel-chinned trendy wordsmith All teeth and tan and hair That looks like it could be easily quiffable So young and clean he's probably easily sniffable Thou hipster Ginsberg with a Conscience so hot it can Warm the coldest day with the Fires of righteousness, Whose words ooze sensibility, How pained his outlook, this Zeitgeist-bending Twitter-trending Hot young thing, this New kid on the writer's block, this Prototype Byron with exuberant facial expressions This slam-winning rhyme-spinning nonchalant Thin thin slip of a lad with a gob that spews Perfect indignation in just the right amounts With controlled anger And lots of dramatic
Pauses.
Oh god, I wish he was me.
I wish I could be him, I wish me and him We're mutually interchangeable, He's so brilliant, like the brightest object In the known galaxy, a supernova, A thousand fires of phosphorus force Brilliant at what he does, Brilliant at capturing souls Brilliant at poetry I bet he's brilliant at everything I bet he's never lost a game of Buckaroo.
He's brilliant and sexy and worthy and oh so right And sexy and coolly infused into the very now And sexy and young with the most perfect skin That he should merely stand at the mic and open His mouth and utter two syllables for me to become as blustered As a Victorian gentleman whose just Caught his first glimpse of ankle.
And I want to speak to him, I want to commune with him, I want to tell him: good stuff, man, You've opened my mind to new possibilities And then trampled on it with your youthfulness, In your trendy converse all stars with no socks, As you lift the night completely to the very pinnacle Of absolute truth And by turns reminded me that my own youthfulness Is now as relevant and erroneous As turning up at an otter convention With a stoat.
Oh, this slippy hippy snake-like lad, All very subtle and very emotey If you didn't know any better You'd think him a bit scrotey, So slight and wild in the night, Afire with the rhythms of poets past, I want to speak to him Whisper so subtly into his ear, Blow me, Blow me away with your words. I love your body I love your body I love you body Of work.
And at the break, people are talking, Eulogising, rhapsodising And it's all about him, oh, For he's so intense and righteous and theatrical And oh, He's so vibrant and ravishing and clever And oh, He's so visionary and brash and emotional And oh, Not only that but he's got the kind of forearms That could easily operate a butter churn with Hardly any trouble at all, (This gig being in an arts centre in Dorset, Where butter churns are obviously still a thing).
I follow him, Through this crowd of admirers and acolytes Tiptoeing on the periphery Of a youthful mini mob Suddenly aware that I'm the only one there Who remembers the millennium Or tamagotchis Or the 1984 Olympics,
He makes a break for the bogs, And now we're at neighbouring urinals, The Fluorescent tubes of this magical wazza Gently caressing the soft hairs of his delicate chin, His eyes scanning the blank tiled wall, His sensitive nostrils Taking in the pungent earthy aromas In a venue where the Patrons are mostly Vegetarian and as such Relish the most intriguing bowel movements. (As for myself, I've never Had much of a sense of hummus).
His eyes almost feral and yet With deep intelligence As he concentrates in the matter at hand With the same kind of intensity He demonstrates at the Mic, His pee stream strong, And healthy, and forceful, It sounds like the Trevi Fountain And certainly just as aesthetically pleasing. He doesn't even fart. Is there anything He's not good at?
And I want to tell him That I loved his poems. All of his poems. His poem about oxygen Was such a breath of fresh air, His poem about raspberries Was surprisingly bitter, His poem about the Mona Lisa Was a masterpiece, His poem about the perfect serve in tennis, I couldn't fault it, His poem about being woken by the smoke alarm, Such an eye opener, And I want to tell him That I got the joke he put in About de ja vue, Even though I'd heard it before
And I want to tell him That he's changed the way I look at the world. And I want to tell him That he speaks with a clarity of conscience so concise He makes the Dalai Lama look like a mardy Self-centred premiership footballer, And I want to tell him That his voice is so silky smooth, Listening to him is just like Nuzzling a mallard And I want to tell him That I'd pay him thirty quid and a packet of Frazzles For just a very brief snog And I want to tell him That his skinny jeans really Leave nothing to the imagination.
And I want to tell him That his work evokes such feelings within, Destiny and timelessness, The sheer manic dance of life, Magic in the mundane, A pounding euphoric oneness That weaves us all into that Inescapable yet brilliant tapestry of life, This is what I want to tell him, But instead I stare at his nob.
We wash our hands at the sink And as I wait for the hand dryer Which has all the power of A gnats fart, I say
I shouldn’t let it happen, It really is quite stupid. The way I sense in any man The beating wings of Cupid.
You came and sat right next to me And smiled and something passed. Passengers both on a pleasure boat, By its nature it couldn’t last.
We spent the day having adventures In Fjords and on frozen seas, Coupled by fate in a makeshift date So relaxed and totally at ease.
I’ve always had a romantic side And a lust for far-off places. And a dream to find my one true love Amid the world’s anonymous faces.
Oh Tomas, there was something strong Between us, we each were a cure. But I knew all the time there was something wrong Love is seldom so convenient or pure.
It wouldn’t have worked, it couldn’t have worked, There was no sense in trying. If I were younger I would have stressed, Said nothing, and spent the whole night sighing.
So I held back and let you go And pretended it wasn’t worth it. Sometimes life comes in monstrous waves And all you can do is surf it.
We arrived at the dock in the harbour, My heart beat its pumping refrain, Left the boat on the gangplank together Knowing I’d never see you again.
Biscuit donkey chocolate eclair. Weston-Super-Mare. Traffic light pomegranate Yogi Bear Weston-Super-Mare. Slam dunk Bill’s big hair. Weston-Super-Mare. Almost bought a pair of trousers there. Weston-Super-Mare. Don’t look Timmy it’s rude to stare. Weston-Super-Mare. Weston-Super-Mare. Weston Super, Weston Super, Weston-Super-Mare.
Guess where the villain has his secret lair. Weston-Super-Mare. Debonair kitchenware chemical warfare Weston-Super-Mare. Can I take your photo? Don’t you dare. Weston-Super-Mare. I lost my virginity there. Where? Bournemouth. Who wants to be a millionaire? Weston-Super-Mare. Have you got a ticket pay your excess fare Weston-Super-Mare. Don’t move you’ve got something crawling in your hair. Weston-Super-Mare. Weston-Super-Mare. Weston Super Weston Super Weston-Super-Mare.
Underwear everywhere ready to wear Weston-Super-Mare Thoroughfare deckchair devil may care Weston-Super-Mare Solitaire questionnaire update on your software Weston-Super-Mare Can I take your photo? Don’t you dare. Weston Super Mare My sheds in a state of disrepair Weston super mare Loose floorboard on the twenty third stair Weston super mare Elton John once sneezed on the mayor Weston-Super-Mare. Weston-Super-Mare. Weston Super Weston Super Weston-Super-Mare. Weston super mare (oi!) Weston super mare (oi!) Weston Super Weston Super Weston-Super-Mare.
One of the things I’m proudest of are the poetry films I made with London’s Muddy Feet Poetry Films. I first met Peter Hayhoe at Bang Said The Gun, the raucous poetry night which I’d attend every time I went to London. He invited me along to a recording session in a studio in the east of the city which he’d booked for the day, and various poets would come and go and he would film them performing their poems. Over the years I returned twice more and we would have all sorts of fun, working out angles and scenery and the such. The last time I went up to London, the recording session had to be cancelled due to logistical reasons. No problem, Peter said, let’s film anyway. So we went to a park in South London and filmed the poem on the gym equipment. Anyway, here are the videos we made. I hope you like them.
Robert Garnham 