Performance poet and Professor of Whimsy
I had a wonderful time performing in Woking last night. As ever I recorded my set. I have so many of these recordings that I don’t know what to do with them. But here, at least, is last night’s.
The poems I did were:
Are you Cool?
Mariner Man (Edith Sitwell cover)
Seaside Soul
The Nature Reserve
Butter Cake
Smurftown
I Wish I Was a Panda Bear
Surfer Dude
Sofa Phobia
Shakka Lakka Boom
Oh my goodness you really are a repulsive little man.
If we should ever pass in the street I certainly
Wouldn’t doff my cap.
It makes my stomach churn even to think we are
The same species.
Your utterances are toxic and deliberately
Pugnacious and delivered with all of the wit and grace
Of a turd.
I don’t like you very much.
Oh, you saggy-bottomed baggy-jowelled loud-mouthed
Orange-faced dolt
With an expression like a spinster aunt
Straining out a poo in a station toilet
Three minutes before her train is due.
You weak-willed flabby-cheeked oddly-coiffured
Stumpy-legged dunderhead
With a mouth like a cat’s arse,
I bet you’ve got a really small knob.
You red-capped Diet Cola-quaffing potty-mouthed
Egotistical scare-mongering morally-bankrupt pile of
Upchuck.
I don’t like you very much.
You no longer need compassion to be President, apparently.
Nor any sort of wisdom nor decorum,
Just a feel for the simple prejudices that sound good
In their repeating
And an inherent inferiority complex which migh stem
From your minuscule Willy
And a hint of righteous indignation,
The last simpering gasp of mature debate
In which the ultimate insult is to accuse your enemies
Of kindness
And list among their number
Those less fortunate, less privileged, less straight,
More trans and definitely less white than yourself,
What kind of thinking does this legitimise?
What message does this send out to women
Who have been the victims of sex predators,
Or men who think it’s fine to act on such urges,
What message does this send out to the casual racist
You cry baby
You big cry baby
You white supremacist cry baby.
I don’t like you very much.
You name is an old English word for fart, how apt,
For thou art
A rancid wind passed on to the pages of history,
A stench, a gaseous build up let rip
Leaving in its wake an odour of smug pomposity
Oh, you snivelling snot bag,
You drivel-emitting weasel-brained rapscallion,
You bulbous-cheeked odious
Clay-brained tit, you crusty scab
On the face of common decency,
You pungent base fascism-obsessed unnecessary
Foul-brained ass of a man.
How I long for you to be photographed
Making love to an life sized cardboard cut out version
Of yourself while
Elon Musk wanks in the corner
How I long for that
How I long for that day.
You were on TV the other nigh
Speaking your usual complete and utter bollocks
And I had a sudden urge to lick
Oh please let me lick
Let me lick the side of your
Craggy orange face.
Poem
My tyre is flat
My roof is flat
My cola is flat
I live in a flat.
My pancake is flat
My iron is flat
My enthusiasm is flat
My coffee is a flat
white.
My battery is flat
The joke I told fell flat
Norfolk is flat
I played a piano in B
flat.
My carpet is flat
On the floor of my flat
My cap is flat
It’s a flat
Cap.
I showed this poem
To a friend.
They thought it was too
one-dimensional.
It was a beautiful day so I decided to go for a stroll on the beach and recite this poem by one of my poetry heroes, Dame Edith Sitwell. I hope you like it, and if you don’t, it’s not very long.
As someone at the cutting edge of poetic expression, I thought I’d share this sound poem which, I believe, will tear apart poetry and poetry performance in such a manner that life will never be the same again.
My poetry has often brought people to tears. It’s nice to know that it has such an emotional response.
Hello. Ever at the cutting edge, here’s a sound poem for your listening pleasure.
A barber I spoke to closes early on Christmas Eve because apparently drunk people decide to get spur of the moment haircuts and I didn’t realise that this was a thing.
The atmosphere in the pub
Had been stale.
Oh, here they come, John thought,
Just as he was thinking of flipping the sign
In the door to CLOSED.
In they pile in their puffy coats!
Lairy, unable to fathom
A system for queuing.
Use your indoor voices, for goodness sake!
One still had his fingers clamped around
A glass from the pub,
Like he really couldn’t let go of the moment.
We all want
MOHAWKS!
(Lads! Lads! Lads!)
Are you sure?
Wouldn’t you rather
Sleep it off?
MOHAWKS MOHAWKS MOHAWKS!
(Lads! Lads! Lads!)
A chant from the waiting area,
Ruddy cheeks and bleary eyes.
Sit down then, he sighs.
Adam first, he adjusts the chair, the lad yells
WAHAAAAYYYY!
I’m going down, fellas!
It’s like riding Big Dippers!
John brings out the clippers,
Cuts away his luscious locks,
Hey lads, Ad yells, hey lads, hey lads,
I’m getting a real buzz out of this.
Do you get it? Buzz!
Geeeeenius!
Who’s that bastard in the mirror?
Want to fight about it, brother?
And by the way,
Is there a draught in here?
Adam,
What the fuck you done to your barnet?
Who’s next in the chair,
Runs a hand though his hair, it’s Rick,
Clipped and buzzed and shorn,
For goodness sake, sit still!
Says Rick : I think I’m gonna be sick!
I think I’m gonna be sick!
Calls for Huey as he leans for the sink,
Oh my god it’s dripping from his chin!
Lads! Lads! Lads!
MOHAAAWWWWK!
And now it’s time for Scoots.
Says Scoots, give me a MOHAWK my good friend!
Make me look less feral, like nature has called!
Says John, I can’t, because you are bald,
I want a MOHAWK gimme a MOHAWK!
I want one now without further ado.
OK says John, let me find
The super glue.
Now stop your shouting, please,
Let’s have some hush.
And someone pass me the contents
Of that dustpan and brush!
And now it’s Aidge, he leaps on the stage,
Your turn now, sit still, stop fidgeting!
Play punch your pal when this is all done.
I can’t wait for my wife to see this, says Aidge,
Oh my she will laugh, it will be such fun!
This is gonna be great, this is gonna be dope!
Hey, why are you taking off so much hair?
What’s a MOHAWK anyway?
Why didn’t anyone tell me what a MOHAWK was
Before we started all this?
Can you put it back?
Can this be reversed?
Sindy is gonna kill me!
Though he nods nods nods
When John holds up the mirror,
See the back of your head?
Yeah, I see the back of my head.
Sad tinsel twists in waves of warmth
From a plug in heater.
The lads all look the same
And a little bit neater.
They pay up in full which makes it
All the more sweeter,
And then, with a belch and a curse and a cry
Of MOHAWK MOHAWK MOHAWK,
Lads! Lads! Lads!
They’re off.
How quiet it is, John locks the door,
A sigh of relief as he sweeps the floor.
Perhaps he won’t open
On Christmas Eve no more.
On the spur of the moment he decides what he’ll do.
He’ll pop next door and get an impromptu tattoo.
Hello, here’s a poem from my set last night in Exeter. The poem is called Dreamscraper, from my collection, Hello!
I hope you like it.
Hello, just booked into a hotel and my room has a s-s-sofa in it. I don’t want to change rooms because it’s otherwise quite nice. But I’ve always had a phobia of sofas.
That’s what this poem is all about.
And here’s me, on the s-s-sofa. Being very brave.
Hello, here’s a new poem. I hope you like it.
Robert Garnham