American Elections 2012

When Romney casts his vote, and Obama
dithers on his four-year trauma,
Why am I listening to Adele?
Am I some tree you wish to fell?

We've been too long;
I can't have some Romantic love song.
It hurts too much for this to besmirch
My memories.

I can't be arsed. You've had my heart,
Now relinquish my Nectar Card
'cos I’ve got points to spend
If our relationship's at its end?

So set me free, like a Butterfree,
So this pain can cease to hurt
me.



I own nothing but the sequence of words in this poem. Any reference to Pokémon or Sainsbury's is purely reverential. If offence is caused to either organisation is caused, please contact the publisher who will address all concerns.

The WINNER of this 'week's' prize will win a 'week-long trip to Barbados'!!! All expenses paid, all food, accommodation, travel expenses, cosmetic surgery, and anything else you would like! PLEASE contact this publisher!

There is no prize for this week. Anything read above is a lie. Please disregard. The publisher, and author, are not held to the above assertion. We are not affiliated with Sainsbury's, Barbados, Pokémon, or anyone else that this post may suggest we are. No-one associated with this post are bound to anything within it, ever.

Call Me If You're Sober

What?
Is wrong with this and us and here and now?
Can't we give it a chance, let Fate roll her dice?
Or should we bid goodbye tonight with a bow
Because you won't let us be 'us' or be nice
Enough to give us time to try to work.
Pots and pans clutter everyone's kitchens,
But does anyone blame it on the fork?
You don't need to change your life, your religion;
Can't we be a teenage crush or Summer fling?
It should be fun; no need for awkward sex.
Let's just party with friends and dance and sing,
Even if we argue once we're drunk on Becks.
But no. Maybe we should just stay as friends.
It would be nicer than some other ends.

Just for the record, I don't drink Becks. Vodka and coke is the prize for this week. Or a coke if youre a minor ;]

Left Inside Alone

I watch them as they enter, his
Knuckles white as he grips the
Handles of her wheelchair. In this
I glimpse their long history:

Years spent holding hands, chaste kisses
By the beach, children raised with
Love. I wonder if he misses
The long gone life they used to live.

They’d stay up late, talk through the night
Of their fantasies and fears
Till sun came up to shine its light
On their slowly drying tears.

Perhaps they argued, now and then,
Over who’d feed baby in
Dead of night, or who’d check again
Some silly, boring, trifling thing.

But that’s just the story for me and you;
He sits and feeds her tiramisu.


Any guesses for el title? The winner gets a coffee from Caffè Nero!

I Don't Do Sadness

I can’t breathe. It’s spilling out of me, tearing
Me open as I fight to carry on.
You scratch, you punch, you scare;
Our plan to marry’s gone;
All the clothes I’ve tried, no matter what I’m wearing,

You don’t have a clue, don’t give a fuck.
Leave me at home, staring at the clock-
But no, I’ll stay composed,
Keep my chest locked and closed.

No matter what you say, you won’t sway me any way.
You can carry on; bed all the women that you want.
Be who you are: act like a child, be a little boy.

Just leave me to my pain, even if you can’t
Feel a thing, leave me now to heal;

I can’t look you in the eyes and see you not caring.

More rambling nonsensical poetry from my mad mind. Easy enough clue today; the prize? A trip to Ibiza with a packet of softmints (I provide the softmints, you provide the trip to Ibiza).

Thrust Into My Hips

Open the windows, let in the air,

Pick up the bottles, chuck out the cans.

You can stay lying just over there,

Wouldn’t want you to dirty your hands.

The morning after your birthday last night

Is cold with the sting of the fresh winter breeze

As I scurry around getting dirt out of sight.

And you call down shall I order Chinese?

Not quite yet my strapping young man,

I’m going to join you back in our bed

For a cuddle and story, if you can

And I’ll rest on your chest with my head.

The comforting beat of your heart in my ear

Sends my mouth crashing forwards onto your lips.

And I grasp you, holding you near,

Murmuring as you thrust into my hips.

As with most of my poetry, it's not me speaking.

Composed Upon London Bridge

Standing here above the river
As burning blights the bright night,
Embers of empire fail to deliver.
New broken glass to be a tourist sight
Stands half-erect on this skyline.
With this our United Queendom
Growing impotent, MPs mutter that it's fine
While we fight for Eastern freedom.
As I look out across the capital
At remnants of a once great city
Whose heart and soul were used as mere collateral
I think of other once great Empires with such pity.
So, on London Bridge I shall remain
And humbly miss my commuter train.

They're Taking the Hobbits to Asgard!

Fighting for supremacy,

o’er golden hair and bended knee.

Looking out across the stars,

who’ll gain control of Earth and Mars?

that tricky trickster doth defile

fair maiden queen that made wheat fertile.

Fleeing from thund’rous rage

to sultry servants of the age

to beg fine gifts worthy of her suitor.

Yet whilst to Asgard he’s en route to her

a small mutt’ring doth him distract.

Entering in an unholy pact

he bets the sum of his head whole

to wise old smithies far from droll.

But that cunning fly loves deceit

and his maker does not wish to meet

So with a prick upon that brow

he suavely breaks his vow.

Returning to fair maiden’s home,

with his gifts he must atone.

Yet the tricky trickster next does flee

and now golden maiden can contented be.

This is one stanza from my book, 'Musings of a Journey: Part ii'. Part i can be found here

This week's title is not very imaginative, but oh well. The prize is four packs of Chewits. Enjoy!

Internally Agonising

Something I jotted down when I should have been doing real work :D

When your room is a mess, and you couldn’t care less
And you don’t know where you left your chair,
You can search all about, have a huff and a shout
Or you can simply ask your bear.

When he doesn’t have a clue, and you don’t know what to do,
You can go to the lounge, maybe even have a scrounge,
And ask your little mouse if he’s eaten any grouse,
Before he has a chance to swear.

But if you’ve lost that room to flowers all abloom,
You must have a good whack with an axe you’ll hack,
Take back what’s yours and open all the doors,
Then shove all the mess out there.

Though the problem still remains, we’ve tired our brains,
I don’t know what to do, I haven’t any clue
I don’t know why you asked, I really can’t be arsed,
You’ll just have to live without a chair.

This week's title is not a quote 'm'afraid because I couldn't be bothered with finding one. However, if you can hazard a guess at why this poem's called 'Internally Agonising' I'll send you some posies

My Swan Song

My Swansong

If all that’s still to do were left to me and you,
Would the skies still split, cause the Earth to shake
And pull the night apart?

Would we carry on though we’d soon be gone?
Could we journey far, do our worst,
And sing our last swansong?

 

This week's title/puzzle/game/thing is quite rubbish. I'm fairly sure I'm going to get done for copyright infringement one of these days so grab the awful prizes while you can! Have a guess :)