I just remembered that in all the working on my book and stuff, I never posted my last few NaPoWriMo poems, so here they are. 

*

#26

Rabies: A Love Story (Part 3)

Colin is a very good actor.
He’s not become flustered once
in this interview improv.
Watching Colin perform is like
watching a sportsman on top form.

This is very tense. You’ve chain smoked
your way thru this entire exchange.
I’m sensing he knows more than he’s saying,
but we don’t have enough evidence
on him yet, and he’s giving us 
nothing to go on. God, he’s good.

At dinner, you accidentally touch
my ankle with your foot
and decide not to pull away.
You look deep into my eyes
every time I speak. We are becoming
close. We reach for the bottle
of wine at the same time.
Neither of us move our hand until the waiter comes
saying I have an urgent phone call.

*

#27

At A Bus Stop

I’m wondering how many times we’ve kissed.
If one of us had kept a tally,
would we look at the number 
and be surprised, or would we think,
“Yeah, that sounds about right”?

*

#28

The poem I wrote on the 28th was called Equus, and I was so happy with it that it ended up being a last minute addition to my forthcoming book, so I’m not going to type it up in this post. Sorry.

(I’m not sorry)

*

#29

Ella Fitzgerald

Eyes glazed over in a smoke filled room.
Hooked on this voice. Clutching a whisky glass.
“Wow. Seriously, WOW.” You wish
you were in a bar in the 1950’s

rather than in this kitchen, at this party,
at four in the morning, wondering where
your friends have gone, and why 
no-one sings quite like this anymore.

*

#30

The Over-Familiar Dentist

Always plays your favourite songs.
Always makes your appointments run too long.
Always calls you, “Darling.”
Always asks about your love life.
Always tells you about theirs.
Always talks in breathy tones.
Always strokes your face too gently.
Always says, “Well, NOW you have a kissable mouth,” when finished.
Always hugs you before you leave.
Always lets the hug linger.
Always makes sure their cheek is stroking yours when pulling away.
Always catch them in the mirror looking at your bum as you walk out.
Always leaves you feeling like you need a cigarette and a shower afterwards.

You need a new dentist.

‘Tomorrow’s Harvest Transmission’ by Boards of Canada
New Boards of Canada album, ‘Tomorrow’s Harvest,’ out 10th of June. I am so excited, it’s ridiculous.

Vegetables

I am a potato.
I am very versatile.

I am a carrot.
I am more versatile than people realise.

I am a pea.
Me and the other peas
find we have the same problem as carrots.

I am a courgette.
I don’t think the peas and the carrots
realise how good they have it.

I am a lettuce.
People think I’m boring
because they are boring with me.

But on one thing
almost all vegetables agree.
We hate the potatoes.
They are smug
and we are sick of them getting all the attention.

And don’t get us started on tomatoes.

Transmission

(static)

INDIA LIMA YANKEE
INDIA LIMA YANKEE

(static)
(six note tune)
(static)

ALFA GOLF DELTA GOLF INDIA YANKEE OSCAR GOLF PAPA
(brief pause)
ALFA GOLF DELTA GOLF INDIA YANKEE OSCAR GOLF PAPA
(brief pause) (static)
INDIA YANKEE OSCAR VICTOR INDIA ROMEO PAPA FOXTROT
(brief pause)
INDIA YANKEE OSCAR VICTOR INDIA ROMEO PAPA FOXTROT
(brief pause) (static)
ECHO VICTOR WHISKEY PAPA YANKEE ZULU CHARLIE
(brief pause) (static)
ECHO VICTOR WHISKEY PAPA YANKEE ZULU CHARLIE
(static)
QUEBEC FOXTROT ZULU WHISKEY NOVEMBER OSCAR MIKE DELTA FOXTROT SIERRA LIMA 
(brief pause)
QUEBEC FOXTROT ZULU WHISKEY NOVEMBER OSCAR MIKE DELTA FOXTROT SIERRA LIMA

(static)
(six note tune)
(static)

(static)

.

.

.

.

http://www.braingle.com/brainteasers/codes/onetimepad.php

Variations On James Blake’s Retrograde: No.7

You’re on your own in a world you’ve grown.

You own your own world.

In our world
you’re a dove.
You’re in your gown.
You grow your own veg.
We run around our world.
Our very now, new world.

In our rainy world
we are in love.

On we go.

.

.

.

.

This poem was originally written as a grid, with the first line being a direct lift from the song and all following words made up of letters from that line. It created a sort of letter pattern, but I couldn’t work out how to make it look right on here, so I’ve edited it into more of a recognisable poem shape.

This Rock I Saw One Time Somewhere

A large, imperfect shape,
rough of texture, like the calloused
skin of years of hard graft,
yet the grass underneath is brown,
dead from years of motionlessness
and malnourishment. Who knows
which of the thousands of species
of moss this is that flourishes
upon you? Who can know the history
of its cultivation? As you touch
this stone surface, you-
                                      oop-
                                              *YAWWW-
                                                                WWWN*
Oh, sorry, I,
                    I just,
                              *YAWN*
                                            Sorry.
It’s just that this is so boring.

I mean,
             it’s just a fucking rock.

Maybe if touching the rock
opened a door to a secret
underground lair where gnomes
were mining for diamonds,
or if a significant event 
once happened here,
or even if this rock
just reminded you of something,
                                                    but nothing
is happening. You’re just looking at a rock.
It might be pleasant,
                                 but it’s not a poem.

RABIES: A LOVE STORY (Part 2)

Today’s weather is my favourite kind.
Sunny, crisp air, and only just warm
so I only need to wear a t-shirt
under my open coat. Perfect.

Shame I have to wear this suit,
as Poirot would not be seen
dead in a t-shirt and coat.
He would see it as beneath him,
the clothing of an uncouth gentleman.

Today we have narrowed down our list
of suspects down to ten. Still too many
really. I’m going over them again
trying to find some vital clues
when you tell me that if this case
were made into a film,
you would like to be played by Gwyneth Paltrow,
as you think she seems like
someone it would be very easy to fall in love with
if you were ever to meet her.

I really can’t tell if you’ve broken character here or not,
as I can imagine both you and your character
feeling this way about Gwyneth Paltrow,
and I can’t risk breaking character myself
to tell you you just lost the game 
in case it turns out I’m wrong
and *I* end up losing.

If this is an attempt to throw me off guard,
then it is a very well played move indeed.

You yawn.
In order to try and get the upper hand back,
I peel off one of the black Jelly Babies
and throw it into your mouth,
but,
you just spit it back out
into your hand.
“Nice try,” you say,
as you place it back onto my face.

I show you the list of six suspects
I think we need to question the most.
You ask me if I’m sulking
and I say no, but it’s obvious I am
because I said it as if I were
a grumpy fifteen year old still.
“You ARE sulking!”
“Shut up.”
“But you ARE!”
“Shut up, right now,
or I won’t let you come to interview suspects with me,
and you’ll have to find a new way
to make up for your stupid dog
giving my friend rabies.”

I have clearly broken character,
very badly,
but you seem too upset by what I’ve said
to notice.

“Come. Let us go, Mademoiselle.”
You smile
and take my hand.

RABIES: A LOVE STORY (Part 1)

Let’s play a game.

Okay,

in this game, I’m Poirot,
and you’re a seemingly incidental character
who’s dog bites Poirot’s friend
and Poirot’s friend gets rabies.
I haven’t decided yet 
if Poirot’s friend’s a man
or a woman.

Here’s the thing;
you feel doubly bad
because you’re in love with Poirot
(i.e. me),
so your involvement in this story
is more than we first thought.

You decide to try and make things right
by helping me on my current case
in which a morris dancer has been murdered.
The list of suspects is massive
and you are helping me to narrow it down
while we are in a café
that is playing Unsquare Dance
by The Dave Brubeck Quartet,
which is slightly annoying 
as the style of it would more
suit an episode of Jeeves & Wooster,
than Poirot.
                   However, 
I’M not going to be the one
who breaks character
to point this out.

There is coffee foam on my moustache
that is a fake moustache
made from two black Jelly Babies
and part of your role in the game
is to not eat them.
If you do, you lose.
If I do, I lose too,
but I have an admirable amount
of self control,
so this won’t happen.
Trust me, it won’t.

We go for a walk,
discussing our suspects.
You’re fiddling with something
in your pocket. I suspect your mind
is not fully on this game,
but then you come out 
with some piece of insight
which makes me think 
you *are* paying attention after all.

extracts from On The Way Home To Oxford

2.

You know what would make these coaches better?
If they turned the overhead compartments into aquariums.
Tropical fish would make these journeys so much nicer.

5.

In the daytime, motorways look ugly,
but at night they look like scenes from art house movies.

POEMS IN THE KEY OF TIM

I didn’t write a poem on or for the 18th, so instead here are three poems I wrote in the style of Tim Key to perform at a comedy night I was booked for a while ago. These almost made the book, but didn’t quite fit comfortably enough.

#1 - Royal Rumble

Hulk Hogan sat at home
in his pants on the sofa
eating popcorn and
watching the Royal Rumble.

He points at the screen.
“That used to be me,”
he says to nobody.

He sheds a tear as he peels
his dozenth boiled egg of the night.

#2 - Friends 2013

Ross, Rachel, Chandler and Joey
are all crying because
they’re at Monica’s funeral.
Phoebe is singing a song,
the lyrics of which, for once,
are not highly inappropriate. 
“It’s just what she would’ve wanted,”
blubs Chandler.

Later, at the wake,
in Central Perk,
Ross says, “I curse the bus
that hit my sister.”
Chandler says, “I curse
the oyster my wife choked on.”
Joey says, “I curse the bizarre chain of events
that lead her to be eating oysters
in the middle of the road.”
Rachel says something 
made unintelligible with sobbing.
Phoebe plays another song.

#3 - No Strings Attatched

Geoffrey
climbed a tree.
Albert climbed
another tree.
When they were both at the top,
Geoffrey spoke into a tin can
while Albert held another tin can
up to his ear.
But he couldn’t hear anything,
because they had forgotten to link
the tin cans up with string,
so they shouted into their tin cans
for hours, with no success,
until a park ranger made them leave
because he was closing up for the night.
Geoffrey and Albert went home,
ordered a pizza,
and watched The Odd Couple
on DVD.