They were exultant!
Some of them had staff!
POEM#112
‘SIGHTS’4
I just found out
Someone’s trying to kill me!
It’s exciting, yes.
But also dangerous.
He’s a professional.
POEM#1070
UNTITLED
‘Can I have one more crumb please?’
Said the boy from the novel.
‘No,’
Said the mean character.
Then the author described the dreadful carpets and said how cold it was.
POEM#908
‘THE CRUCIBLE’5
Neil Robertson (the snooker player)
Made eyes at Michaela Tabb (the handsome referee).
Ultimately he lost patience and groped her.
She resisted his advances, fending him off with a rest.
He sloped back to his chair and started chugging down Highland Spring like it was going out of fashion.
She tucked her blouse back into her skirt
And awarded Graham Dott the frame.
POEM#615
UNTITLED
‘What am I doing here?’
This was Margaret Lowe.
‘We’re imprisoning you.’
This was the captain.
‘Please move your hand so I can shut the cell door.’
This was the captain’s assistant.
POEM#942
‘PUBLIC REACTION’
A pop star changed her hairstyle.
And everyone hated it.
Literally every single person in the country (UK)
Absolutely hated it.
It was long at the sides and on the top and short at the front and back.
But – to reiterate – everyone hated it.
In fact, when she came out and did her first song literally every single person in the O2 arena whistled and threw shit at this pop star.
She got them back on side by singing a couple of classics.
But then everyone remembered her hair and, ultimately, she was lynched and eaten.
POEM#994
‘SUSPICION’
Michael put 50p in his piggy bank every day for three years.
He smashed it open.
There was two pound fifty in there.
He frowned and looked up at his cellmate.
POEM#400
‘WRENCHED’6
POEM#520
‘PLANS’
Shawn watched the two black belts7 demonstrating.
He frowned.
It would take him ages to get that bloody good.
Then he smiled.
But once he was …
Well – Benjamin, Glass Derreck and the other one wouldn’t know what had hit ’em.
WAR AND PEACE AND RELIGION AND SHOPPING
Love it or loathe it, we all have an opinion on war. Funny to think that, generations ago, people were tumbling over the dunes with their archaic guns and blowing up Nazis with a view to ending war altogether. Of course, as time has gone on we find that the odd war does no real harm and, in fact, is good for things like technology, tourism and the nation’s sense of self worth. One thing’s for sure, I couldn’t do it myself. I’d enjoy the travelling side of it, of course, but I’d hate the other, well documented, downsides. For me the opening half hour of Schindler’s List provokes the same reaction as an episode of The Office – I’m behind the sofa, cringing; I can barely watch. The idea of staggering around on a beach looking for my own arm fills me with dread, quite honestly. Also, I am one of these people who overthinks things, so, even though I’d know, deep down, that I was being daft, I’d be worrying that a lot of the soldiers I was peppering with bullets might be really great guys. Of course, there’s no way of checking this, as, by the time you’re close enough to chat to them, or to see if there is common ground in terms of tastes in music et cetera, the evil buggers have peeled off a dozen pellets into your eye. I have talked to my father about this. He openly admits he took the coward’s way out and was born right at the very end of WWII. He has no great lust for war and, in his darker moments, has stated that he thinks there should be no more wars at all. The money saved, he argues, could be plunged into more sophisticated paintballing centres to satiate the needs of the bloodthirsty. On several occasions I have stated to him that without wars a large part of my income, of any poet’s income, would be hugely compromised. At this point he starts spouting nonsense like ‘Why can’t you write about peace?’ and we have to agree to disagree. To write poems where no one is suddenly obliterated by a bomb would be overwhelmingly disrespectful to the likes of Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon and those other brave balladeers who risked all to report on death for our entertainment. And so it is that I have devoted a whole section to war (with a couple of poems about religion and some shopping ones thrown in so we don’t slit our wrists at the horror of it all!).
POEM#681
‘THE RULES OF WAR’
Lee snuck off to get a crêpe and some beer.
When he came back to the trench his major gave him a right ticking off, including killing him with his revolver.
POEM#684
‘THE REALITIES OF WAR’
Oliver Hampton-Church,
Whose main trick was to pretend he was surrendering and then shoot Germans through his flag,
Eventually shot so many holes through it that it stopped covering up his gun enough, and a Japanese chap cut his head off.8
POEM#679
‘THE AWKWARDNESS OF WAR’
Matt was literally all over the place.
A bomb had banged near him and three chunks had hit him.
The worst one was about as big as a hubcap (if the car was as big as a Labrador).
It went woomph into his chin and he went woozy straight away.
He couldn’t see shit.
‘Horace! Horace!’
He yelled at the soldier next to him.
But things went from bad to worse.
Embarrassingly, it wasn’t Horace but a different man from another regiment.
Matt cringed and pretended he was calling past this ginger guy to an imagined Horace a little further towards the sea –
And safety.
POEM#329