Tuesday 28 February 2017

Chav-Busters

Who you gonna call?
Chav-busters!
I aint afraid of no chavs.

Pot sized bellies spill down to nike trainers,
I flushed my chain down a drain; it had started to rust.
Chavs never seem to know, when their trousers are far too low,
this fashion trend has crashed into a dead end.
That bling is outdated and so overrated.
The chav takes a crack, but will it snap back?

Boom! Bang! Boom! Bang! There goes that slang slang!
What's that, mate? Could you repeat? I don't understand you when you're talking so street. Your words make me burn; they chill my blood.  You're dragging English through the mud.  They drip drop out of your mouth, as the words slowly ooze south.
Innit, that chick is bare sick.  She aint butters.  She aint toy.  Oh skeeeeeeeeeen, she's a boy.  Her legs are like trees.
Wait....what the......? English please.

Be careful, blad.  I beg don't trip.
You might just break a hip.
Be careful, blad.  I beg don't smoke.
You might just choke.  You are a fucking joke.
Be careful, blad.  I beg don't shoot.
I might have to extinguish your zoot.
Be careful, blad.  Don't wear a backwards hat.
Or you'll be asking, do you want chips with that?
Be careful, blad.  I beg don't cuss.
I might have to bust a cap in yo ass.
Be careful blad, I beg just trust.
Looks like I have some motherfucking chavs to bust.

Stomp! Stamp! Ugg wants his boots.
Clomp! Clamp! Ugg wants to shoot.
Thwomp! Thwamp! Ugg wants to loot.
Stomp! Stamp! Ugg don't eat no fruit.
Clomp! Clamp! Ugg is lower than a root.
Thwomp! Thwamp! Ugg is a brute.

*author's notes*

This was a poem I wrote for my writer's group, when we were exploring whether or not to use rhyme in poetry or not.  This is the rhyming version of the poem.  

I wrote this poem based on my friends' comments that they'll be starting up a chav-busting agency.  I wasn't going for any specific rhyme scheme within this.   I'd like some feedback on the last stanza and whether the whole "stomp stamp, thwomp thwamp, clomp clamp" thing is effective, or should I change it to a repetition of "stomp stamp."  

Chav-Busters Non-rhyming Version

Who you gonna call?
Chav-busters!
I aint afraid of no chavs.

Pot sized bellies spill down to nike trainers.
You look really cool with your trousers around your ankles.
If I pull down on his cap, will it snap back,
that fashion trend is so last year.
I sent some bling to cash4gold; they sent it back.
Who's the father? Only the DNA test will tell.  

Have you heard of a gym?
No, not your homie Jim who lives in 4A.
A gym is the place, where you can wear your nike, umbro, puma.
Let me tell you mate, you don't look badass,
wearing your adidas
on a council estate.

I've got my chav to English dictionary.  
My water cannons locked and loaded with industrial strength make-up remover.
A belt.
Some Cash to ease their Tinie Temphas, 
or maybe we'll all take a trip to Denver.  
I could hire a good Cooke and we won't have to go to Mcdonalds.

Don't you just hate it when a chav is talking to you and you have absolutely no idea what they're saying?
Al Capone and Bonnie and Clyde were the real gangsters, remember?

Stomp! Stamp! Ugg wants his boots.
Stomp! Stamp! Ugg wants to loot.
Stomp! Stamp! Ugg is a brute.
Stomp! Stamp! Ugg wants his boots.
Stomp! Stamp! Ugg wants to loot.
Stomp! Stamp! Ugg is a brute.

Tuesday 21 February 2017

There were Two in the Bed

On a night so silent, the bed creaked,
the sound of Her and Her dearest lying still

On a night so silent, the bed creaked,
the sound of Her turning, whilst Her dearest was lying still

On a night so silent, the bed creaked,
the sound of Her breathing, whilst Her dearest was lying still

On a night so silent, the bed creaked,
the sound of Her rustling the covers, whilst Her dearest was lying still

On a night so silent, the bed creaked,
the sound of Her phone screaming, whilst Her dearest was lying still

On a night so silent, the bed creaked,
the sound of Her answering, whilst Her dearest was lying still

On a night so silent, the bed creaked,
the sound of Her dearest asking to be let into the house after he had left his keys at home

On a night so silent, the bed creaked,
the sound of Her asking just who was lying still.

*Author's Notes*

This was something I wrote in my creative writing group.  We were all supposed to write in genres that were completely new to us and I've never written horror before, so I thought I would give it a go.  I'm quite happy with the results.

Tuesday 14 February 2017

Harbour

A seagull flies towards the horizon.
I look over blues upon greens
rocks as rugged as lone cowboys, John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, that sort of thing, you know?
I look upon the wall,

the wall that stretches past fallen ice cream and balloons running free,
the wall that travels parallel with the azure skies with white candy floss,
the wall heaving with living green and ants
returning home after a hard day's work.

Denim and cotton,
clothe the boy with messy hair
squinting into the distance
of Sea-Houses Harbour.

Upon the needles and plates, the waves crash one by one,
salt ebbs through the moss and algae
a process that will take an eternity,
but water will wait.  It's a patient being, you know.

A 12 second melody is sung from the ice-cream vans,
as people queue endlessly for their sticks of rock,
being slowly tempted by fish and chips wrapped in the Sun,
salt and vinegar seep through column by column.

Idle talk falls from tourists posing by their attractions
and locals catching rays on their deck chairs,
a book on their chests,
as their sunglasses  lie crooked on their oily faces.

I absorb all this in a huge breath of contentment,
you can't go through life too quickly, you know?
A foghorn tells me that it's time to go,
I hear a camera shutter clicking.

*Author's Notes*

I was at my writer's group and the theme was poetry.  Our task was to think of a portrait of ourselves and write a poem about it.  This was the portrait I chose:


Tuesday 7 February 2017

Illusory

The more we do to you, the less you seem to believe we are doing it." - Dr. Mengele

Propaganda billboards
are strung up by motorways
to warn you not to miss the
latest episode of Jersey Shore.

What's that, Perkins?
Rogers told you that our truth is wrong,
Rogers is a liar.  Our truth is always right,
Say it! That's a good boy.  Have a gold star

Propaganda billboards
are strung up by motorways
to warn you not to miss the
latest episode of Jersey Shore.

You run after the social media, bobbing like apples,
in front of your face,
whilst a cane of Palestinian bone whips your backside.
But then you slow to a walk.  You're not quite sure why,
we didn't do anything, did we?
I'm glad you agree.

Propaganda billboards
are strung up by motorways
to warn you not to miss the
latest episode of Jersey Shore

What's that, Perkins?
Rogers told you that there are a multitude of truths
and it's up to us which ones we believe in.
Rogers is wrong.  We are the truth.
Say it! That's a good boy.  Have a gold star.

Propaganda billboards
are strung up by motorways
to warn you not to miss the
latest episode of Jersey Shore

Fallen birds with broken wings,
the marching feet of the Israeli drumbeat,
Ebola flying over oceans at supersonic speed,
fizzle into Goetze's German winning goal,
brats being beaten down
and trash ready to abort for her 15 minutes of fame.

Propaganda billboards
are strung up by motorways
to warn you not to miss the
latest episode of Jersey Shore

Repeat a lie often enough and it becomes the truth,
isn't that right?

*Author's Notes*

Thanks to my Liverpudding a.k.a Todesengel for this awesome quotation.  So as usual dark, disjointed work from me.  I'll write a happy poem soon.  I promise! Pinky promise! Virtual brownies for you if you understand all of the allusions.  Let me know what you think in the comments.  Hmm, I guess this is similar to Silence in content really...


This is the latest in my collection of poetry based off quotations.



3.  Crystal