Ivory

Tusks

White Stars

Hunter's Dream

Tools, keys, food, roots

Fight

*Author's Notes*

This poem is in the style of a Japanese Lanturne and its short length is intentional.  What are your thoughts?

Check out my other environmental poetry below:

1. Extinct

2. Harpoon

3. Crocodile Tears

4. The Pack

5. Immortal

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That bling is outdated and so overrated.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.

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.

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:

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.

1. Left Behind

2. Shattered

3.  Crystal

4. Revival

5. Silence

Homage to Public Transport

For I'll consider public hell with red buses and an incessantly ringing bell.
For I won't escape the angry shouts, the rage-filled screams, the duck-faced pouts.
For I'll consider how I ran to reach the idle standing bus,
with the driver pulling away, looking for pay, leaving me by the pavement to wait another day,
the amber light flickers between passion and jealousy.
Damn! Do I have the £2:35 or is it £2:40?
For I'll consider the window seat to enjoy the view.  I sure hope you don't consider it too.
Or worse, I hope you don't join me and inflict a curse, by speaking in unwanted verse, if that's the case, I'd rather take a hearse,
For I'll never escape the modern-day Rousseau staring out of the glass,
or the bus driver screaming "fuck out the way or I'll tan your...behind."
For I'll consider the angry young man speaking his mind or the philosopher trying to think, the middle-aged drunk with his open can of drink or the chatty passenger thinking he's a shrink.

For I'll consider the tube accessed only by ticket or card.
Got no money mate? Sorry man, you're barred!
For there'll always be windows carved with names
Dan, Tom, Michael, James
For there'll always be that one man staring at me from Uxbridge to Aldgate, from zone 1 to zone 8, from  Epping to Ealing Broadway.
They never stop, do they?
For there'll always be me squished between two men, like a battery-reared hen, reading the Metro over someone's shoulder, trying to pretending I'm not getting older, as I hear
patronising people saying public transport causes less pollution, congestion, aggravation.
Do they not hear the moans, the shouts, the frustration?
For there'll be always be that one selfish bastard throwing himself under the tracks, making us all late.
It's not our problem.  Why do we have to wait?
For we are Londoners with our stiff upper lip, letting nowt affect us, unless our transport cocks up, which is when we jump ship.
For there'll always be rescheduling and delays and a busker singing "bout your plans to make me blue."
But I wanna know if the trains run for 24 hours on weekends, will the rail replacement bus service run for all that time too?

For there'll always be a taxi painted black, with a driver nattering away
"the other day, my little girl said the metre's running,
I think she'll grow up to become a cabbie, just like her daddy."
I wasn't so sure.
For I'll never escape the driver asking "where to mate?"
Oh just down the street? That'll be £9:28."
For there'll always be middle finger salutes, cunts calling each other cunts.
For I'll never escape the seatbelt getting jammed or my body being crammed or my suitcase getting slammed.
For there'll always be the demon ghosting into the taxi rank, playing a prank,
But he doesn't fool me.
For there'll always be that mug, stealing innocence, numb to their screams, while the concrete walls look on.  They're used to it.
For I'll never escape the inevitable Atmos sticker or the CO2 fumes becoming thicker and thicker or the split oil making the road slicker and slicker.
For I'll never escape London's leading attraction,
the one you should always book for.
For I'll never escape the taxi filled with Saharan desert air,
For there'll always be apple and pear, or a chocolate eclair or a steak done rare fighting in my stomach to be the first to make the return journey.
For I will never escape public transport, as I live in London and the congestion charge makes it freaking expensive to drive there.

*Author's Notes*

So this is a poem I originally started writing in a Creative Writing lecture months ago and I left it untouched, until a few weeks ago, when I thought I would end it.  This poem may seem a little different from my others, as I've tried to make this one a 'performance/slam poem' and I'm not sure how successful I was.  Compared to my other poetry, there is much greater emphasis on rhyme and rhythm.  If you're from London, then you know my troubles.

Homage to Public Transport poetry performance

Soldiers in White Coats and Blue Scrubs

The Men in Suits always come to visit us when they need to be popular:
the wrinkled old man, me with the tube up my nose.  They promise
to sand down the floors, to carry the nurses' bags,
but they're not the ones who keep away the grime, who keep away the hunger.
The Men in Suits don't have the time, so instead,
we rely on our soldiers in white coats and blue scrubs.

The Men with black shoes always visit us when they need to be popular.
They always visit me when my bags are heaviest,
when my bones are achiest,
after I've just finished washing my hands.
We wouldn't want to get other people's muck
on their spic-and-span shoes, would we?

The Man in a blue tie ignores me, as he walks across the polished floors.
He takes notice of the naked yellow sunshine,
the cracks in the walls
and wrinkles of our exhausted soldiers,
of our buildings stacked on top of one another,
like a game of Tetris gone wrong.
If we don't get enough ticks, it might
be game over for all of us.

The Man with studded cufflinks points to the running junior doctor
with a crooked tie and wavy hair.
He is pointing to me, as I hold pink lansoprazole to quell Mr. Watson's raging stomach.
He's an old man, you see.  He can't take much pain I tell him,
We're understaffed, I tell him,
I'm always running, I tell him,
from patient to patient, from nurse to nurse, to
the senior doctor to decode my colleagues' hieroglyphics.

The Men in Suits line us up for our final register,
They straighten their ties,
They uncrease their trousers,
They clear their throats,
They inspect every single one
of our loyal troops.

The junior doctor who is still panting furiously.
The nurse displaying her polished silver watch, as if it were a war medal,
The cleaner with his trusty mop and bucket always standing by,
The hospital consultant whose forehead displays his battle scars,
The electrician trying to protect the lightbulb's modesty,
And me, the civillian, with the tube up my nose.

The Men in Suits take out their checkboards and pens.
One cross is all we need
to be dissolved.
Our victories will be forgotten,
our trophies will lie buried underneath
the dirt.
Never to shine again.


*Author's Notes*

So this is the second draft of a poem I'm working on for a competition about the NHS.The general idea behind it is how the NHS is suffering from being underfunded, but it's still soldiering on and doing what it's doing without complaints.  Thanks to Jaz for beta-reading this and my dad for telling me about lansoprazole.