Who is that monkey sat there?
What does he want?
Who is he with?
Why is he scratching his bum
Does he have some kind of itch?
No, Monkey, no!
No, I won't give you an inch
You'd take a mile
I can see it in your cheeky smile
And I know you would switch
Your allegiances in the end
Deceitful little monkey
I don't trust you at all
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
So this is England
Walking down the High Street of a Somerset town
Shops are closing down
Or shut up already,
Walking with a dry mouth, parched
But The pub at the end
It hearkens no laugh
The bar is a dark place
The bar stools stand
Empty as a pocket
In an empty land
So this is England
I hear you say
What I had come to love
Has soon been blown away
In a wind of change
As across the motorway
The dust of dry fields
The corn storks decay
But this is Autumn, the voice of reason calls
And anyway what's the season, we
Still have the market stalls
And Artists crying treason
Writing written on the walls
Who's sold off this lovely land
The politicians or the fools?
Who voted for them in the first place?
In this government of crows
This murdering of Parliament
This place where no hope grows
And yet and yet I hear you say
This is Winter, it goes that way
Perennial seasons, people trying
To reclaim
The name of the rose
So this is England
Dig in your own garden and look after your own lot
Put up notices, beg for pardon
Give whatever you've got
Give as good as you get
And forget to pick forget-me-nots
For suckling bees at flowers
Could not count all of their stock
Store it in piles in larders
Fill up the honeypot
And save for a rainy day
For you know that happens a lot
Though we never spend
Even though today is no day to save
Gather it in at your wedding
Give it away at your grave
Yes this is England,
Hoarding your plot
And marking out the lines
Where you go
Where you do not
And never throw a stone at a crow
Never break the glass houses
Because we've built them out of stone
And we've tied them on necklaces down blouses
Caught in the cleavage gap
Between two breasts boom and bust
Crying I must, I must, I must improve my bust
Yet leverage of whale bones, never
Moved the beached body off the beach
We saw the mermaids waving in the surf
We gave it a pauper's grave and tears of grief
This great flotilla of what was once our dreams
That came up for air once
But heard only screams
Yelling go back, go back
And warning us of the sand banks
But it was too late as The hull
Hit ground and broke the cranks
Yet this is England
We've landed
This place of our dreams
This isle of forever
Forever down flowing streams
Water, water everywhere, flowing down the sink
Water, water everywhere, and only beer we drink
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
In life
Do not spend too long on the ordination of spiders
For they have their own legs
And they will carry them
Try not to be fooled by earwigs
For they may get in your ear and whisper many things
Memory is a wonderful thing when founded on common sense
Otherwise try to forget it
The meaning of moths can only be had in daylight
At night they can really elude you
Do not talk too fast nor too slow
For doing either will upset google translate
The best remedy for a cold is not to catch it in the first place
Kings and Queens may come and go, but the monarchy is forever!
Until it's not.
Gargling can increase your life chances by 50% if stuck under water.
Too many cooks spoil the broth, but only if you don't chop them up enough first.
The large stone platform in the world is positioned about Milton Keynes
The thing is nobody gets a chance to look up, and no one wants to look down,
They just keep on going around and around.
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
On zoom sat at home
It could be Naples, Florence or Rome
I am bleeding
Ones and zeros
Come here into my room
Come here to my room
I want you to be
In real time focus
Like the Entire world seems fuzzy
At least on zoom
My head has gone
Come see me in my room
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Little bit of rain
Little of wind
Shaking the stems
Moving the strings
Playing the tunes on the violin
Crickets rubbing legs
Trunks entwined twisting
Whistling and creaking
And Praising like a shaker
Devout in wind bowing
Bouquet of flowers bending
Breaking the bough
The whole howling orchestra knowing
Conducting these instruments of woodwind blowing
Clarinet of lime, bassoon of bowling ash
Proud deep oboe of pine
Brass tacks failing
As the barbed wire fence is plucked out
The catastrophic beat of the Oak drums thump
As they fall in the fields
Where the rain is hurled
Like sweeping bows that dart
Back and forth as tiny fish in a pool
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Well, Well the squirrel walked along the street
Only sure thing was
He would meet the crow
On his toe, on point
And the baby was crying in the cupboard with the
Stocking filler
And the pipe cleaner was working double time
In twin town where two eyes ruled the place
With iron pupils
Who shielded all the suns and daughters of the planets
Who were coming to eat us up
I said to squirrel why don't you throw
Yourself upon the mercy of the great Nut God
Squirrel said
I beg you for I have buried my God
I give them sacred burial in hallowed ground of oak
And crow stands in the juice of the well
Is brought up through all the sacrifice
Of cathedral people
And Cats with claws the length of a
Long dark night
Until finally it can be seen in the bolus of the hedgehog
Dragging cats through himself backwards
Then feeding himself to a dog
Because it is a thousand times better
Than being flattened on the road of no hope
Or chastened to a marry -go-round being dragged by a rope
That says but never delivers the zen master at his track
With the Elvis jumpsuit
Doing the dynamo jack
And star jumps in concession queues
To buy his quesy groceries under speculative gazes
Of the bespectacled eyes
In Twin town
Waking in the morning Squirrel sees he had forgotten his gods
And they have grown into saplings of oak trees
And that's what happens when you ignore your Gods
Then hedgehow spoke from the wayside to crow who
Was peeling a walruses skin from his shoulders
And asked him to pass the salt
Oh mighty hedgehow, how does your hedge grow?
In the seedlings of hogs?
In the dirt of underground tiffany dining sets
All orchestrated and cut up in diamond soup
That you know is knowledge of the beaten spoon
And drowned in the kings pallete of plate glass painting
His brow like rain, falling on the bow ceiling
Of his cathedral of pain
Where many fine orchestras play
Oh Jesus Sancti, fire my brains out of your mouth
In a stevendores grace as he laces his boots to the sky
And prepares to unload and die
But Noah was riding in on a Mare calling Night, Night
Beware for my Ark is wrestling in the light
And my dark is a hero of the knight
And sutres are dyed a billion colours
The length of kidney canned
And left on supermarket shelves
For dog food
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.