Jo Overfield

Yes shit Sherlock.

2011-08-01T06:34:00.000-07:00

Robert Downey Jnr,

You disappoint me,

With your Cocker Spaniel hair,

And faux eccentricity,

It's time you left your tent pegs at home,

For you've played 'camp' so much,

It's become your syndrome,

And what was the point of Rachel McAdam's character?

Hang on, let me rephrase that,

What is the point of Rachel McAdams?

I preferred Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman,

And the homosexual undertones of Sherlock sharing semen,

I did not care for Guy Ritchie's hammy fodder,

He should go and find Jason Statham and that book of rhyming slang,

And go back to his films about shifty London gangs,

With his 'cor blimey guvnor's' and his 'apples 'n' pears',

He should turn Del Boy into a gangster and call it,

'He who dares Rodney, he who dares',

But no more Sherlock! No!

Leave that to the BBC,

And spare me the approaching doom of Sherlock Holmes 3.

Tuesday Blues.

2011-02-01T06:14:00.000-08:00

They say Monday is the death of a weekend,

I find Tuesday more fit for an urn,

It's post-nothing and pre-what?

Stuck in a drawer,

Back of the cupboard,

The oddest of socks,

Wednesday is; "halfway through the week",

Thursday is; "Friday tomorrow"

Friday needs no introduction, and,

Monday clearly knows it place,

It's Tuesday's that don't get picked to play,

Tuesday's are the one glove you see on the ground,

Tuesday needs counselling and constant supervision,

Lithium is the drug of Tuesday,

A gin and tonic, no slice, is the drink,

Steam rising from chimney tops,

Shades of lead in skies,

Leafless trees, and,

Lifeless eyes,

I got those Tuesday blues again.

2010-12-10T03:52:00.000-08:00

Oh, the weather outside is,

quite annoying now, actually

But the fire is so,

disappointing, because they cut me off

And since we've no place to go,

Let it snow! I haven't got any moon boots! Let it snow!

It doesn't show signs of stopping,

And the soles on these shoes are flopping,

The traffic is ridiculously slow,

Let it snow! I've got a hole in my mittens! Let it snow!

The fire is slowly dying,

I should have said I paid the bill and advocate lying,

But as long as we've got the box set of Poirot,

Let it snow! There's an icicle in my shoulder blade! Let it snow!

Two pounds fifty in Westbourne Grove.

2010-10-29T07:47:00.000-07:00

Waiting for a bus on Westbourne Grove,

I can smell shisha pipes and Carluccio's,

World foods and incense smoke,

Expensive leather and homeless folk,

An old Italian man mumbles at the no.33,

A Euro couple clutch a packet of Whittard's tea,

Deli's and restaurants and groceries,

Cured meats, bespoke bread, Bosnian cheese,

Not the place to be, you'll agree,

At 1am with the munchies,

With £2.50,

Looking for a can of cream soda,

And a packet of Bacon Wheat Crunchies.

You've Not Been Successful.

2010-08-11T07:47:00.000-07:00

They put me in a transparent room,

With a transparent lady,

Two teenage boys in suits,

It felt criminal,

We looked at the floor,

A hostile blue carpet of guilt and shame,

A five hour interview,

Then emotionally maimed,

A sea of suits look on,

Grateful it's not them,

Happy they're next,

Through to the next round,

Who decided this X Factor interview strategy?

I'd rather have sung a song,

Knocking out Britney,

"This isn't the last you'll see of me"

I'd snarl, against a heavenly white backdrop,

Addressing the nation,

Pointing my finger,

I would have enjoyed that more,

But not today,

Today is for the worthless,

Low self-esteem,

Sharing the lift together,

With a lump in our throats,

Wishing each other luck,

As we pat our backs,

I cycled home on wheels of doubt,

My only solace once indoors?

"I'll put this in a poem"

St James

2010-07-19T06:21:00.000-07:00

Picnic hamper,

Digging in my knee,

Chicken & stuffing,

In tiny rolls,

Jug of pimms,

Evening feast,

Goodbye Jonathan Ross,

Hello to The Cult on VHS,

Leather trousers,

Weary eyes,

Broken sleep,

Butter on bloomer,

Walk into town,

Cheeseburger crisps,

Peanut sweets,

Garlic gills,

Olives on tap,

Big baby seagulls,

Old lady cycling,

Clutching inflatable helicopter,

Spilt chorizo juice,

9% cider,

Warm tin-pot of Mussels,

Fish burps,

Tipsy taxi home,

A woman called Horse,

Tequila brain,

Four different kinds of cheese,

Midnight potato salad,

Primal Scream,

Wake to a fry-up,

Long coach home,

Victoria's burning,

Melting sun-cream,

Engineering 'doesn't' works,

Sardine train,

Boozy snoozing,

Key in the door,

Rucksack sores,

Lie in bed,

Elevate the leg,

Weekend over,

We'll go there again.

Do You Remember That Porkpie?

2010-07-12T07:36:00.000-07:00

'twas never a porkpie,

like the one I found,

that day,

on Woodfield Road.

Short back and Sidebottoms

2010-06-22T07:55:00.000-07:00

1988, no.73,

I saw you but you didn't see me,

I couldn't work out if your head was real,

I was only 8 and hadn't yet grasped,

the concept of 'surreal',

You paved the way,

For papier-mache,

No-one did a Queen cover like you,

"Freddie Mer-cur-rio!"

I loved your rickety keyboard and rickety Little Frank,

And I always wanted to ask,

if the inside of that head stank,

You are a one-off,

a meteorite of weird,

Who I loved when I was 8,

Til now,

and forever adhered,

Frank Sidebottom, rest in peace

and big up Timperley Big Shorts F.C

Audrey Heartburn

2010-06-22T06:45:00.000-07:00

I've eaten rich things for tea,

And it seems to be that they're repeating on me,

All I had was Stilton and port,

Lobster thermidor, a slice of parma ham,

A swig of red wine and half a rack of lamb,

True, it was after eight,

And I did have one or two bouts to the tune of 'defecate',

Indeed my tummy does feel rather sore,

This simply won't do for a goodwill ambassador,

I didn't go lightly with the sausage rolls,

Followed by a scotch egg then a bite of the lemon sole,

I shouldn't have had that breakfast,

at Tiffany's,

with the pancakes and cream,

And thank god, that I couldn't quite manage,

the last of that sea bream,

Yes, I am Audrey Heartburn,

Not as elegant as the 'Hep',

For would she organise a dinner party,

And forget to invite the guests?

Self.

2010-05-06T06:39:00.000-07:00

I caught a glimpse of the colour in my reflected tear, and it looked like wounded moonlight,

This,

This is hurt, I thought,

This is pain,

This is loss,

This separates the atoms from the flesh,

You look up at the world, away from yourself,

And you know not who you are,

Or what you're made of,

You are just a feeling,

Just a spark,

Like that infinite second before a match catches light,

This is all you are.

One Day, This Will Be For You.

2010-05-06T06:34:00.000-07:00

I look at you and I think I’d like to meet you

I see you and my heart skips a beat

You could have your pick of people

So why would you pick me?

I’d agree

And walk away, back into the norm of nobody

You’ll never see me

I doubt we’ll ever meet

But if we do, I’d like to think I could make you laugh

You’d listen to what I had to say

And when our eyes meet, you’d see right through me

And I’d see right through you

But we’d still stay with what we could see

We’d have everything to live for and we’d feel free

You’d just be you and there’d be no news

I hope I get to tell you that I wrote this for you

But if I don’t, I won’t cry or lose control

I’ll take it with me, to my head then thread it through my soul

And I’ll die knowing that at least it felt true.

To say one day, I wrote this for you.

When Chip met Bean

2010-05-06T03:05:00.000-07:00

Let's spend our time,

Talking jibberish til the early hours,

My dreams of clipboards and ice-skating,

Will keep your tights up at 7am,

Cast me a lunchtime phonecall,

Obliterated by roadworks and the background sound of high heels overtaking,

Still, it's good to hear you panting,

As you frantically search,

For a sandwich,

At Waitrose,

I think of your mouth,

How it tastes,

Evaporated milk, lavender ice-cream, fruit smoothies, belch,

Click, lift left leg, click, lift right,

You crack like a branch,

Rotate hips like a cyborg,

In me, you have left an impression,

Several,

Of middle-class teenagers,

Papa Lazarou,

Staffordshire accents,

You really should tour,

But what I like best,

Is how you accept me,

Always have,

You're the calming seas,

We bob along,

We sail together,

Instead of alone,

Feeding the fishes,

Except I hate fish,

I let you eat tuna,

Before tuna eats me,

You like to leave your mark,

A synthetic bag or two,

Abandoned in the lounge,

Filled with one book, a hairband, bank statement, satsuma,

You like things in jars,

To have their place,

I too am now filled with horror,

If I see a thing without a jar,

Where's its jar?

Quick! Get a jar!

It must have a jar!

I don't know how I coped without jars before,

When I say jars I mean you,

Without your scrambled eggs and cheese,

Without odd socks,

Without Strawb,

I look forward to dinners on garden furniture,

To window-sill vegetable patches,

To a scrappy dog,

With a neckscarf,

Called Keith,

Evenings of crap freeview,

Biscuit tin,

Finally renting 24, Series 2.

Page 40.

2010-04-14T10:04:00.001-07:00

Naughty at forty?
What is that supposed to mean?
Do you suddenly start saying "pass the fucking salt" at dinner tables and snorting your broad beans?
But you musn't be grumpy, oh you musn't be down, that can all come later,
For now you must celebrate being the same age as Christian Slater!
Or the fact that you are now old enough to present the news,
And still young enough to completely take your booze,
There's still time to write that book, invent that thing,
Run a marathon, buy an antique table, punch Sting,
Embrace the idea of dinner parties with 10 different kinds of cheese!
Or is that an urban myth, that all 40 year olds have underground connections on how to get several bries?

Cock Shop.

2010-04-14T04:42:00.000-07:00

There's a Cockfosters in London,

And a Cockle Park in Scotland,

Imagine fostering a cock or parking a cockle?

How do they get their names?

It's insane,

Scotland has quite a few, the North itself has more than two,

I counted, in a car, on the way to Edinburgh,

There was Cockburnspath, which sounds like a chess move,

So smooth,

Like 'bishop takes queen' up the arse,

Then 'cock burns path' with a quick shaft,

Or is it like paper covers rock? Paper covers...cock?

Perhaps it's a game, that sick northern children play in school,

'Cock burns path!'

'Fanny wets doorstep!'

'You win!'

There's also a Cockenheugh, a Cocklevy, a Cockenzie and wait for it, a Cocklaw,

A law, of cocks, how many more?

It doesn't stop there, there's a whole other breed,

There's a tweed, a Tweed Mouth, mouth full of tweed,

A Fishcross, where one assumes fish go who are cross and angry,

A pool of pre-menstrual fishes, cod faced and frowning,

Frustrated and drowning,

There's a Dull in the Highlands but surely that's wrong, surely that should be in Pitsea,

Well, c'mon, SOMETHING should be in Pitsea (that only works in Essex),

There's a California in Falkirk,

Not quite the same though, no,

More Seal Watch than Baywatch, with scotch,

And no David Hasselhoff, more a shirtless Roger McGough,

So I have concluded, obsessively and marginally deluded,

That the people up North, although proud of their docks,

Are also really, very, proud of their cocks.

The Big Bad Cake.

2010-02-08T05:33:00.001-08:00

The BIG BAD CAKE,
is sitting in my fridge,
yelling "Eat me! Eat me! Cut yourself a splidge!"
his wheat will make my tummy green
his gluten will poison my in-test-tine
but still he's yelling "Eat me! Eat me with a cup of tea!"
The BIG BAD CAKE is going thumpety, thumpety,
thumpety, thump, thimp on the fridge door,
but I don't want no big bad cake making my bowels sore,
no more chocolate topped hemorrhoids,
marzipan colon,
recommended in the shops by Coleen Nolan,
The BIG BAD CAKE will not get the better of me,
I'm happy with my 'Free From' range and injecting peppermint tea.

BURNED

2010-02-08T05:28:00.000-08:00

----------------------------------------------------------------------
The person I knew, the person I know
Is now a handful of soil
The friend that you loved, the friend that meant more
Now a heavy measure of grains
Feels surreal to acknowledge him as ash
As dirt, a 6 foot 4 man, I can now carry under my arm
Surreal might be the best word,
But I don't think there will ever be a word
to describe how this feels
-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Southend, Southend.

2010-02-08T05:26:00.000-08:00

Southend, Southend, how does your garden grow?

With concrete slabs and shopping centre domes,

And Starbucks all in a row.

Bored, in the end.

2010-02-08T05:24:00.000-08:00

Just another day in Southend-on-sea

With a broken pier and a beach soaked in wee

My friends have all gone to Alton Towers

And one of them is regretfully going out with Dane Bowers

It looks like I’ve got nothing to do

My sole is slipping, so I should mend my shoe

But instead I expect I’ll just stay indoors

Watching Quizmania and Robot Wars

Or I could go out and attack the Arcades

Wait for the 3 cherries and then get paid

Spend my money on a big cuddly Panda

Then tie him to a Police car, funny enough, a Panda

Can you rhyme Panda with Panda?

Too late, I’ve done it now so I’ll just quickly add the words ‘floor sander’

I saw the crazy man with the owl that walks up and down the street

I could have sworn the owl looked at me and told me I had big feet

Off I walk, up to QD, past the pervy Clown

With his sinister eyes and his worrying pose and his painted upside down frown

I stand at the top of escalators and throw wine gums at the Goths

Stalking their benches like crows, they wish, those Brandon Lee loving moths

It’s time to go home and home I go, thinking I’ve achieved nothing at all

But I’ve poked fun at a Police car, won lots of quids and telepathically tuned into an Owl

I even channelled my hatred for students in a healthy, civilised way

So it’s not all bad being bored in Southend, the end but a shiny decay

Truth.

2010-02-08T05:23:00.000-08:00

If I could cure myself and tell someone how I feel
I would first of all take their hand and put it to my heart
Then I’d ask them if they could feel how nervous I was
For when I’m with them
They send my butterflies into madness
Then I’d look deep into their eyes
Say sorry for not being open

Then kiss them once or twice

SOAR! SAGE!

2010-02-08T05:21:00.000-08:00

Sweaty sausage skin
Do mop my brow with
Dampened cloth
Naïve to assume clean
Infested pork fuck
Grind my ass
Young piglet suckle on my frozen teet, no, tong!
Sausage hands
Nothing here but meat! MEAT!

MEAT ON HEAT

Womad, wishing snowmad festival, golden brownies slipping snakes in the grass chanting…..
“WE WANT MASH!”
“WE WANT MASH!”

I, myself and the sage onion soldiers glare through misty chilli , one eye on the crowd, the other frying and bubbling as if a fried egg awaiting its hoagy?

Bogey.
Do not laugh.
Real sausage is SERIOUS.

Drip, pant, phew, urgh, argh, wow, yuck, bler
It’s a dangerous game out there boys
Aprons on
Fat a-go-go

Beans, beans are good for the…good for no-one
This pork is over
I’m leaving

No more spinach popeye eating blue cheese what the…coriander & elephant trunk are you on about?
Come…come…sample my sausage floppy porky wanger.
Weeny pie.

Fuck the sausage king and his scrotum faced dartford tunnel nostril kosher tits, aint got a fuckin’ brotwurst idea about anything apart from “HOAGY BEARS” and “MR MUSCLE”
Clean my ears out with kitchen roll please
Wash my bum please
Wash the satan chicken blood spot eggs from my post orthodox arse

RACIST
SAUSAGE
FLIPPER
BEWARE

Bring on mr soft side stepping trout sucking big fat men

Grease me up

electrocuted duck up.

2010-02-08T05:16:00.000-08:00

The whip crack away, whip crack away, give me crack at the whip, go away.
A year passes and what seems familiar is still frozen in time,
like a duck struck by lighting,
now stuck to the lake, feet underwater, neck points at the sun. That’s me. Electrocuted duck.
Up.
Lady with the big orange hair still working the till at the drugstore. Never smiling.
Giant puffy fingers that once held a thousand hot dog buns.
Pink lipstick clashing with her flame red hair and sweaty skin.
How I’ve missed her.
Wolf-hound sleeping lion, sabre toothed tiger, grow-grow-grow, mountain dog; beast of B.C.
Eat me.
Eat his cancer.
As if easy.
Feed his cancer to the dog.
Take it out with the weeks waste. Dustbin death.
No more beer talk, mid-tears, how long will he last?
Medication, hospitals, chemotherapy hells kitchen.
Despair. Scared to wake.
To admit it’s true, that I too am like you.
Another sarcastic, cynical, afraid, arrogant, insecure, mad hatter. Wearing my face down.
Nicotine soldiers carrying caffeine guns, can I join the army now mom?
O cigarette, cigarette, where for art thou?
Give me thy habit, thy darkest hour, thy acid flower.
Screaming angels hover, my head, ticking bomb,
a drunk wasp slowly dying under the sun,
I try to stand, pushing the wall, all hands on deck.
Try. As I might. I do.
The mountains, those cocaine covered hill-tops; they own my brain. Ask the mountains what I’m thinking, cause I don’t know.
Gave up emotion to them. So ask them.
All that remains here is my shell, a swimming seahorses womb,
numb underwater love,
sinking shadow,
life sings from the window but all I hear is the faint howling from the wolf on the mountain eating my brain,
feeding its young my emotion.
My every thought and pain.
Soon enough I’ll walk on water,
angels stop screaming,
drunk wasp finds its pollen and I’ll hear life sing again.
For now; firefly’s circle around the cremated heap of dusty ashes I once called hope.
Leap of life.
Cure this man.
Please help me.
Yours,
A designated fan.

Waiting for Waterloo

2010-02-08T05:11:00.000-08:00

It is here I sit too early for my train so forced to kick back at the ‘reef café bar’,

I know it’s a reef for there is a fish tank, fishes dream, encased in an Ikea themed block of green and mean wood, as if to illustrate a real sea bed.

POW-WOW! You fooled me!

Bushy bum watcher is now wearing a tux, he emerged from the loo, a poor mans James Pond.

The art deco astounds me, when did we become Habitat cloned whores?

There rests a girl, dressed painfully in piercings, she looks young and unhappy.

I put it down to waterloo.

Beg to differ if you dare but might I remind you of the bright wacky chairs,

spineless and clashing with the city boys suits and ties,

men appear to dress the same, checkered warfare.

Girls try harder to be noticed. Not all. Only few. The beer has got me.

Phew.

Urine pays its ticket, ride on. WATER MY LOO!

If these walls could talk they’d say “ARRRGHH! MY HEAD HURTS!”

March on Mahoney. Stick her like glue. Lager felt and fuzzy beat and tired.

Weighing muff awaits my Essex capades to fertilise its collapsed womb.

Port-a-loo station should stop running and running and dashing.

Train waits for no man.

Moody lighting to fade.

Slip away.

Exit to ska-punk.

Knees up, knees up.

See You Next Year

2010-02-08T05:08:00.000-08:00

I woke up hung-over with a twiglet hanging out my mouth,

A piece of trivial pursuit cheese wedged up my nose,

The sound of the SLADE Christmas song like a stuck record in my brain :

“SO HERE IT IS MERRY CHR…MERRY CHR…MERRY CHR”

Where’s the gun to end this Christmas pain?

An island tum from too much quality street and turkey and brandy snaps and pudding.

Can’t see my toes but can my toes see me??

Hot, red face from alcohol binges

Cabin Christmas fever, need to get out of here, four walls pressing down on me suffocated and strung up like the fairy on top of the tree.

Cue telephone conversations with friends : “What are you doing for New Years Eve?”

“I’m going to leave”

“What?”

Leave it all behind, walk into the black hole abyss of no New Year fun.

And I’m taking Jools Holland with me.

Wipe your forehead clear of Christmas sweat and roll on January month of tumbleweed bank balance.

Pathetic man whose front house is crammed with plastic disciples and inflatable reindeer, confusing the blind with their artificial sunlight.

It all comes down. Christmas ends again.

Pub Life

2010-02-08T04:59:00.000-08:00

Meeting friends

Drinking booze

Talking and talking and talking

Oblivious to Josh Wink on the stereo

Pot collector staring

Barmaids glaring

Crowds of Ralph Lauren shirt wearing, Tots girls blaring,

Blonde roots, pissed geezers, perved breathers

All conversing

Even adidas old school, guitar stringed mystery rockers,

Pub life

Kids, men, women, dogs

Creation beyond jukebox beyond bar stool beyond hope

Underage frenzied danger

Adds to the night-life bats, owls, vampires that sit beneath the stars

Cross-legged on a dampened bench

I knew you at school, I knew her at college, I know him cause he knows my dad

People becoming frames

Becoming bodies

Becoming eyes

Drift to rows, queues, the last one to shout the rounds.

Nights nearly over

When every label on the beer bottles been torn

Balls of shreds

Lay in sweaty palms

Bells make noise

Rooms been poised

Victimised boozers drag home

(wrote this aged 16 or 17)

Trust You.

2010-02-08T04:40:00.000-08:00

God, god, god
Does the earth never smile?
Do I smell through cracker nostrils?
Do I fly over smoking peace?

Cry for your army
The soldiers at the top of creation
Singing war doves
Bullet over troubled salt
Risk knowing. Risk feeling. Risk shouting.
Perverted scarecrow fucks his crown
Light a match.
Watch the hay burn.

I Was a Cunning Foetus

2010-02-08T04:37:00.000-08:00

Whilst growing inside my mother, I decided to hatch a plan

What my parents didn’t know, was that I had been conceived by MI5, as part of a secret scam

When mother and father were busy getting drunk and jiggy to Marvin Gaye,

The British Special Intelligence had implanted their very own ‘spy child’ into mother without her knowing, clever eh?

I was a hybrid of two highly skilled professionals, MI5 took the sperm of James Bond and the eggs of Wonder-Woman,

Little did my parents know, they had their very own Wonder-Bond growing inside my mum,

Or vunder-bund to the Germans, the enemy, the vermin,

I kept a tiny periscope wedged into mothers belly button, it helped me keep an eye on the outside world,

I took notes everyday as soon as I grew hands, jotting down every movement and footsteps I heard,

The very essence of being a secret agent is being invisible, MI5 thought what’s more invisible than being unborn?

The first Special Agent Foetus working for the government, living in an embryo, internally forlorn,

Eventually the day of reckoning came, 10 hours in labour and I would finally reign,

Everyone was there in the hospital room, father, grandma, Auntie Sue, Tom Cruise,

For a while no-one noticed that I looked nothing like my parents, they didn’t even notice that I came out wearing a beret,

My first few missions as a spy were not easy, especially when I ended up mistakenly arresting Mariah Carey,

But the MI5 were proud, their genius idea had turned me into the first genetically modified spy,

Egg-bound from day one, the perfect special agent, well apart from when I fall over, I cry

The family are proud, they take photos then scratch my face out for security reasons,

No-one asks questions, not even about my oddly shaped lesions,

There’s one on my knee, shaped like Jeremy Beadles claw,

The other kids laugh, but when I shoot my pencil sharpener laser at them, ha!, not anymore,

I wonder what my mission will be tomorrow, and whose Aston martin I’ll have to borrow,

Will it be another impossible one like pinning diarrhoea to the wall?

Or chasing Russian baddies in a push-bike with stabilisers?

Impossible when they’re on motorbikes with blacked out visors,

It’s not easy being the Special Agent foetus,

But it beats writing letters to that terrorist Father Christmas.

THIS IS WHAT I LIKE.

2009-08-21T04:54:00.000-07:00

I like the icing on the cupcake but not the sponge,

I like the icing on the gem but not the biscuit,

I like the icing on the fruit cake and even the marzipan but never the fruit, I said never the fruit, never the sultanas, never the raisins, never the fruit implied, else it’s cake denied,

I like the yellow coating on the battenberg but never the fluffy sponge squares,

And they always, ALWAYS, insist on catching me unawares,

I like doughnuts with the hole in and never the jam, it’s not even proper jam, it’s a bleeding imposter, it’s a sham-jam,

I like the top bit on French Fancies but not the rest,

I like the middle of custard creams but not the top or bottom, and it doesn’t matter how much you argue, it’s not a chocolate bourbon,

I like burgers but not with sliced guerkins, they taste of twig, I’d rather eat a murkin, I can’t believe of all the words to rhyme with guerkin I chose a pubic wig,

I like marmalade but only if it’s shredless,

I like orange juice without the pulp and milk without the cow,

And lastly I’d like to dedicate this list of likes to anyone who hates peanut butter.

The Dairy Patient

2009-08-18T12:30:00.000-07:00

I knew a guy, he was 6ft tall
He called himself ‘the messiah’
He was scared of chicken & geese
He liked the taste of fire
He kept his brain in a breadbin
I’ll toast his loaf if he comes too close
Just stick me back where I came from
I’ll do my best to deny all tracks

I touched his face with a cow prod
His head was made of cheese and milk
He lived his life in a kitchen
Money for butter as smooth as silk
He sold himself as a dairy product
Pimping his udders on the street for cash
His eggs were tainted with bad love
He wished for more but screamed for less
His destiny lies in the hand of an evil oven glove
A life in bits in the yoghurt of distress

Invisible Bus Journey

2009-08-18T12:13:00.000-07:00

The old lady shook as she gripped the pole on the bus,

The little boy stared and stared with the ignorance he’d been given,

No-one helped her, no-one seemed to care,

Except the lady in the socks with the pink stripe, that matched the pink stripes in her trainers,

Who kept holding out her arm, each time the old lady trembled and lost her footing,

As if to say “I’ve got your back, don’t worry”

The old lady didn’t see, but it didn’t matter, that hand, that invisible gesture, spoke volumes that day,

As to what kind of person the woman in the pink stripes was,

Amazing what you can pick up on the way to town on the bus.

90's Explosion

2009-06-28T03:31:00.000-07:00

Wake up boo,
All that she wants is another baby,
I've never met a girl like you before,
I wanna live like common people,
All the people, so many people, they all go hand in hand,
Because you're gorgeous and I'd do anything for you,
But I won't do that, no I won't do that,
We wake up, we go out, smoke a fag, put it out,
And I said "what about breakfast at Tiffany's?"
And you said something that I've never forgotten,
Minute after minute, hour after hour,
You're unbelievable,
And isn't it ironic? Don't you think?
Don't speak, I know just what you're thinking
What's with these homies dissing my girl?
Strike a pose,
I wish I was special, you're so fucking special,
Did you have to let it linger?

Bowling Shoes.

2008-06-02T08:19:00.000-07:00

My face says it all. Wearing a tortured grimace, like that of a small child sitting aghast in their own wee, until their mother flies to the rescue with wet wipes and clean pants. God bless our mothers. But where are the wet wipes now? As I surf another man's sweat with my toes? Going commando in bowling shoes has got to be up there with soiling oneself. To make matters worse, I'd not worn socks today either and can feel the sticky, second-hand vinyl shoe roofing digging into me. Ah, my poor feet, crying out for a sock or a foot spa, even those awful verruca foot bags would have been better. Well, it was like a foot bag wasn't it? Like your foot with the wart was the freak of the Tudor village, the white witch come to scare the chickens away, so you had to bag the devil and turn it out. Then everyone could tell who the village curse was; "he with the latex verruca sock bag over his foot, turn him out, turn him out!"
I wish my soles in these bowling shoes would get shunned. I think I can actually feel the remnants of dead skin against my heel, or possibly bits of crisp. It's my turn to bowl, as I raise my joints and shuffle towards the waxen chosen lane, I notice a group of nuns a few lanes down. At first I think this rather an amusing, eccentric sighting. Then I look over to who must be the Mother Superior, judging by her veil sizing; casting my eyes down to her feet I see she has her own brand of footwear, nothing like mine or the rest of my team's, they've not even been hired here by the looks of them. My mind darts back and forth with questions as to 'how?'
Here I am, risking impetigo in these borrowed bowling hooves. As I grab my boulder of a ball and trot with regretful toes to face the skittles, I look down at my shoes before throwing a swift, envious glance in the sister's direction and back cometh the grimace and the conclusion:
that is one smug nun.