I lay on the couch, “does this hurt?” The Doc said,
As with a grip of steel he twisted my leg.
The pain coursing through me made me bellow,
“Of course if hurts, you impudent fellow.”
“You’ve got arthritis,” the Doctor clinically said,
“It’s on the screen in black and white, hips and leg.”
In the short time that it took him to tell me
I felt myself age quite considerably.
Now my hips are my internal metronome,
Each time they tick reminds me I’m old.
Each tock they make’s a clear reminder to me
That I’m not the young man I want to be.
I awoke this morning with a terrible pain in my head,
“Perhaps it’s a tumor?” My wife helpfully said.
“No, ” I replied, ” I’m fairly certain it’s a poem,
But that’s funny, as they’re more like passing a kidney stone.”
What if love was a drug?
How would you take it?
Maybe shredded and rolled
tightly in an old Valentine envelope.
directly into your lover’s lungs.
What if it was a pill?
Dancing around your tongue then
washed down with tears.
setting fire to your blood.
Perhaps you could take your
crushed dreams and desires.
Distill them into a syringe.
Then inject the hit
straight to your synapses.
Or would you go cold turkey?
Shivering and sweating,
holding back bile.
from that drug called love.
I don’t have a poet’s hands.
Instead I have clumsy fingers
That grab at words,
Like a vending machine claw.
Often dropping them,
Cursing my lack of ability.
These are stubborn hands.
Grasping a pen
Like a hammer.
Driving words into paper
Sometimes hitting my thumb.
But they’re my hands.
I daub them in ink.
Covering them in
They let me write poetry.
Extensive research has determined that there are only three types of electric hand dryer in existence.
Firstly you have the sleek sci-fi dryer,
The kind that would fit in on Star Trek.
It boasts its prowess in its instructions,
Making you wonder what you are in for.
Wet hands are proffered tentatively,
As immediately a jet like roar starts up,
While an instantaneous nuclear blast of heat,
Makes your flesh vibrate like a cheap fairground ride.
Any water seems to disintegrate,
Leaving your hands with a warm toasty sensation.
Next you have the dryer that you last saw on the History Channel,
A battered metal box surely only fit for scrap.
It clings to the wall like a flailing mountain goat,
Faded instructions lost to the mists of time.
Wet hands are proffered optimistically,
While it starts with the speed of an old moped.
Then it produces a small warm cough,
That fades slowly like a summer breeze.
Hands still partly wet drip on the floor
Then you wipe them on your jeans.
Lastly there are those dryers that no matter how quickly you make jazz hand movements underneath them simply don’t work.
I’m really worried about my brain,
As lately it’s use to me causes doubt.
So I popped in to see my Doctor,
Who told me it had to come out.
Unsurprisingly I stopped in my tracks,
And said to the doc “how can you tell?
And I’d really like a second opinion.”
“OK sir,” he said “you’re ugly as well.”
The doc explained, “if your brains no use,
And about it you become a moaner.
Then a brain transplant patient applies,
And you become a brain donor.”
So it’s bye-bye to my cortex,
Farewell to my neurological mass.
Goodbye to my little grey cells,
I hope my brains loss will soon pass.
And now in between my ears,
Replacing that I had to discard.
Is a mobile phone ten quid special,
One gigabyte sim card.
So now I never get upset,
I don’t miss my brain, I’m not glum.
I smile and drool all day long,
Happily comfortably numb.
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Celebrating my new facial fuzz
It was really quite itchy at first
My newly sprouting chin fuzz.
But I was quite determined
To not bother about this or fuss.
Because I’m growing a beard
Away with razors or scissors.
My beard will not be tamed
This is just really because.
I just want to let it grow wild
I just want it let it be bushy.
I want badgers to nest in it
Because it lush and cushy.
Then when it’s quite long
Coming down to my knees.
I’ll wind it round my body
As protection against the breeze.
When it reaches my feet
My beard will finally be done.
Just weave it into a shroud
For when I’m dead and gone.
As a man I don’t do illness very well, so needless to say my recent cold has been in my opinion a brush with death.
To celebrate my recovery here’s a poem.
Lurking in my mucous membrane
Causing me to cough and hack.
Posh people call you sputum
What’s the deal with that..
You’re phlegm !
You’re the cause of my soggy hanky
And the reason my sinks blocked.
Malicious little green goblins
Shoot everywhere when I cough…
I’m living on a diet of cough sweets
Soiled hankies fill my laundry bin.
My throat feels like sandpaper
What a state I’m in…
I hate phlegm.
So you’ve come to work with a cold
And by your overacting I’m told.
That we should be grateful you’re at work
As seemingly close to death you lurk.
But then you decide to rub it in and say,
” I don’t know how I made it in today !”
And I think, should this charade I condemn
While risking being covered in your phlegm.
I want to scream that you’re not ill
As your germs you seem to spill.
I long to shout out if you’re not well,
Why was it on me your sneeze spittle fell ?
But just to make your ” cold ” seem graver
You start to sound like an asthmatic Darth Vader.
Pausing only to gulp down cold remedies and pills
That should only be taken by the genuinely ill.
I think a change of sick policy is required
And that people like you should be attired.
In a germ warfare suit, it’s the only solution
To put an end to your supposed germ pollution.
If this site has a theme ( apart from poetry ) it’s probably the chronicling of my descent into middle age, hence I present the sequel to I_think_I’m_going_bald.
Glimpsed on the bus security camera
There for all to see
My newly forming bald spot
Staring back at me.
I swear it wasn’t there before
Where did it come from
And more importantly
Is it increasing its circumference ?
Hmmm, it is you know
It’s certainly not slowing
As right in front of my eyes
I swear I can see it growing.
This insidious no-grow area
Is intent on making my head cold
And intent on saying to passers-by
Look my owner’s getting old.