No Return


Your heart is a black hole.
A crushing singularity to nowhere,
Which I poured my love into,
Only to have it lost in its depths.
With no chance of escape.

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Battleground


Age is just biological warfare.
A chemical weapon,
your body the battleground.

Your precious memories burn away
one by one.
Muscles waste, bones weaken.

Nerve endings constantly smoulder
Your immune system capitulates
under the assault, your surrender is
inevitable.

These are the Hands


These are the hands,
That stitched the saddle.
That cut and bled,
As they worked the leather.

These are the hands,
That mined the coal.
That grew hard and callused,
As they swung the pick.

These are the hands,
That dug the canal.
That tore and split,
As they toiled with the shovel.

These are the hands,
That tilled the earth.
That weathered the elements,
As they scattered the seed.

These are the hands,
That comforted you.
That never wanted to let go
As they held you close.

These hands were all I had,
That even now as they grow old
That though they are tired,
Have stood the test of time.

Wearing Out


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.

 

Passing Blood


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?


love-syringe

What if love was a drug?
How would you take it?

Maybe shredded and rolled
tightly in an old Valentine envelope.
Inhaled deeply.
Then exhaled
directly into your lover’s lungs.

What if it was a pill?
Dancing around your tongue then
washed down with tears.
Dissolving slowly,
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.
Weaning yourself
from that drug called love.

I Don’t Have a Poet’s Hands


a-poets-hand

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
Haphazardly,
Sometimes hitting my thumb.

But they’re my hands.
I daub them in ink.
Covering them in
Scribbled ideas.
Then sometimes,
They let me write poetry.

A Load of Hot Air


2.4_kw_Hand_Dryer

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.

Brain Donor


Brain-Donor-Hoodies

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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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Beard Power.


beard

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.