Out of Line

Regarding the alleged naughtiness of Lord Sewel, former Deputy Speaker of the House of Lords and Chair of the Privileges and Conduct Committee…

 

Out of Line

“Order, order!” he shouted “We’re all out of line”

“I’ll see to that” quoth the whore

“And if you’re a good boy we’ll do three in a bed,

You can snort off my titties and more”

Oh silly old Sewel you poor addled old fool

So clearly misguided and randy

That the question of cash and the secretive flash

Were obscured in a cloud of nose candy

 

 

by Gail

 

Seven Year Itch

seven year itch (2)

 

 

Seven Year Itch

*

your seven year itch;

flare of eczema infected

raw sore and weeping

 *

your shattered hour glass;

irritating grains of sand

debriding old skin

 *

your fingernail scratch;

sacrificial blood letting

scarification

*

your allergic rash;

self-fulfilling prophecy

psycho somatic

*

my fragility;

remedied with wisdom’s balm

time passing quietly

*

by Gail

Tree Humour

A gentleman from The Devizes Issue website has well and truly Punned me in response to this photograph…

green light quakers  walk

*

My response adapts an old English rhyme about ashes and oaks, splashes and soaks and also the phrase

“Mighty oaks from little acorns grow”

*

Tree Humour

One joke about ash might be comedy cash

Bash on about oak and leave comedy broke

Tree humour: a) corny but b) each to his own

For the mightiest joke from a seedling is grown

*

by Gail

Punland

The arrival of Poundland in Devizes is a Big Issue…

Local Witsmith David Young created this photograph which inspired my verse

Punland by David Young

Punland

*

Oh Punland has come to Devizes

It’s handy and cheaper than chips

Buy one liners in various sizes

Pay a quid for a handful of quips

*

Pop in there and knock off a quick one

The banter is simply top shelf

The punch line – look after your penis

And your pun will look after itself

 *

 by Gail

Faffing About On Facebook

 

I’m faffing about on Facebook

Been avoiding it for years

What began as curiosity will

Doubtless end in tears

Hear no speak no see no

Evil learned in conversation

All that knowledge lost in

Two dimensional translation

Like me, share me, follow

All my kittens, quips and poops

See the same old tired threads

Go round and round in loops

Hang out on my home page

Scroll me up and down

Watch my ego on the prowl

Go trolling round the town

Some nights I sit upon my hands

All mischievous and itchy

In order to prevent myself

From posting stuff that’s bitchy

Big Brother sure is watching you

As are the crass and haters

Dark agent provocateurs

And dodgy mass debaters

What price anonymity when

You join the cyber race

Check out your reflection

Mirrored in this interface

Be careful what you wish for

For you may regret you’ve said it

Words that carry on the wind

Can go too far to edit

More human than divine is this

Our need for validation

Best to drink this heady wine

With cautious moderation

Pictures paint a thousand words

In galleries of minions

Words spoken once may be twice shy

Put thought before opinions

Don’t forget the Golden Mean

Steer clear of lie and rumour

And when your birds come home to roost

Accept them with good humour

I’ve been faffing about with Facebook

And I know that I’ll regret it

Nuclear power, for good or ill

… I guess I kind of get it

*******

by Gail

Like Jude – a song of ignorance

In Oxford today I wept for my own folly.

Then I dried my eyes and wrote this.

For it is never too late to create.

***

As Oxford spires condescend

I am like Hardy’s Jude, obscure

I cannot blame the privileged

Or prettier girls who got it right

Labours of teachers made in vain

Sins of the fathers or the Seventies

I chose my own way wilfully

An education of a different kind

So many bridges have I drowned and yet

I now, like Lennon’s Jude, will take

My song of ignorance so badly writ

And better it

***

by Gail

Mark Grist at The Vaults Devizes Festival

Review published in Wiltshire Gazette and Herald today (unedited version)

Devizes Festival has embraced poetry this year. We’ve had John Hegley, Arthur Smith, Professor Elemental and the Poetry Slam and last Monday at The Vaults, Mark Grist; Rogue Teacher, spoken word artist and battle rapper. Over a pie before the show Mark was happy to chat about poetic rivalry and revenge, Peterborough and whether poetry should be more art than therapy. He is a cheerful, accessible, energetic man with a twinkle in his eye and a plan to pay off his mortgage with his craft.

His act is comprised of anecdote, flowing prose, blank verse and rhyme. His work is insightful, angry, touching and respectful in turns. His story weaves through his set; he has been the Poet Laureate of Peterborough and has gone by the name of the Count of Monty Gristo; he taught difficult children who liked to set fire to things and were easily distracted by seagulls; he inspired his pupils and was in turn inspired; he took up a challenge from one of the kids to enter a rap battle and creamed a lad called Blizzard with Mum jokes, the video of which went viral, and he has skirmished with and worked with people with names like Omen and Mixy.

He engages his enthusiastic audience with tales of visiting dead poets’ graves, of nutmegging in Keynsham in his teenage years, and of the day when one of his pupils shot another in the head. He chooses Maisie from the audience to serenade with his deliberately bad poem about “gingers”, for bad poetry is in itself an art and some words just don’t have a rhyme. He answers a request for “Girls That Read”, his homage to women of intelligence, another internet sensation. He berates the habit that some poets have of deriding and criticising each other’s work and recites a tale of tomatoes thrown at a competition where the last poet standing bashes his own brains out with a tin. He wants us to “cheer on the Keiths” for every poem has a place.

The Vaults was the perfect venue for this Fringe event, which attracted a younger, well informed audience, who loved Mark and his exciting work. Who says that poetry is a niche interest? Not Devizes Festival. We’ve brought it out of the closet. We rock.

by Gail

Tin Pot Dictator

Just stood on a stage and read this at the Devizes Festival Poetry Slam…

Untitled

You’re a Tin Pot Dictator, you’re Kim Jong Un

Blasting me to pieces with an anti-aircraft gun

For momentary guard slip and forgetting of pretence

Public execution for your Minister of Defence

*******

There were less dramatic options, like demotion and sacking

Not as entertaining, mind, as death by ack acking

As for that piss take poster in the Ealing barber’s shop

You’d show them a Bad Hair Day with a more severe crop

*******

You’re a Tin Pot Dictator, you’re that bloke Pol Pot

Who tried to turn the clock back to Year Zero, or Dot

It must have been torture, being rubbish at school

So you got rid of all the clever ones that made you feel a fool

*******

Clad with a well cut uniform and medals on your chest

A gun, a throne and megaphone you’re better than the rest

Making up for all those failings that you feel so acutely

Power that tendeth to corrupt, in you corrupteth absolutely

*******

You’re a Tin Pot Dictator, going by the name of Vlad

As in Lenin and Putin and that weird Impaler lad

You’re Saddam Hussein and you’re Ho Chi Minh

Declare resistance to be futile and dissent a sin

*******

Flatter your enemies lest they stab you in the back

Equip the walls with ears to hear what loyalty you lack

Hide the Stasi in the khasi to hear the shit go down

Watch for subtle facial movements like the nuance of a frown

*******

You’re a Tin Pot Dictator, but Godwins Law states

That the first to mention Hitler loses rational debates

From bad art and rejection came forth carnage we presume

Stick a moustache on the elephant in the middle of the room

*******

Rally troops remaining, keep the enemy at the gate

For there just might be a coup and it just might be too late

There are movements in the corners of the bunker in your mind

Where one eye is always open in the kingdom of the blind

*******

You’re a Tin Pot Dictator, mowing down the picket

You’re the warden who gave a crate of vegetables a ticket

Pass the tar and feathers if I ever call you Mate

I am the voice of decompression in a Tin Pot State

by Gail