*
Fol de rol quoth the troll with the bell on his cap
Tell me your soul, come and fall in my lap
Does the mole in the hole have a map of the trap?…
Is a troll on a roll just like crap on a bap?
*
by Gail
A gentleman from The Devizes Issue website has well and truly Punned me in response to this photograph…
*
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
The arrival of Poundland in Devizes is a Big Issue…
Local Witsmith David Young created this photograph which inspired my verse
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
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
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
My mate Tim went to the Bovington Tank Festival today…
baking in hot sun
spud boy wargasms like blitzkrieg
contemplating tanks
injustice of war ice cream
chocolate shrapnel sprinkled
by Gail
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
Just stood on a stage and read this at the Devizes Festival Poetry Slam…

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
Computing Rhythm – the Computers at The Corn Exchange
Scary Beatle rock
Style, venom and melody
Blue soul crashing sound
Computing rhythm
Turning tables, turning air
Too cool for old school
Riff of rebellion
Tidy, tight, provocative
Rattling of The Bin
by Gail