A poem for my Grandma

My dinners over Grandma’s,
banquets fit for royalty.
My plates piled high, food scrapes the sky,
she really spoils me!
Then after tea, five-year-old me
and Grandma will duet.
It's ‘Uptown Girl’ by Billy
or a Carpenters cassette.

From tot to teen, there’s always been
my Grandma – always there.
Trying our best to win ‘Who
Wants To Be A Millionaire?’
We’re phoning up Chris Tarrant
(though he never phones us back)
We’re millionaires in laughter
from day-break ‘til skies turn black.

The Phantom of the Opera sings
to Christine, ‘All I Ask’.
We’re off to Manchester, see
Peter Karrie don the mask!
We write to Peter Karrie
(though he never writes us back)
But still, we won’t forget
his smashing chandelier attack!

From teens to twenties, now thirties,
through times happy and sad,
My Grandma’s faith in me’s one of
the greatest gifts I’ve had.
No calls from Chris, no letters from
The Phantom, these I lack.
But Grandma’s always loved me
and I’ve always loved her back.

Should I Hand In My Homework?

Walking to school, I hear a crack...
A dragon bursts out the tarmac!
Its scythe-like claws tort for attack,
its drool-drenched jaw hung wet and slack.
No beast will eat me for a snack!
I have no muscle (no six-pack)
but I've the brains that dragons lack.
I trap it in my math's book! WHACK!

Although I know I'm no hero
I *did* defeat a dragon... so...
I raise my math's book, cheer 'BRAVO!'
Should I hand in my homework?
'NO!'
Should I hand in my homework?
'NO!'

Of course...
Dragon's trapped between these pages.
Must keep this book shut... for ages.
Don't unlock these paper cages.
Please don't unleash dragon's rages!
Teachers... aren't wizards or mages.
Think they're smart... but they're no sages.
Sir just snorts. I hope he’ll gauge the
danger trapped between these pages!

'Sir!' I yell, 'Don't look below
my math's book's cover!' (now aglow
as from inside dark smoke rings blow!)
Should I hand in my homework?
'NO!'
Should I hand in my homework?
'NO!'

‘Without a sword, without cross-bow,
without kung-fu or tae-kwon-do,
with just my book I caught this foe.’
Should I hand in my homework?
'NO!'
Should I hand in my homework?
'NO!'

My teacher says, 'What nonsense. Right,
you gave the whole class quite a fright.'
He takes the book. Its spine burns bright,
pages smouldering fiery light.
'Please stop!' I cry, 'Look, I'll rewrite
my homework, please, I'll do it tonight!'
He opens the book... Dragon takes flight...
devours Sir in one sharp bite.

Teachers! My moral is more than implied.
Don't wish to corrupt, don't mean to misguide,
but when marking homework keep caution applied
for there might be a dragon... waiting inside!

What's That Smell?

I have a cat. He's small and thin.
Bright ginger fur covers his skin.
His name is Dillen. He's my pet.
My playful, cheerful friend... and yet...
I fear wherever Dillen goes,
for every man will hold his nose
and all the women go beserk
when they smell Dillen's bottom burp.

Wherever he goes, people yell
at my poor Dillen- 'What's that smell?'
But I am too ashamed to tell
the truth as they shout 'What's that smell?'

At first, your nose he'll gently tease
with just a whiff, like mouldy cheese.
It gets worse than old football boots,
the stench that comes when Dillen toots.
Like bad eggs rubbed in sweaty feet,
sour milk dripped on rotting meat-
you'll hear no sound, the stink grows steadilly.
Dillen's trumps are silent... but deadly

Wherever he goes, people yell
at my poor Dillen- 'What's that smell?'
But I am too ashamed to tell
the truth as they shout 'What's that smell?'

One night, I couldn't sleep. I saw
a rainbow pour beneath my door!
Then in mid-air... saw flowers bloom!
Fireworks burst... in my bedroom!
This was no dream. This was no bluff.
This magic soared from Dillen's guff!
He's been a wizard all along.
Like Harry Potter... but with more pong.

Now Dillen knows many a spell.
Can teleport and fly as well!
Let's tour the world! This show will sell!
A shame he can't dispel the smell...

Now one last truth you might find tragic.
Not all our botty coughs are magic.
In fact, some people act aghast
if you let rip a trouser blast.
I can't believe some folk can't cope
think it's a crime if wind is broke.
It's normal, natural, not obscene.
We've all got gas- even the Queen.

So I'm not shy if people yell
when Dillen's trumping 'What's that smell?'
Magic or not, I'm proud to tell
the truth when they shout 'What's that smell?'

My Living Document

My Living Document

4am parched,
mine marches on paper legs, tramples detail,
runs over its own mistakes again,
runs in circles, spiralling.
Parasitic bloated hungry,
mine is a vampire cannibal draining its own neck.
Stamping new ideas on top of old,
past thoughts bleed between present ones.
Now feels forever.
Mine jibes sour stories it promises tomorrow will unfold.
I’ve paper-cut eyes and fistfuls of scribble
that can’t punch through even the lightest doubt.
Gasping. Straining its leash.
This brittle cover can’t hold mine down anymore.
It tears ahead of hands, rips through pride and pants.
Its inky print stains you. My mouth says sorry.

Help me keep its wet, jaw pages tight shut.
A black blob butterfly waits inside, cackles all night.
How can I sleep? I’m wide-eyed beside you
wrists clenched, fingers spiralling.

Yours, in a dream-hammock over your head,
returns to your brain as you wake.
I wrestle with mine ‘til it knocks me out cold.

Medusa

Medusa's hands have got ingrowing nails.
Sat behind the check-out till she chews at her gnarled fingers.
Customers tut.
Tsk! Tsk!
One day, she stopped painting them,
realised she'd got more nail in her than out,
an inside out pin cushion,
spiky Medusa chewing.

Six minutes past two.
Two hours and fifty four minutes to go.

She loves collections of porcelain shoes,
used to wear bracelets heavy with runes,
never had kids but sponsored a unicorn,
wishes her flat had a fireplace.

One day, woke up with ingrowing hair,
screaming,
hissing migraines and head-full of cobras.
Felt like an atlas had cracked in her skull,
felt like she'd swallowed the weather.
Got two months away from the shop
then Doctor said she was better.
Confided her eyes still twisted of serpents
but Doctor said she was better.

He told her to smile,
take the bandages offered for her internal bleeding.
Cheap incentives.
Counterfeit concern.
Minimum rest keeps her stressed
python knotted shoulders tort,
chest crushed tight.

She wishes
she could turn more than his heart
to stone.

She must
not
sweat,

must
not
blush,

and never
ever

cry

in public
again.

Medusa's face is ingrowing.
Check-out till stranded,
struggling to smile,
hold those bloated eyes in.

"Hold my eyes in, keep my eyes in,
smile and thank who I'm despising.
Venom swills against scraped nerves
until I can’t shake off their words,
words that make my heartbeat flicker
pumping poison through me quicker."

Lumps of fear, chunks of doubt
feed the snakes she can’t carve out.

A new poem looking at Wizard's past, 'Hero'.

A bit of Wizard's back story...


Hero

Once-upon-a-time, a barman worshipped the Sun.
Worked nights so didn’t see much of it
but in his head he’d got stories of
the Fire God supreme
vanquishing monsters who'd eat out your dreams.

He called the Sun ‘Hero’,
believed it had six pairs of arms,
giant wings of flame
and the handsomest nose in the galaxy.
Made moons blush,
giggle their names.

His Sun was a Hero who rescued smiles
and fed them ideas 'til they were fat with luck.
Faster than a speeding comet,
could see around corners, rewrite destiny,
didn’t break promises,
could even rewire a star.
gave songs to orphans, faith to minstrels,
had the kind of hug you couldn’t touch
but kept
safe
underneath your skin.

Barman knew his Sun would come
one day,
teach him the Hero's Way.
He could be the Sun’s wise-cracking side kick.
Might even get his own light saber!
On long, lantern lit night shifts
washing drip trays,
watching drips
getting wasted,
Barman kept faith that Sun would come.

Hurrying home under a bludgeoned moon
he’d hum a tune made from
downing flaggons and flying dragons,
nights filled with what-would-be’s!
Adventures! Dichotomies!
Unlocking his flat’s door

at 4am
he’d get ready for bed,
every time dreaming he’d just stay awake
long enough to see
Sun.

The Elders Song

In this 'Wizard' poem, Wizard gets a letter from the Elders of his world questioning the severity of his mental illness. Wizard has previously been given money to live as he has been considered too ill to work. Now the Elders are reconsidering their decision...

The Elders’ Song

(spoken by THE ELDERS)

“Dear Mister... insert-name-in-this-space.
We are writing to conclude on your case.
You ‘say’ you’re... ill... Your words are misplaced.
Sometimes we all get a little sad.
Yours isn’t the only form we’ve had.

Lose that frown and dressing gown.
Let’s get our statistics down.
Hey, hey, hey! Earn your play!
Live to work another day.

You say you’re too ill to go outside.
We said where therapists were. We tried!
You wouldn’t go! You just stayed inside!
Have you thought we might suspect your sneaking?
Is this just attention seeking?

You said you panic. We heard your call.
With our pills, you’d feel nothing at all.
You wouldn’t take them! Of all the gall!
Have you thought we might suspect your faking
easy way of money making?

Lose that frown and dressing gown.
Let’s get our statistics down.
We’ll clear up all this mess and fuss
though no-one ever says thanks to us."

(spoken by WIZARD)
“I said I would work. I’d work from home.
I’d work quite happily left on my own.”

(spoken by THE ELDERS)
“Well, how could you find work with that tone?
Have you thought about our budget’s cuts?
Now, please, no more ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’,

lose that frown and dressing gown.
Let’s get our statistics down.
Hey, hey, hey! Earn your play!
Live to work another day.

Lose that frown and dressing gown.
Let’s get our statistics down.
We’ll clear up all this mess and fuss
though no-one ever says thanks to us.”

Most recent 'Wizard' poem... GORGONS

Gorgons

“Steel your nerve adventurer,
be dexterous and wise.
Make haste to the Supermarket...
The tea bags are in aisle five.

Watch out! Milk spill, aisle three,
a fat white ocean wide.
Steer your trolley deftly lest
you wake the gremlin inside.

Should your trolley veer harsh left
you’ve just upset its gremlin.
I gift to you one SLEEPWAX spell
to soothe those wheels a-trembling.

Beyond baked bean tin avalanche,
behold- our goal- our tea!
But yet, beware the check out tills,
sat there are sisters three.

Foul Supermarket gorgon hags!
Their hook clawed nails forebode.
Spit fire if you pay with change
or buy food with no bar code.

I swear to you – one look could kill!
O mortal man-hate frown.
So judging should you shop barefoot
or in your dressing gown

whispering ‘Weird!’ and ‘Paranoid!’
with spindly fingery glee.
Can you survive these devil’s crones
to bring back milk and tea?”

First draft of a new 'Wizard' poem

*Snap* *Click* *Thwack!*
My heart armour... is intact.
Mission target sighted!
There is NO turning back...

It is a quest to retrieve
the most awesome treasure.
Most power-reaping life spark!
-yet most quiescent pleasure.
For its lure, a king could murder,
forsake riches, live in rags!
It's legend is sung in many lands tongue.
The magic of...

TEA BAGS!

Pyramid ones are preferable,
though square or circular's fine.
No nobler elixir flows
within your land or mine.
Without tea, I turn wild as wolf,
tea's name, I howl and bark it.
Tea can save if we can brave
the trials of...
...Supermarket...

O... ...Supermarket
where the happiest heart could crack.
For tea, I don my heart armour,
*Snap* *Click* *Thwack!*

O... ...Supermarket
enslaves her worker’s dreams.
Promised opportunity.
Most will never leave.

Supermarket gives her drones
a few loose pennies to hold
whilst hoarding for herself great piles
of diamonds, rubies, gold.
Supermarket's clones accept,
blind follow their leader's call.
If they didn't take her pennies, well...
they might have nothing at all.

Their withering queen, deflowering thought,
dictates when they should eat,
when they should rest, when they should smile,
free will is obsolete.
This isn't life.
These drones exist in undead misery.
How I fear their zombie touch
when I want to buy tea.

Watch flaking hopes decay,
fall wasted to the floor.
A zombie touch could shrivel your soul.

I can't go there no more.

Their stares en-flare fears I can't share,
shoot shivers through my blood.
One touch could shatter my heart armour,
*slash* *smash* *thud*

Friend, hero, valiant knight,
heart armour firm as metal,
survive these Supermarket ghouls
and I'll put on the kettle.

Snail

Snail

When Rain calls the snail out
of sleepy, snail dreams,
sliding out a restful place
no human eye has seen,
silent Snail calls to Rain
'Let's wash this city clean'...
Trail wraps paving cracks
and litter in between.

Rain is calling Snail
through the greying of the street,
through a swollen puddle
stretching out its concrete seat,
to a green-red apple,
naked core torn indiscreet...
Apples travel half the world
to fall, crushed under feet.

I sit, dry, inside my flat
as Rain calls out to Snail.
People caught out in the storm
will curse the sleet and hail.
Flail back to brick high homes,
locked strong against the gale...
Trapped inside big, brick shells,
so wrapped in our own trail.

Watch the green-red apple,
tender innards battered, split.
and watch Snail call the Rain
then face the apple pip.
So easily killed. A small life spilled
by just one similar hit...
This snail braves the rain's call
whilst my warm shell I can't quit.

Time Travellers

Jocelyn Brown,
Jazz Cafe, Camden, 2008,
teleport... here,
ear to ear,
roof to floor,
the air's gone solid with bass
- bm - t-t-t,
bm bm bm t-t-t,
bm bm bm t-t-t,
bm bm
and the crowd's turned liquid.
We've had to!
Everyone's melted into one sweaty, sing-a-long throng
bubbling song.
Simmering lips and shimmering hips
slip slide between
the tightest slices in concrete sound.
Funk bound.
We are profound dancers,
barely touch ground,
too important for 'ground'!
Jocelyn sings 'Keep On Jumping',
you and me, keep jumping,
my heart, you've tugged it to pieces,
when i jump bits hit walls like jelly.
Splat!
...I'm steaming,
heart's all wibbly and everywhere,
splish splash crash
our arms collide,
your tongue
on mine.
Squish!

Swinton,
Salford, 2006,
teleport... here.
Homo home owner, DIY.
I always wanted a man who could hold nails in his teeth
and you look dead sexy holding nails in your teeth.
You know how hammers work,
understand screw drivers.
Your arms... strong enough to lift me when
I fall apart in Tescos,
sat crying in the biscuit aisle,
my chewed up nails spiking my teeth,
screaming fat, ugly tears,
don't know why,
just Panic...
Just Panic.
You're a man who can hold nails in his teeth
but never tries to mend me.
I'll never make sense like spirit levels make sense.
My wood and bubbles are all wrong.
Sometimes I'd love to twist how I stand,
pretend I'm right angles, proper straight
but you love me crooked, weird and bent.
I don't look great with nails in my teeth
but I do look dead sexy in fishnets.

Bedsit,
longsight, 2003,
haven't met you yet,
*don't* teleport here...
This universe is divided in two:
outside and inside my flat.
I chose the wrong side.
Outside, people put their hands on each other
in ways I don't get.
Don't yet believe any man could love someone who
owns more than six albums by
Kiki Dee
...and listens to them
...all the time.
"Call me camp again and I'll gouge your fucking eyes out."
I do have some anger issues
and only glance in mirrors.

Anywhere else, anywhere else,
streets emptied, 2010.
Teleport... here,
dead night, sky numb, stars gone,
you, me, outside, yelling
broken words, broken yelling,
Stupid words, breaking,
not while I'm yelling!
My sentences are punctured, commas puss,
i've severed colons...
I'm talking shit.
You look like the sky, open, still,
Why was I yelling?
Do people yell in Kent?
You used to be from Kent
but we've rewritten our pasts
so now I've known you since forever.
You tell me that Kent would love a good yell,
to connect so heavy it don't make sense
but Kent can't touch without apologising,
can't just let us be us all sexy and loving and yelling!
Hey!
We've yelled so hard
we've erased Kent from time and space!
It never was. Never will be.
Fab!

One last time,
twenty-forty-something,
teleport here,
yes, here.
People say you look like Dr Who
so I know you can do this.
Show me Jocelyn Brown,
900 years old and still jumping.
Kiki Dee reuniting antimatter
and you can go the pub in pyjamas.
Kent can only exist if it wears a fez
and supermarkets have designated areas for Panic attacks,
little rooms where they play B-52s,
give you stuff to make with glitter, pritt stick and potatoes.
Show me mirrors.
Show me us old but still dead fit.
Show me younger gays seething jealous
cos we're fitter than them.
Immortal fit.
Make our love keep regenerating
and I've still got hair.
Immortal hair!
Show me youl love me beyond end of days and
I love you.
Show me we're forever.
This is Sci-fi epic love
where the heroes
will never die.

Spirit

Spirit (a duet poem, spoken by Wizard and the man)

“The soul of an ancient eight-armed
ninja drag queen dragon king
is locked inside my shower
and joins in when I sing.
Sometimes we dissect biscuits,
wonder why the sky’s so long.
Yes, I go in naked.
Nothing sexual’s going on.

But is my hoover lying when he
begs me not to clean
because he swears there’s goblins in my
carpet never seen?
He says they put the milk back
in the fridge when I forget.
But drag queen dragon king and me,
we haven’t seen them yet.”

Panic doesn't understand
my brother's new wife's Sunday dinner etiquette
or what my hands ought to do in interviews
or what to say to friends of friends' Dads.
Panic's clumsy.
Breaks things.
Has no respect for folk who really are what they own-
comfortably cluttered with too many rooms,
never touched, never looked at.

“Ursula the kettle said
her work wear makes her blue
so I wrap her up in tinsel
every time she makes a brew.
I never met a human
on this Earth or anywhere
who every time they make the tea
puts tinsel in their hair.”

Sometimes when I’m out
my heart starts to throat slap,
flap like dying fish,
taste like grated carrot in sawdust and sherbet dip.
Panic tells me I've too many fingers.
want to escape,
eyes want to roll loose,
eyes kick inside lids,
steel tear-capped kicks.
Eyes bite,
Panic slavers.
Everyone else sips cocktails and nods.

...

I've not lost it.
There's a key
in my skull
engraved:

"Here,
put this in your ear."

Listen.
The key turns my ear lock.
Listen.
I hear nothing.

Leave sounds for real folk,
clumping around in their fancy size nine realities,
big, ugly feet.
Their ideas look like feet,
stuffed deep in sock,
sweaty,
hidden ugly.
Too repressed to know Panic
if it bit them on the brain.

“They’re just husks of mortgage. Suduku stained."

I don't have feet
or anything ugly.
I am the subtext of wordless night,
the blinding light of total darkness.
See, you can't hold down the sky.
Gentle as tide, pulled from body,
free of frenzied skin, beyond breath,
bound to bone by
the thinnest of truths.
I’m a weightless parade wrapped round
a sun beam guiding my body home.
Guide it home.
Guide me home.

"But is my hoover lying when he
begs me not to clean
because he swears there’s goblins in my
carpet never seen?
See, you can’t see what matters
caught up in the city drone.
There’s shelves of elves in sequined bells
hop scotching here at home.
The thinnest of truths
binds the moons and oceans, Sun to Earth.
We’re rock unsolid fantasy,
know what magic’s worth.
Everything we need is here.
Fantastic, roof to floor!
Nothing outside this flat matters.”

No.
I know what my body is for.

It might not be for my brother's wife's dinner
or money or make-up or manners

but I think it's for caring when someone else panics
and helping them find their way home.