INSTITUTIONAL CARPET

Sometimes you just wake up with a poem in your head, fully formed. Not that I’m much of a poet, as can clearly be seen.

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#Poem – The Married Bachelor

A romantic poem for Valentine’s Day.

If it’s not too much trouble.
If it wouldn’t put you out.
If it’s not too much to ask.
If you’re free of nagging doubts.
If the kids are at your parents.
If your mother doesn’t stay.
If the cat doesn’t interrupt.
If you’ve had a good day.
If I haven’t eaten garlic.
If neither of us ate chilli.
If the mood takes you.
If I wash my willy.
If I ask you nicely.
If I ply you with romance.
If I get forms signed in triplicate.
If I don’t rip your pants.
If there’s nothing on TV.
If there’s nothing on Netflix.
If you’re feeling healthy.
If you’re not feeling sick.
If you’re not intent on reading.
If you’re caught up on Facebook.
If the bed’s not too cold.
If I give you ‘the look’.
If you don’t have to be up early.
If the shower isn’t blocked.
If the Moon is in the seventh house.
If the door is locked.
If the stars are right, up in the sky.
If the dreamer wakes.
If pigs have learned a way to fly.
If there are no earthquakes.
If the house does not catch fire.
If it doesn’t flood.
If the sheets are clean and fresh.
If it’s not the Time of Blood.

Then, oh my beloved.
May I pencil you in?
For 15 minutes, in 6 months.
Of horizontal sin?

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The Big Nob Blues

Ladies and gentleman, put your hands together for Tallywhacker Johnson and Penelope Cooze!

*Applause, which slowly dies down as they begin to play The Blues*

Can’t buy me a rubber. Not one that’ll fit.
Maybe if I’m lucky I can finish on her tits.
Oh yeah. I got them big nob blues. Whoa-oh.
Ain’t talkin’ ’bout my balls, oh no.
Talkin big nob blues.

I love my man. I love him of course.
But to take all of those inches I would have to be a horse. 
Oh yeah. I got me them tight cooch blues.
Ain’t havin’ none of that, oh no.
Talkin’ tight cooch blues.

Ya think this is funny, laughin’ at my size.
You wouldn’t find it funny if your helmet bruised your thighs.
Oh yeah. I got them big nob blues. Whoa-oh.
Ain’t talkin’ ’bout my balls, oh no (though, Lord they ache).
Talkin’ big nob blues.

I dropped me some kids, I birthed them with ease.
But don’t come near me with that, oh lord Jesus hear my pleas!
Oh yeah, I got me them tight cooch blues.
Ain’t stickin’ that in me, oh no.
Talkin’ tight cooch blues.

In my desperation, I tried out for a porn.
To get me out took a caesarian and now the poor girl’s torn.
Oh year. I got them big nob blues. Oh Lord.
Cut me down to size please doc.
Talkin’ big nob blues.

My mouth it aches. My hands are fried.
Don’t mention anal because that ain’t ever bein’ tried.
Oh yeah, I got me them tight cooch blues.
Done never bothered with a kegel, oh no.
Talkin’ tight cooch blues.

Every night it’s the same, I have a wet dream.
I’d fold my sheets but they’d shatter before they’re clean.
Oh yeah, I got them big nob blues – no satisfaction!
Ain’t talkin’ ’bout my balls – though they’re blue.
Talkin’ big nob blues.

*Together*
Ain’t talkin’ bout his balls, oh no.
We got them big/tight nob/cooch blues.

*Jangly guitars*

*Applause*

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C*NS*RSH*P *F S*LF

“Can I say that?” He said, and he cut off his tongue so there was no more risk.

“Am I allowed to look?” He thought and he put out his eyes so his soul would not impinge on any other’s.

“Are there things I should not hear?” And his ears joined his eyes, cast aside on the floor, so he wouldn’t hear anything dangerous.

“Are there things I should not touch?” And he took the axe to his hands, leaving bloody stumps that would never explore, transgress or be idle again.

“Are there places I should not go?” And he broke his ankles so he would not stray – at least not without help.

“Does my presence offend? Are there things I should not think?”

And there was simply.

Nothing.

Left.

.

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Male Socialisation

A response to Gia

He’s so handsome.

What a grip!

You’re so big.

You’re my little man.

Tough little guy.

Hey! Don’t cry!

Don’t hit girls.

Why are you picking flowers?

Slow down.

Be a man.

Finish your plate.

Shut up.
Stop running.

Boys smell.

Boys are stupid.

You’re too rough to play with girls.

Hahahahaha! You have a stiffy!

Look at his crotch!

Stiffy!

Stiffy!

Stiffy!

Stiffy!

Ewww, wet dreams are disgusting.

You’re a creep.

Stop looking at girls.

Stiffy!

Jesus, what have you been feeding it?

I touched it!

Disgusting.

Gross.

Creep.

You’re gross.

Peeping tom.

Let me touch it.

Pervert.

I only want to touch it.

He’s a stalker.

He’s a creep.

He’s a pervert.

Rapist.

Pervert.

Touch me.
Don’t touch me.

Look at that bulge!

Pervert.

Creep.

You only want one thing.

Take me.

Get off me.

Yes.

No.

Stop.

Why did you stop?

Don’t you want me?

Give it to me.

Be strong.

Take charge.

Pervert.

Not like that.

You’re all the same.

You’re all perverts.

Why do you want to work with kids?

But this is a woman’s job.

Women won’t trust you here.

We have to check your background.

We have to double check your background.

We have to be sure you’re not a paedo.

The parents wouldn’t like you working here.

Wouldn’t you be happier working somewhere else?

You’re making the women uncomfortable.

Could you be more circumspect.

We’re going to the coffee shop. Do you want anything?

Can you work extra hours?

Can you work weekends?

She can take care of the kids, right?

We could use the extra money…

Don’t stand so close.

She quickens her step to get away.

She hurries at the cash point.

She shies away when you say hello.

Pervert.

Creep.

Misogynist.

Let’s be friends.

This was a mistake.

I love you… as a friend.

It’s not you, it’s me.

Your sexuality intimidates me.

You’re too demanding.

All you’re interested in, is sex.

I’m sorry I cheated on you.

I just need more financial security.

I don’t want kids.

I don’t need a man in my life right now.

Ever.

You’re a bully.

You’re overconfident.

You’re intimidating.

Pervert.

You’re too calm.

You’re too rational.

That isn’t funny.

I’m serious.

I don’t care what you think.

I don’t want to fuck you.

Stiffy.

You dress like a teenager.

You look ridiculous.

Put a suit on.

Wear a tie.

Cut your hair.

Shave.

You’re getting fat.

Tidy up.

Put your junk in storage.

That’s not funny.

You’re so insensitive.

I have a headache.

I’m not in the mood.

It’s a school night.

They’ll hear us.

It’s too late.

Stop asking.

Why did you stop asking?

You’re pressuring me.

You stopped trying.

Why haven’t you fixed it?

Can you get more overtime?

You’re home late, can you…?

We need that money for essentials.

I make more than you now.

That’s my money.

You’re going grey.

You’re getting old.

You’re getting fat.

You don’t spend enough time with me.

You’re always working.

We need more money.

Why do you read this shit?

Why do you buy this shit?

You’re still like a child.

I don’t see the appeal of these games.

You never grew up.

Perpetual teenager.

Grow up.

Why don’t you join a gym?

Balding.

Grey.

Dirty old man.

Pervert.

Don’t you have any hobbies?

Let’s go see my sister.

But you don’t have any friends.

Dirty.

Old.

Man.

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iCautionary eTales [1]

The Pinprick Man he hears you tapping.
Creeps up when you’re done.
Before you write another text,
Sticks needles in your thumbs.

If you persist, despite the blood,
He really gets quite vexed.
Heaven forfend that you should cross him,
And do not, ever, sext.

He’s a stickler for English,
He gathers up dropped vowels,
He finds the ones who ‘spk lk ths’
And jams them in their bowels.

Beware him when you on the train,
Or on your mobile in your class
For he will creep up right behind you
With a hat-pin for your arse.

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Litidoptera

From deep within the storm-cloud brain, galvanic lightning strikes an uvulan pupa and births a fragile heteroceran of sound.

On longitudinal wings it – briefly – flutters in the air; only to be pinned by dancing fingers as electrons on a page that does not truly exist.

In time, perhaps, it will dance again.

Eggs of ink hatched by human eyes and spoken into being.

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Ex-Mas

On the first day of Ex-Mas that mad bitch gave to me… my old shirt that now smells of pee.

On the second day of Ex-Mas that mad bitch gave to me… two restraining orders and my old shirt that now smells of pee.

On the third day of Ex-Mas that mad bitch gave to me… three letter box turds, two restraining orders and my old shirt that now smells of pee.

On the fourth day of Ex-Mas that that mad bitch gave to me… four bunnies boiling, three letter box turds, two restraining orders and my old shirt that now smells of pee.

On the fifth day of Ex-Mas that mad bitch gave to me… FIVE NASTY THINGS, four bunnies boiling, three letter box turds, two restraining orders and my old shirt that now smells of pee.

On the sixth day of Ex-Mas that mad bitch gave to me… six obscene phone calls, FIVE NASTY THINGS, four bunnies boiling, three letter box turds, two restraining orders and my old shirt that now smells of pee.

On the seventh day of Ex-Mas that mad bitch gave to me… seven pleading emails, six obscene phone calls, FIVE NASTY THINGS, four bunnies boiling, three letter box turds, two restraining orders and my old shirt that now smells of pee.

On the eighth day of Ex-Mas that mad bitch gave to me… eight rape accusations, seven pleading emails, six obscene phone calls, FIVE NASTY THINGS, four bunnies boiling, three letter box turds, two restraining orders and my old shirt that now smells of pee.

On the ninth day of Ex-Mas that mad bitch gave to me… nine naked selfies, eight rape accusations, seven pleading emails, six obscene phone calls, FIVE NASTY THINGS, four bunnies boiling, three letter box turds, two restraining orders and my old shirt that now smells of pee.

On the tenth day of Ex-Mas that mad bitch gave to me… ten Facebook creepers, nine naked selfies, eight rape accusations, seven pleading emails, six obscene phone calls, FIVE NASTY THINGS, four bunnies boiling, three letter box turds, two restraining orders and my old shirt that now smells of pee.

On the eleventh day of Ex-Mas that mad bitch gave to me… eleven gripers griping, ten Facebook creepers, nine naked selfies, eight rape accusations, seven pleading emails, six obscene phone calls, FIVE NASTY THINGS, four bunnies boiling, three letter box turds, two restraining orders and my old shirt that now smells of pee.

On the twelfth day of Ex-Mas that mad bitch sent to me… twelve crazy drunk texts, eleven gripers griping, ten Facebook creepers, nine naked selfies, eight rape accusations, seven pleading emails, six obscene phone calls, FIVE NASTY THINGS, four bunnies boiling, three letter box turds, two restraining orders and my old shirt that now smells of pee.

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Man ‘Splain

Men grunt, grunt, grunt
Men fart and scratch – don’t listen.
If they don’t agree with you then there must be something missing.

Mansplain, man ‘splain.

Men swear and punch and act out ’cause they don’t have the words.
Touching, feeling, talking out – that’s just for the birds.

Mansplain, man ‘splain.

Men are silent men are strong.
Men endure, they’re always wrong.

Mansplain, man ‘splain.

Men shout and yell and butt heads, men settle arguments with fists.
Men suck it up when you hurt them, don’t file it away in lists.

A woman likes the strong silent type.

Oh yeah, a woman likes a man who doesn’t dare to disagree, who doesn’t call her out when she’s wrong.
Sweet reason doesn’t apply, feelings conquer all. Don’t argue with your lover, if you do she might be gone.

A woman likes a man who knows how to ‘lose’ an argument.
A real woman likes a really good loser.

Men condescend, men patronise, logical thinking’s a patriarchal affliction.
Accuse them of anything and it must be true, it couldn’t be fiction.

A woman opens her mouth, only misogynists disagree
A wise man keeps his trap shut, submits and bends the knee.

Mansplain, man ‘splain.

A man’s words can be ignored now
And ignored later.

Men, ‘splain.

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Obi-City

In Obi-City the beats are phat,
And youth-gone-wide wear pork-pie hats.
The BBWs are OTT
On Ladies Night they eat for free.

Every seat is double-wide,
Cholesterol’s a mark of pride.
Diabetes is all the rage,
Every pin-up’s double-page.

A skinny latte’s a sign you’re troubled,
No fries with that? Suspicion’s doubled.
It’s your duty, so stuff your face,
Gulp it down, keep up the pace.

Mumu’s outsell jeans or shoes,
Jogging is considered rude.
The priests preach that dieting’s a sin,
Body of Christ, with insulin.

Baby Got Back’s the national anthem,
Sweating lard’s considered handsome.
Cheek by jowl in unanimity,
Happy, jolly, Obi-City.

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