On the 2nd of November, I went to the Jazz Club for a charity gig - and sat and wrote bad poetry all night. I don’t know where I was channelling this shizznit from, but it just kept coming. As ever, I take no responsibility.
It's a bit sweary, sorry mum.
Voila.

Hiding drugs in the temple
Mr Blazey fondles the vinyl
Glow like a stick
Drink your own sick
Poetic block now would be fatal
Could death be final?
When a lady makes a gesture
My mind thrives on conjecture
But rhyming couplets like
A cattle-grid to a bike.
OMG I cant believe it
Isn’t better.
Word.

You sing like a dalek
And act like a turnip,
When you’re sending a txt,
From under the bed.
I’ll make you a star!
From plastic and ice.
They’ll think we’re fantastic
‘Till we get in a fight.
Your lines of white
Mean nothing to me
Oh Vienna!
Pavarotti.
The fat fucker.
I wrote him a letter
He never replied
Perhaps I wasn’t listening, though.

A Song for Faith
You killed your arch-nemesis
You electro business bitch.
I talked to a man
Who never did exist
Couldn’t read my writing
So he beat me with a whisk.
But lets talk about you
‘Cos you’re doing the do,
Laughin’ and cryin’
With a fist of iron.
Not to mention folic acid
Bromide, phosphorus and zinc.
You can work in a jazz club
And stroke with a velvet glove.
Milky Joe would do ya!

I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT ALL THIS MEANS!
Enter stage left,
A palete with a cleft.
Come in a bucket.
Launch like a rocket.
Talking dirty at a funeral
While magpies hang ten
On the crest of a crime wave.
Connect four!

A red mist of gloom
Shuffles over this room
Like your granny in her slippers
When I get into her knickers
And make her go "ooh".
I piss like a racehorse
And explain all in due course.
I fly like a penguin
When I’m breakin’ the ice.

Beth in a headband
Missed out on quicksand.
And other Geography.
Indiana Jones
Loves you, covered in hot buttered teacakes,
On Sunday,
On a yacht,
Trapped in a celtic knot garden of infinite regress.
Like a bent copper
In a crackhouse.
Or a crackwhore.
Or a crack in the façade.
Pucker up motherfucker.
Here I come
To brighten your day!

I’m on fire tonite
She said
I wrote, in the dark
Imagined a melody
But knew
I’m no musician
And aborted the song.

Word up to the robot
The kool kids all know that
Tin plating is sexy
Circuits and electricity
But you’ll never beat me
‘Cos I can breathe under water
And grope your daughter
Now break!

The bins they are a burnin’
The tables are all turnin’
With a sky of purple
The end is surely nigh.
I got a list of names
In case the non-believers
Are resurrected
And science is corrected
My bird got ‘flu.

Shoot me with a shotgun
The wind is in the East!
I see in blue and pineapple
And taste a lot like yeast.
Roses are a metaphore
But I converse in semaphore
With my electric soul.
Fuck I’m really
Losing it this time
Care to watch?
I need to watch my syllables
But not my spelling
Dustbins combustable!
I never realised
"How dare you?" was
A rhetorical question.
Please be seated
Please be lucid
Woah.