At the footy

Wednesday 25 May 2011

The red and the white v the brown and the yellow;
That’s the game to be played in the warm autumn gleam.
Same hue attired fans, be them lass, be them fellow,
Fill the stands, eat the pies, shout the rules, carn their team.

I’m the guest of a friend but the friend couldn’t make it,
So there’s two of us acting as substitute fans.
Been a year since I’ve been to the arena to fake it.
I’m afraid these emotions aren’t stowed in my glands.

I don’t follow sport; I’m confused by the legal.
Is this one the one where you can’t play off side?
But I love its theatre – the players so regal!
It’s food for the masses, the critics one-eyed.

The players – half fumble, half ballet – play forward.
The smell of deep heat permeates through the air.
All action heads south and then suddenly nor’ward
The crowd squeals like kids on the rides at the fair.

A man right behind me shouts animate slogans.
Watch ya doing? Pick the ball up! Get a move on! Domineer!
On the oval the coloured teams battle like shoguns.
When one scores a goal the entire crowd cheer.

A young girl beside me reads Roald Dahl’s “The Witches”.
Her sister, in contrast, eyes the game intense.
She’s covered in badges, from her cap to her britches,
The other just yawns… it’s all mere pretense.

Four beers and a pie with tomato sauce later
It’s time to head home. All is lost. Game is done.
Were the Swans overwhelmed? Did the Hawks just play greater?
Let’s just say, on the day, that the better team won.

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A poem for Scott

Thursday 12 May 2011

Scott's new vase

My dear friend Scott once bought a jug,
A tiny thing from history.
The salesmen thought him quite the mug:
Such fuss for some old pottery!

Scott paid the bill and pock’d the prize
(All carefully wrapped in cellophane)
Then told the man, to his surprise,
“Tis priceless piece from Grecian fame.”

The man, his jaw gobsmacked it fell
And echoed round his antique freighter.
Scott thanked the man, then said he’d sell
It back to him on ebay later.



Five limericks

Thursday 7 April 2011

In my earliest youth I would plight
On the darkness within, not the light.
But lately I school
By one simple rule:
“A day without sunshine is night.”

To get me to rise in the morning
My bedside clock tolls as a warning.
The ringing alarm,
It causes no harm,
But it still does not stop me from yawning.

If it wasn’t for early detections
You could get some nasty infections.
To cure all your ills
Try popping blue pills…
They’ll least give you prolonged erections!

Most health food is far from delicious,
And exercise makes me suspicious,
But for feeding the mind
Then a poem I find
Is something completely nutritious.

The issue of how I’ll demise
Is one that I rarely surmise.
When I take my last breath
I would like Mister Death
To pop up and shout out “SURPRISE!”


A very bad Sonnet entitled ‘Up Yours Lurgy’, with apologies to the iambic pentameter, the concept of a volta, inversion, William Shakespeare, and frankly anyone else who has ever written a sonnet

Saturday 12 March 2011

Wrapt tight I still shiver, my colour blue,
Then the heat overwhelms, and I’m flushed red.
The sheets are all damp; my clothes are soaked through;
You might say it looks like I just pissed the bed.

A sudden rumbling acts as the alarm,
I dash for the door knowing what’s to come.
Tears fill my eyes, more from strain than from harm;
Goodbye to once what was inside my tum.

The stomach settles and I risk a bowl
Of hot soup, recipe thanks to mother,
But it will not stay in; it chooses a hole –
If it’s not the top one, it’s the other.

Long I’d forgotten how much all this hurts.
Damn you three: the Sweats, the Spews, and the Squirts.


Found Poem

Saturday 20 June 2009

This isn’t my work; I would be insulted if you thought that it was. I found it in my foyer on a folded piece of lined paper torn from a spiral note book and thought it too good to hide away. Besides it gives me a chance to rant:

I FUCKEN HATE vampire stories. I can not think of another genre of storytelling that involves a more tedious, more pretentious, more boring character – “Oh fucken woe is fucken me, I’m a fucken vampire destined to wander this fucken earth for all of fucken time; how fucken boo-hoo sad!” – FUCKEN PISS OFF, OR GO AND GET A FUCKEN TAN AND DIE!!! Now, Zombies; that’s another story.

Please enjoy… 

 

It’s not easy being white;
I’m bored at being frightening through night.
I want to sit in a pub drinking ale;
I’m sick of being pale.
I can only wear black;
Tell me – where’s the fun in that?
And look? Does help me get fucks – 
Being a Vampire really sucks!

You wont’ believe this is true
But I wish I were you.
Having fangs ain’t a ball;
You know I’d give up it all.
But I was born this way: to murder; to slay.
That reminds me – I haven’t eaten today.
Relax! – I’m on a diet, it’s OK! 

Come back to my place;
I’ll take my fangs out, you can sit on my face.
We’ll play suck the rat
And then skin the cat!
Please put yourself n my boots;
My look – doesn’t help get me roots;
And there’s the problem’s crux –
Being a Vampire really sux!


The Beginning, Number 13 – Limerick

Monday 25 May 2009

A roller door painted all pretty
With a picnicking group by a city,
Lit by a single light,
Was opened one night.
What’s inside? No idea. Such a pity.

2 to go …


The Beginning, Number 8 – Haiku

Friday 1 May 2009

It’s dark; must be night.
What’s that noise – a strangled cat?
Truck’s here. Open up!

7 to go …