ponderous poetry for the hoi polloi


Les Fleurs

Absolute Zero

I’m trapped in



Just left of where the iris fades

And the liquorice wheel begins to


That’s where you’ll find me,



Doing somersaults through the night



But I’m no shooting star,

Steering the painter’s brush,

Think more white dwarf,

Ho-hum and hung out to



While that girl,

She’s the brightest star in an

Asterism, sweet cataplasm,

Sitting pretty at the end of the

Rainbow road,

Red, Orange, Yellow,

Green, Blue,



The girl with the glitter ball


And eyes bigger and bluer than


Oh! How she disco-dances across the

Sequinned sea,

So far away, she won’t see me,

But I can



Yes! Through my

Automatic, achromatic, haemorrhagic lens,

I’ll zoom in on her,

Such celestial splendour,

She’s like quartz,

Winking at me,

Turning my eyes to



The interstellar iceberg,

Let us play hopscotch across the


And I’ll close my eyes and count to


And pray she’ll be in my

Sights once again.


Mon Dieu!

But how blinding her

Beauty be,

She’s burning magnesium

Against an empty TV screen,

The star of a show which ended

Weeks ago.


But still she flickers,

With her silver skirt and tangelo toes,

How I’d love to be the

Notches on her asteroid belt,

And squeeze her tight,

Until I find my way home.


But instead I stand still,

Stuck, ankle-deep in the treacle,

Deep trouble, deep confusion,

These boots weren’t made for

Moonwalking girl,

Nor was this heart ready for the



And so she strays towards the darkness,

Further and further and


Until my outstretched arm becomes a

Dot amongst the



But while she may be light-years away,

I’ll still love her, needless to say.

Weston Wonder

Oh! Weston Wonder,

With her raw umber hair,

Boy you best be aware,

She’s a stunner –

Dr. Taser, Major Laser,

Stock-still, I’m stuck on



Yes! Weston Wonder,

With her Egyptian blue eyes,

Come be my very own


No Liz Taylor,

I want the real



Ah! Weston Wonder,

With the picture-perfect puss,

Monsieur Rodin went to great lengths to

Sculpt cheekbones as

Delightful as


What’s your secret?


Eee! Weston Wonder,

With the Wargrave Pink lips,

You make Columbia Road

Look like a

Procession of ugly


…And how lucky I am

To have been chosen by


Anne Bonny

Oh, pretty privateer

Pretty please won’t you

Plunder me for all the

Pathetic pennies I am


Worthy wanderer of the

Seven seas, sail aside my silly



I’m the Royal Navy, naïve,

You’re out to get me,

Maritime Marauder,

Make me your

Cannon fodder, plonker and


Come walk all over me.


And free me from this fruitless


Bloody booty-full

Freebooter, nightmare and




Shiver me timbers!

Tickle me pink!

Perky pirate,

Please let me sink!


Taxi-driver, home-remover,

Oh sweet glorious midnight-groover,


Side-eye glancer, part-time dancer,

Green light says go but you’re a red man-chancer,


Organ-grinder, mendicant-minder,

She beggars belief, how did I find her?


Vino-drinker, little tinker,

I’ve got it bad for you – hook, line, and sinker,


Worked up-warbler, cockle-warmer,

With kisses so sweet, you’re a diabetic’s fave nightmare,


No! A real life-saver, ‘Lady Soup-Kitchener’,

Our country needs you, but you’re mine ’til later,


Tanqueray-sipper, and afternoon-kipper,

Ah! Smokey delight, even hippies aren’t hipper,


Champion-cooker, toothsome supper,

No need for gegs, you’re a real good-looker!


Firecracker, dark horse-backer,

I’m a losing bet, but you know no better,


Galaxy-surfer, Oh moonlight marauder!

Even Jupiter blushes at the thought of ya,


Snake-charmer, Mr. Melodrama,

I’m a stranded yacht, but you’re my ocean-calmer,


Premier number, little girl-wonder,

Venus de Milo‘s alright, but you’re the real picture!


And from May to September,

These are a few things I remember,

About why I love you, Miss 28th November.


I ain’t no mountaineer but let’s make one thing clear,

I’d mount a challenge to reach her

Summit, summet in the way she moves,

Twin peaks, she’s piqued my interest,

Peaky-blinder, bobby-dazzler, gimme a slap,

Daydream believer!


Beautifully breathtaking,

I need more O’s,

Oh my, the emphysema only emphasises my point,

But no shortness of breath could cut short my


I sense victory!


So I’ll ignore the guide ropes that

Some sorry Sherpa has lain before,

Off-piste, I’ll forge my own path,

And have the last laugh,

One man, one way, one love

I’ll be King of the Hill, top the bill,



Why must your love be

Fleeting like the winter sun?

Won’t you please tell me


Shall I compare thee to a winter’s wine?

Thou art more stirring and more wholesome,

My radiant rosso corsa, coursing through my veins, passing

Skin deep,

Deep trouble,

Don’t rush to the finish,

Don’t drink and drive.


Let me have a spin of your flavour

Wheel, wheel of fortune, lucky dip,

I’ll take the plunge and take my pick from your

Bouquet, the best of a beauteous bunch,

And rest my lips against your blushing

Buttress of butterscotch and blackcurrant,

Que c’est beau!


Oh! Flickers of vermilion wink at me,

My blessed hands rest beneath your bowl,

Like two sconces hanging from a royal wall,

Fire brick, how you make me squiffy,

Love-drunk, vertiginous, verging on brilliant,

Your brilliance revivifies me,

Good beatitude required.


You – rich and round, me – ripe for the picking,

Christ! What a glorious body you possess,

And how you do possess

Me with your crimson kisses,

I’ll play the drunkard, you the Eucharistic Minister,

Administer me with more of your cardinal cordiality,



And so let me drown in your luscious lava,

Davy Jones’ locker, lock me up and throw away the key,

Oh! Keep me keen, just don’t let the stem stray too

Far, Amaranthus, just the two of us,

Soaked by your sumptuous waves,

Flutters, flutter your eyelashes at me, and

Summon the devil within.

Ah, ma bichette!

Ah, ma bichette!

You do to me what

Cherry blossom does to the wet mornings of


Showering my days with such

Delightful confetti, a

Celebration of your pulchritude.


Ah, ma bichette!

Your dulcet tones do

Battle for superiority with the

Songbird, a

Sweet symphony to soundtrack my



Ah, ma bichette!

You’re the kind of

Girl who’d feel most at home in an


Queen bee, sweet like honey,

You’re clearly worth the toothache!


Ah, ma bichette!

As beautiful as the

Bloodstained skyline at


A haemorrhage of the sun, you

Seep across my horizon,

Delaying the darkness of night.


Ah, ma bichette! Ah ma bichette!

And you still haven’t got the best out of me yet!

Bye-Bye Budapest

Oi, love!


Get your arse back to Blighty,

And catch that flight you big daftie!

Sorry to be a pest, pet, but Hungary has had you for long enough now, so

Come home to your Yorkshire lad, and leave all those meaningless Magyars behind!


You’re a festivalgoer,

Gone for far too long and far too far for my liking,

This fête’s not fair

And I’ll have you know I do not care too much for what some

Frivolous fortune-teller foretold,

These past few days have been far from fortunate, for me at least,

For, no matter what any soothsayer might say right now, nowt can soothe this

Suffering, suffice it to say!


So instead I wait around for a call like a cat at an empty bowl,

Expectant and hungry, but I’ve been starved of your delicious grub for what seems like years now,

A hearty meal is long overdue, from you, my svelte sphinx, little minx,

Save all your purring for me, girl, your mewing be like music to my ears,

And when you return we’ll waltz together to a tune

That even Johann Strauss would be proud of!


So re-pitch that tent of yours on home turf, darling,

In familiar soil you can camp close to me, where the pegs are meant to be,

And I’ll gladly be your very own Glastonbury,

‘Cos there’s nowt that can beat such home comforts as these!



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