ponderous poetry for the hoi polloi



Polly Chromatic


Where be my rainbow wonder?

(Do I even dare to find her?)

Tie-dye bride, Diana,

Holographic splendour,

Waving at me from behind the

Seckel pear tree…



She’s a technicolour knockout!

(And I’ve the bruises to prove it),

The girl with the smile oh so prismatic,

Multicoloured kisses,

You can almost taste the tulips in




She’s that slick of oil

In an otherwise spiritless puddle,

Post-war downpour,

(What is it good for?)

Absolutely everything!

Of this I’m sure…


Pow! Bang! Pop!

She’ll make your heart stop!

Gee wiz, gee golly,

That girl’s a zap lolly,

So stick up your brolly,

And shut your trolly,

And just enjoy the rain in


Mr. Lunches

Please, spare a thought for

Old Mr. Lunches,

Who could never be arsed with

Bottomless brunches.

Cinnamon Roll


And for my brekkie,

You can be my cinnamon roll,

Pocket revolver and

Saccharine soldier,

Doing battle with my wisdom teeth,

Too foolish to avoid,

The freckle-faced ammonoid,

Which washed up on my

Schauss pink shores.

Ell’s Bells

Boy, those male escorts never chip in for rent.


You’re the toffee apple of my eye,

Crystal iris,


Manning the wheel in that woeful sky,

How blessed I am to be by your side.


You’re my milkweed butterfly,

Stained glass window,

Glacial spy,

With looking glass wings fresh from Versailles,

How blessed I am to be by your side.


Yes, you’re my polysaccharide,


Half bottle of rye,

But enough to make me pumpkin pie-eyed,

How blessed I am to be by your side.


You’re even my silver iodide,

For every cloud

Has a silver line, in

Case you didn’t hear me first time,

How blessed I am to be by your side.


You’re the saint that drives my tides,

Roman goddess,

The sunshine’s bride,

Games divine without design

And how blessed I am to be,


By your



Billy Bread Basket,

Basket case, fruitcake,

For him life was a loaf too far,

With a disposition as weak as red top milk,

And a haircut most bizarre!


Billy Bread Basket,

Basket case, fruitcake,

As mad as a custard tart,

With the visual perception of a star-nosed mole,

As pleasant as a periungual wart!


Billy Bread Basket,

Basket case, fruitcake,

Forever crying through his sausage roll,

And boy did he need his bran checking,

If not his heart and soul!


Billy Bread Basket,

Basket case, fruitcake,

The neediest baker around,

With nowt but a recalcitrant bottom lip for company,

And a mouth like a burial ground!


But now Billy Bread Basket,

Basket case, casket base,

Based beneath a fruit-less-cake seal,

More loaves than loved ones, more sugar than sense,

Oh may he rest in piecemeal!

Something to whet the palette

I’ll make you as red

As the blushing fruits of a

Summer pudding,

Sweet berry bonanza,

A seasonal answer,

And cure for your wintery heart.



I’ll make you as orange

As a wee dram of


Oh so boozy woozy,

My marmalade jacuzzi,

Still turning my mind to jam.


Oh yes!

I’ll make you as yellow

As the rubber ducky in my

Bath, ye

Sexy soapsuds-surfer,

Wave-crashing big bertha,

How’s it bedtime already?


Yes! Yes!

I’ll make you as green

As the sour apples in my


Hard-boiled satisfaction,

Sharp-witted distraction,

And caustic cause for content.



I’ll make you as black

As my mid-morning


Eager-eyed eight ball,

That jet-threaded waterfall,

And saviour of my weary mind.


But no!

I’ll make you as white

As the snow in my


This frosty reception,

Nowt more than deception,

When your kisses still give me warmth.


And since I know that these colours

Are better suited to you,

I promise, my love,

Never to make you feel blue.

I wanna be…

I wanna be your old settee,

A companion to your


And girl, you can lounge all

Over me,

That’s where I want to be.


I wanna be that stick of rock

Stuck in your tooth and

Left to rot,

Not hiding in your

Sugar pot,

That’s where I want to be.


I wanna be that Breakfast martini,

Easy peasy,

Lemon squeezy,

Hold me tight, and don’t ever

Leave me,

That’s where I want to be.


I wanna be your cigarette,

The sweetest tasting


Wedged between your

Pink rosette,

That’s where I want to be.


Oh yes!

I wanna be your Trevi fountain

Those lucky coppers you’ll spend

Hours counting,

Do you believe me or are

You doubting?

‘Cos I’m sure that’s where I’m meant to be!

Dearly Beloved

My darling,

If you want to kill me in my

Sleep then so be it!

But at least have the decency to wake me


So that the last image I see on this

Sorry earth is



Your looming madness hanging over me,

As The Desperate Man did on

Courbet’s living room wall,

You and your glorious face of anger,

Burnt onto my dead retina

Like bleach on linen,

The most beautiful keepsake to

Take home with


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