Poetry

Mine, and occasionally others'.

Tests on My Breasts

Take this basket into this stall
Waist upwards: off with it all
On with the gown
(No, the other way round)
This is what we're going to do
OK with you?

Into the room, off with the gown
Lift your breast and lay it down
​On this plate, stand like this
Shoulder back, hand on hip
​This might squeeze a little bit

Rude Words

When Donald Trump said
"Grab them by the pussy"
The objectionable word
was not "pussy"
It was "grab"
His words were not "lewd"
They were violent

Tumour Humour: Titter Ye Not

They're big and they're flopsy
They had a biopsy

Wore a gown like a nightie
My clothes in the lockers
Some people like me
But I do have my knockers

Tubes in my boobs
Making maps of my baps
Taking bits of my tits
Then I got the answer
It's cancer
Oh shit

Next appointment
They will be pointing
Their surgical pistols
Straight at my Bristols

From Alex, 6 Years Old

On 21 September, the White House published a letter that President Obama had received from six-year-old New Yorker Alex, offering a home to Omran, the Syrian boy whose photo had circulated widely.

Please tell the boy in the ambulance
To come and live at ours
And we will greet him in the street
With flags, balloons and flowers

Beneath that dust I know he must
Be frightened as can be
But when he's washed the bloodstains off
I think he'll look like me

Where Has Everyone Gone?

Move to the ground in the centre, you said
Nobody likes a dissenter, you said
Victory hinges
On leaving the fringes
Let us move to the centre, you said

Come down from the high ground, you claimed that we must
Move from town to the plains, this is shit or it's bust
You would find the location
With triangulation
Just there, where the ground's laid with dust

Pages

Subscribe to RSS - Poetry