Lester Burnham

This is a poem written about Kevin Spacey's character in one of the greatest films ever, American Beauty.


Lester festered in his memories of how things once were.
Evey morning, for years, the glare of resentment on his wife's face was like blisters behind the eyes.
Her perseverance of perfection was projected on everything static, except him.
He came to realise that he was still who he was and she had become something else.
A frozen soul with motions that crack in clockwork.

And the weeks that seemed like days that passed between he and his daughter, where words were exchanged, but nothing actually said.
He watched and pondered and wilted into the past where nostalgia embraced him warm, familiar hugs and cuddles

He gained and he lost
Remembered and forgot
Until he was who he wanted to be - who he was
But then all was lost
Perhaps, the ripple rings in coagulating pools on imaculate kitchen tiles tells us a sharp truth
You are who you have become and, one way or another, you can't go backwards

I Am An Artist

I am an artist

I wonder if the true ideal of freedom of artistic expression actually exists
Or are we bound by the constraints of our own fear?
I hear the constant support of the notion
From others close around me but
I see them shriek and cower in fear
When the notion becomes practice
At it's own borders and limitations
Set by us, the artists
I want to point a finger at the world screaming
"Look at this"
"Why is this happening?"
"Let's do something about it"

I am an artist

I pretend. I imagine
I create. I question
I feel humanity's self awareness
Of our own evolutionary process
Slipping, slowly through our fingers
I touch the destruction and poison that is us
I cry because I am part of it

I am an artist
And I WILL point my finger at the world

Nick Is BNP

I wrote this poem specifically for an 'Anti-BNP Comedy Night' that I was invited to perform in. I was absolutely delighted to notice that the words 'Nick Griffin' and 'British' are uni-vocalism's. So this poem is a uni-vocalism, which means it only contains the vowel 'i'.

Nick Griffin is British. Pink skin is in with him.
"Swiftly ship Chinks, Spicks, stinking Niggs with big lips.", Nick thinks.
"This is my bit dirt"
"Night skin will rip British kids skirts with thick pimp girth, whilst swiftly slimming British living", BNP spins
Slyly slipping in blind fright. Giving thick, tight plight

I grin big grins, brimming with insight.
I think bright light bliss within mind's sight,
will kiss this right.
It will.
Nick Griffin's Ilk will flick this chip, thinking....why?
Finding, in bliss, dirt is dirt
Sky is sky

Molly

This poem is a 'univocalism', which is a text that
only contains one vowel. This poem only contains the lette 'o'.


Molly, tot, prods odd oblong pot on top of wood stool
Who's fool prod, prod, prod pot on top?
Knock, thonk, bonk on block
Two drops of blood on floor
Molly's gob booms room down
Good job pot hollow
Shoot to door to room
Troop to Molly's folly. Go Potty

Hoot, hoot, hoot. Worry, worry, worry
Mommy go potty no totty
Golly gosh, not two toots on took Molly,
toy dog 'Woofy', yo-yo too
to Old Doctor Bob, who's spot on.
Doctor Bob won lot's of top doc comps
Bob promptly storm troops flow of blood
on Molly's bonk on block.
Tomorrow's bloody Robocop doctor
Whoop whoop, Doctor Bob!

So, dot dot dot, good job
Lolly for Molly. Got to go, Now!
Mommy foot clops from work soon
Zoom to motor - VW polo
Shoot down to town, loop on North
Go Go Go!
Got to front door, STOP!
Look cool. Molly, look cool. Molly nods

Mommy stomps from cook book
"Good God", Mommy gobs
"How's Molly got bonk on block?"
Oh no. Drops of poo roll down
from hot poop toots.
Mommy looks on long
"Tom, How's Molly got bonk on block?"
Look on Molly who boldly gobs
"Tod Gordon from school throws rocks, Mommy"

Vanessa

Her discombobulated thoughts form curls
of raspy speech around the microphone.

Unforgettable memories of love and pain,
inseparable from each other,
bleed into the black mesh in front of her face,
down the wire and amplified out into the open
For all to bear witness

Each recollection hammering home the hammer blows
of her love and his pain
His love and her pain

The pane's of glass watch 20 years of tear of tears
drop past the last words from her trembling lips.
And I sit, unlit, contorted in the shadows
of her fractured past

I Can Taste The Ocean On Your Tongue

A dark silhouette of a man, shabby, with dust radiating from him like smoke,
sits on an old creaky, wooden porch holding the last remaining element of his wife.
Her tongue, not long out of the pickle jar.

He brings his cupped hands slowly up to his mouth and delicately licks the shrivelled muscle.
His eyes roll back as his lids close and he fades into the jaded memories.
He breathes slow and deep. When his eyes re-open, he is lost.
His expression of contentment fades into one of oblivion.

Rage, hurt, pain and regret fills him and in a petty display of self-loathing,
he hurles the ornamental flesh into the bushes beyond the perameters of his present existance.
"What have I done", he screamed. "You are lost forever, again, because of me".
He wails to the sky and hacks off his own tongue, which he throws over the fence,
so the memories can die together

Endlessness

Concrete towers of hope and condemnation surrounding a hungry rat
Automatic scrambling for survival against artificial monkeys,
swinging on branches of their own pebble dashed breath
Gusts of dust and wind blowing through their heads
When will it end?

Flaming tongues of giants blazing promises of lies and lies of promises
to a gathering cloud of smog
Microchip brains consume in circles and gather nothing
Life preservers are thrown to the sense of logic of those who think and feel
but the lines are cut by hot banana scissors

Cold hot face packs peel back their skin, replaced with programmed expression and judgement,
eager to gaze at their new image reflected in a scalpel.
Apparent incisions into the public membrane with a cubed and digital edge

Hollowed capsules of life lie piled up, spent and used,
sucked dry for all their worth and worth nothing in abundance.
This crystallized, sparkling age of darkness
where remote controlled lives are the only ones that thrive and remain alive
But for a price.

Square-eyed fork tongues feel safe in the race behind locks and chains and weapons of death. Consumptions shrouding mass perspectives of importance and necessity.
Fat back paper pockets squeal in triumph.
When will it end?