My Generation

There’s cash to be screwed off this ageing population
of us the near-needy – the to-be-nursed generation

Flyers and ads freefall from the ‘papers
promotions galore to entice us old-agers

Walk-in baths with a seat for tired pins
and packaway loos – such convenient things

Save now for your funeral and reduce the high cost
Insure your fucked body – shield your kids from a loss

They’ll sell off the house and divide the proceeds
Now dead your true worth – two holidays to Greece.

Kermode’s Lament

He walks the Croisette
between palm leaf shadows

this gloom-filled film critc
nursing a flopping hangover

A review for a near deadline
with just enough vitriol

next time this critic
will avoid the film festival

He promised the wife
and Fortnite-fixed kids

that never again
will he do this flick-trip

Instead he’ll drag them
kicking and screaming

to a safe place
which is way beyond streaming

The Archers 5-5-18

Brian was drunk, sat alone down The Bull,
when Jazza rolled in and pulled up a stool:
‘Hey Brian, you ok? Fancy a bevvy session?
It’ll help relieve your current depression.’

Sunrise on Sunday can be sooo boring,
PC Burns lamented whilst street-patrolling,
but then he drove by a dreadful thing,
Brian Aldridge, there, asleep on The Green.

‘Move along Mr Aldridge, you are quite drunk,
you appear to have thrown up yesterday’s lunch.’
Brian pulled out a wedge of bung-thick cash,
which Burns deftly pocketed for his wedding bash.

Jazzer awoke to Fallon’s soft snoring,
she was lost in her dreams about decorating.
He slipped from the bed, feeling quite naughty,
knowing her beloved would be home shortly.

Once more Brian woke, this time to a kiss,
from Linda’s new dog, right on the lips.
He stood and stretched his ancient frame,
Linda retreated, taking off down the lane.

‘Brian you’re a mess,’ Jennifer hissed,
as he climbed into bed, still quite pissed:
‘Ha! You should see the state of The Green,
the Environment Agency has even more to clean.’

Blow Winds

Ms. Stormy Daniels
you’ve raised a tempest
Not quite Shakespearian
but that of a temptress

A swellhead scorned
is a dangerous thing
But once he’s made POTUS
he’ll act like a king

Rumble thy bellyful!
Spit, fire! Spout, rain!
Much like Shakespeare
he’ll end with exclaims

Poor naked wretches
whereso’er you are
That bide the pelting
of this pitiless storm

Ms. Gyllenhaal

Aye, I would ask Maggie Gyllenhaal
to be my bride, with her feisty call,
and looseness of her expressive doe,
above, and under her doen breasts I’ll go:

but her new child meets, most devoutly,
so I’ll remain unfed, to lie quietly,
as my wife lambastes, half-heartedly,
my ask of Maggie? They both laugh at me.


[Poem #863]