Imagine . . . . . . that you are looking after a house while the occupants are away on holiday and one night on an impulse you go into their daughters room and line up the dolls, all of them. You give each the name of a female friend you fancy and one of them is giving you the eye, so you pull off its head and fit it over your rigid private member. Then you run round the house shouting 'Im a naughty badger boy, come fondle my squirrel brush', until you end up in the study. And in the study you look at the disheveled dolls head bouncing up and down in your lap as you pant while your dirty dirty dirty feeling well up. And as you shout 'ACORNS', the head shoots off and hits the far wall leaving a nasty mark. And it takes some time to wash the mark away, but you are never able to remove the JPEGS taken by the web cam you didn't know was in the study sending pictures to a local neighborhood watch website manned by a team of geriatrics and sixth formers who now think your a sexual deviant even after you tell them that its not what it looked like on the filthy Internet . . . because they know its is.
Bender
Coming home from the pub,
I open Budgie Birds cage,
and even though we are both boys,
I give him a big tonguey kiss on the beak.
But I was drunk and he had been eating millet all day.
In the morning I look away in shame when he twitters,
but inside I love him more than all the world.
--sent to several special friends
Wickedness
All day long two fat black hairy spiders drink great big mugs of tea in the dusty carpet under my bed,
laughing and joking, their voices barely audible.
At night when Im asleep,
they scamper into my nose, falling over each other giggling.
And then they wee.
-- to a beautiful friend
Friendship
When we are 90,
we will shuffle down the narrow supermarket isle,
very very slowly,
pretending to be deaf at the checkout,
while farting nosily.
And when we get home,
we will close the curtains and dance to techno,
carefully.
When we are 90,
our wickedness will have just begun.
-- to a beautiful friend
A Poem About Your Toes
Durning the day your toes fain ignorance in your shoes.
But at night when you are asleep,
they wriggle to the fridge and swim in the yogurt,
jumping and chucking like dolipins.
-- to a beautiful friend
No More Kisses
Goodbye to the fondest goodbye.
A blissful moment that fits in one beat of your heart.
And hello to both your ears.
--to a lady that will no longer let me kiss her on the lips
A Chicken Called Klucky
Unrequited love is like a chicken called Klucky,
that only I can see,
peeking from one eye at me,
peaking at my heels.
Go away Klucky, I dont like you anymore.
Not At Home
The poison pecking pigeon perches on your head.
Teetering on an ear, he spills tea on your nose.
And fills your hair with ash, finishing of your tobacco!
Send him out for some more, turn off the lights and pretend your out.
-- to a beautiful friend that was poorly
2 am
Opening the fridge you find a hand, panic ensues.
Then you notice that each of your arms still has a hand attached.
Blessed relief fills your being and you go back to bed happy.
Beautiful Morning
Opening the curtains you see a strange bird,
on the other side of the window,
regarding you with unblinking gaze,
its head directly in front of your head,
its beak pressed against the glass.
You pretend its not there and make a cup of tea.
-- to a lady that did not reply
Wonderfully Bitter
I love coffee.
The tea sits at the back of the cupboard pulling a face.
I stand in the kitchen,
at 4 in the morning,
on my head.
The sun comes up and I go to bed.
-- to a beautiful friend
Imagine . . . . . . sneaking into your sisters room and undressing her Barbie and then dressing up your private member in Barbies clothes . . . all of them . . . then going to the swimming pool and swimming up and down until the attendant stops you and says that you dropped something in the water . . . and its a tiny tiny tiny crocheid top . . . and you both look down to water level and a minute Christian Dior jacket is peaking out of the top of your trucks . . . and in a vain effort to distract attention from your bulging briefs and to mask your dirty dirty dirty feelings, you point to the other side of the pool and say, someone just dropped the internet in the water . . . but no one stops looking at your trucks as you try to splash away at about a mile an hour leaving a slick of diminutive designer wear behind you.
Imagine . . . . . . filling a pair of Wellington Boots up with rice pudding then parading up and down the high street in them . . . until someone points and says, 'whats that coming out of the top of your Wellington Boots . . . is its rice pudding?!?! and why are you in Wellingtons anyway . . . its the middle of summer . . . it smells of rice here is that you?' . . . . and then you say, 'its something to do with the internet' and you hurriedly waddle and slosh away from them, all the while trying to keep your dirty dirty dirty feeling in check . . . .hmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Imagine . . . . . . going round to your friends house and their cat Miss Marmalade has had kittens and while your friend is out of the room, on impulse you stick a kitten up your t-shirt . . . . and it feels so good you stick another and another and another up there . . . and the mummy cat to . . . . until your T is a writhing furry mass of dirty dirty dirty feelings . . . and your friend come back in and says, were is Miss Marmalade and her kittens . . . what have you got under your T-Shirt . . . is that a tail protruding from your neck line!?! . . . why is your tummy going meow? . . . and you go, Ive got the internet stuck under my T-Shirt . . . then you both fall silent, staring at the T . . . furry tails flailing from every orifice . . . the silence broken only be the pathetic mule of distressed kittens . . .
Imagine . . . . . . your in the Supermarket and you pass the rice shelf and one of the rice bags has split and you put a bit of rice in your mouth . . . and its nice so you put a little more in . . . and the isle is empty and your alone, so you stuff more in, and more and more . . . and you mouth is bulging with rice and you can hardly breath and you have a dirty dirty dirty feeling youve never had before . . . and suddenly theres a little old lady behind you asking were the bin liners are . . . and she tugs at you again and ask again and then again . . . but you cant reply because your mouth is so full of lovely dry hard dirty rice, that if you opened it, it would be a rice fountain . . . and the thought of the rice fountain make you shout, I love you dirty rice . . . and as you shout, the rice explodes from your mouth all over the old ladies face with such force that she falls over . . . and over sobs you say, the Internet made me do it . . . and then you say, Im not a mentalist, I just like rice.