Cross Country

The dreaded school cross country run. Pain, humiliation and mediocrity in off-white sports socks….

Games lessons. Frosty afternoons I’d detest
Being forced to lap the common in a vest
Micro-shorts chafing and trainers completely soaked
‘Get your arses moving, girls,’ shouts Mr Oakes
Breaking puddles, ice-water jets up my thigh
Stumbling, second last, determined not to try

Ambulance Chaser

Can’t stand the idiots who shoot out of a long queue of traffic to follow the space created by emergency services. Someone might be dying, but if you get to your sales meeting every cloud eh?

In the rear-view mirror, blue lights
Sirens. You swing out. The gap’s tight
Catch a ride on a heart attack
Your meeting at nine’s back on track

Redundancy Cadillac

Johnny Bunn lived over the back
He bought himself a Cadillac
Stars and stripes upon the bonnet
His redundancy’s what won it
While others cleared their mortgage debt
Or tried to drink away regret
Jon played Dixie and hit the road
To Hell with other’s moral code 

Mr Paskin’s Cock

Poor old Paskin liked his bush topiary, but it would prove to be his downfall…

Mr Paskin had a huge cock
In his privet. Around the clock
He’d be snipping it. Daft old git
Round here he was asking for it

Late one night someone clipped its wings
He’s had to practise other things
Lion, tiger. Giraffe. Don’t mock
No more jokes about Paskin’s cock

Intergalactic Shrine

I hope Trev won’t mind me writing this. I know he’s been looking for proof they’re out there for a long time. I haven’t the heart to tell him he’s been keeping a vigil at the site of a burnt-out Vauxhall Corsa stolen from a mobile hairdresser. If they’re out there I think it’s unlikely they’ll be parking up on the A51 to sample sausage baps from Jane’s Hot Stuff.  I hope it owes a debt to Bolan, Bowie and the A51

Down among the nettles there’s a roadside shrine
A marker to travellers from another time
Whose spaceship fell in this layby, crashed and burned
Where Trev sits with his flask, waits for their return

Primetime Serial Killer

There are so many serial killers on TV these days I thought I’d write a poem about them….

I’m the serial killer that haunts your dreams
Child of a derivative scriptwriting team
I was eight when Finch held me, flushed my head in the bog
And Spence stole my pants, made me bark like a dog
I was bullied at school, but settled the score
I cut Finch’s brakes, Spence is under my floor
I speak six languages, grandmaster at chess
There’s bleach in my briefcase to clean up the mess
My face is on posters, the most wanted man
Preferring the scalpel to the frying pan
Humiliating me will make me stammer
I choose poison in place of the lump hammer
I read the Bible. I must never falter
I’m naked, spread-eagled, before an altar
Tattoos on my back depict my chilling crimes
Screened between bathroom ads only at peak times
In top hat and gloves, hopelessly archaic
I taunt police, writing clues in Aramaic
Still living with my mother, well technically
She’s taped up in the loft by the Christmas tree aa

No Perving

Went swimming and had a flashback of a suspect individual from the 1980s. I can’t name him for legal reasons, but he’s hopefully long since left the deep end. He inspired this poem. As you will read there was retribution….

Mouth-breather, middle lane
His goggles never mist
Breast-stroker without shame
He’s got to take the risk  
Freeze-framing underwater
Bums and tums and thighs and breasts
Mick’s girl and Pete’s daughter
Preyed on by a perving pest
At his desk, sniffing at his skin
A chlorine tang that takes him back
Closes his eyes, he’s diving in
His chosen aphrodisiac
His desk drawer is crammed with trophies
The leisure centre fetishist
Nose-pegs, whistles and locker keys
A swimmer’s cap he can’t resist
When it’s quiet in the office
He’ll be wearing what arouses
Verruca socks that reach the knee
They’re hidden inside his trousers
Mick and Pete wait in the deep
Pull off his trunks and hold him there
‘We’ve done it for the ladies, creep’
Now it’s everyone else’s turn to stare