A poem in celebration of Paris Hilton being free. Just as well. I couldn't have paid.


Metaphors are Pun or First Tangle in Paris

A letter was alliterative.
Listing lots of loving longings.

She similarly sent me
sacks of sexy similes

But what I needed mostly was
hands on her learning curves.

So I travelled from the cyber life,
straight to the Paris Hilton.

Oh divine release was granted.
That's what I met 'er for.


Malpoetry for ever!

Oh I like that poem Sir Malpoet Esquire!
I'll roll my curtains up and have a go...


Paris Hilton's done her stilton
Slingback sing slingback yey
Her plight was like the damned in Milton
Slingback sing slingback yey
the devil had a gaultier kilt on
Slingback sing slingback yey
which Paris's tears were amply spilt on
Slingback sing slingback yey
what angle, hacks, you gonna tilt on?
slingback sing slingback yey
Who's Paris gonna lean her guilt on?
Slingback sing slingback yey etc etc

Oh yours is much better Mr Malpoet. Much much much better.

Thanks very much Moxy.

Yours was great. Who wouldn't want to slingback Paris.

Peace Mission

They've got TB in the middle east
which they never had before.
They were very sick before it
came, but this could be terminal.

The TB is predicted to
bring peace where there was none.
Yes, peace is perfect peace
where all is dead and done.

Old Spice

Raking through containers for that
special recipe, I unearthed
these dusty condiments
and shook them off anew.

There was a skinny jar, all sparkly,
full of twisted, withered sticks.
It was once a posh exotic,
but now crumbles in the light.

A baby tub of yellow stuff
had lost the label, so
I've idea what it might do
or how its use would go.

The scary dark and spiky bits
and sporty coloured wraps
were wrinkly and without the juice
that made me want them once.

I'll tell you what I really want,
what I really, really want
A new fragrance for my recipe
A zingy spice that bites.

Thank you very much
Thank you very very much
Though I slide you in the trash bin
I recall fine tastes and grin.

Yes, I have similar bits of mummified stringthings in my own kitchen cabinet of Dr Caligari.

Here's a daft verse.

I’ve taken a squint, and announce my intention
To lease out the space in my anal retention

There’s room there for boxes or modest conventions
And, if they’re stacked right, for extra dimensions.

No Post Today

There's no post today,
the postman's gone away.
It is a disaster!
What will we do?
We cannot communicate with anybody.

I have phoned all my relatives
to warn them. I texted
the ones who did not reply.

I have e-mailed everybody in my address book
to let them know that I can't
communicate with them.

I have put out a message on all of my blogs
and put a bulletin out to my friends on
MySpace, BeBo, FaceBook, IMVU.......

Of course I got the packages out
through DHL and Business Post,
but what can I do about getting
no junk mail today.
Oh disaster!

I will take a lease, but only until dawn.

Freud -- he's got a lot to answer for hasn't he? I prefer Jung and his alchemical symbolism. Oh yes, a conical flask is the best place to store an id.

Those iot brothers, id and Monb, have got a lot to answer for.

does Mon bagasse look bogus in this? Does my iddle look liddle in the autre?

Hi

I wrote this haiku the last time airport security was in the news:

John Lennon airport:
"Imagine all the people
living life in peace!"

Think it was one of the ones which did well for me in the Guardian's online daily topical haiku competition. They've stopped it now - maybe we should revive it on here?

See discussion thread at
http://z11.invisionfree.com/Poets_On_Fire/index.php?showtopic=337

I wrote this about a year ago and never thought I'd have to go back to it again but its about terrorist attacks done in the name of "god" and with the current insane situation we're finding ourselves in again I decided to revive it.

Religious Divide
By Cayn White

You say your god is never wrong
So you prepare to blow yourself to kingdom come
Everyone who dosent share your faith is there for you to kill
You pave your way to heaven by making other peoples lives hell
All over the world its all the same
Wether on a bus, in a club or even on a train
No one is safe from you deadly touch
Whether you kill one person ot a thousand the death toll is never too much
Everyone needs something to believe in, its what keeps us all sane
But no religion is great, especially when it means inflicting pain
On every religion I share the same belief
There is no god great enough to cause all this grief
So take all of your gods, 'cos I don't need them
Feel free to judge me, but I'm not one to condemn
When I think of religion I think of the dead
And it enforces my belief that religion is the cause of all this bloodshed

Deluge

So Bishop Dow has told us
And Jim Jones thinks so too.
Flooding is the curse of god
for the naughtiness we do.

To these brain dead barmy Bishops
It all seems clear as day.
The good lord sends his rain on
the decadent and gay.

So, by this godly logic
AIDS is vengeance too
The kid born blind is paying
for the sins of God knows who.

Their Jesus, who died for our sins,
has not quite done the job.
We'd better have him back once more
and nail him up again.

No, that is really loony
Just like the Bishops are.
The weather's down to physics
Not the whims of Gods afar.

Here's something I'd written about the aftermath of the Manchester bomb from the point of view of a ligger. It seemed apposite to post this at this time of heightened national security. Oh it's a long 'un.

MANCHESTER

I siphoned off the sound of the 20th century
Manchester Bomb, the boom, and then I
Forced it, at pressure, through the local beer.

Even now the bibulous Manky
burp is aural shrapnel. My belief is
every sound is sucked out
from the cosmic Big Bang.

Dance is the body’s formalised
response to an explosion.
Manchester Car Bomb burps
gets the clubbers grooving.

I am a ligger,
I was born with an inoperable,
irremediable speech impediment call it
a fault line, blame it on junking genetics,
or on the flexible roaming liqui-fluxing
of my whack smash chromosomal
cluster,
you’ve probably noticed by now,
because of a victimised meiosis, my
larynx is glyphed, I can only speak in
mono, the skimmed cadence feeds the
left ear of my listener.

Your right ear denies me. I’m not even
Whitenoise there.
I’m the unbuffered blank
wall of sedimentary silence.
I am the unnerving auditory nill.

Victoria Station is a Victorian Station.
At night the electric lights smear
the floor with optical vernix.

Late in the 20th century, the M.E.N. Arena
was built onto its North-Western flank.
This was a screamingly vindictive
Siamesing of a fine boned, bony grandparent
with their obese adolescent grandchild.

The laboratory-bright cubicle of the photobooth
on Victoria Station, in common with
all photobooths everywhere, is entered by
drawing back a pleated demi-curtain.

This is clipped to a rail by equidistant rings
piercing the uppermost hem.
The holes are sealed by steel rings
chamfered into the cloth to prevent fraying
and tearing. I nick these fusty, smell-absorbing
curtains to make gymslips for Manchester’s
expanding nightclub ‘school disco’ market.

Curtains.
There’s a notch in the rail which you lift clear.
It’s hinged and the cloth ferries its own weight
into the bag. Anybody asks – some do, despite
my horror-film timing –
I say it’s down for dry cleaning.

Tonight I’m returning home with five snaffled
curtains and two sets of uncollected passport-size prints:
one of a man with an unusual hairstyle as though tufts
have followed a drill bit out of his skull,
the other of an open-mouthed woman resting her chin
on a child’s plastic lunchbox so the jowls puddle.

The day to day details of my life
demand an advanced level of inventiveness.
Put it this way, you open an anthill and find a rumpus room.

The schoolgirls’ hats are blocked on a
Victorian funerary bust nicked from
Higher Moston cemetery and fetched
home on the pillion of my quadbike
where I’d strapped and helmeted her
like a living stump. The felt is
stripped from vintage church hall
collapsible card tables.

My business also involves drive by
lassoing, single-hand to the grip,
feeding a line through my free fingers,
tying the lariat, winding it
above my head where physics make it
spin and fill like a tornado’s trouser
belt. I garrotte the epiglottis in mid gig,
junking it forwards and snapping the
larynx from its nix. I do it in the last
slew of a second so I go
mostly unnoticed.

My victim’s voice feels like a throat
stacked with sucked liquorice laces.
‘Speak squeak!’ I shout and rev away.

My next venture is fleshing itself. I
know a mountaineering hardware
outlet where I can bulk buy the
apparatus that pins climber to pinnacle and locks
them there. I’m going to pay a space
agency to fit rocks in an asteroid belt
with karabiners and pitons. I’ll
personally attach Mancunian men
to their underside and collect
them in my module on completion of
considerable stretch by which time
they will be acclimatised to mute.

That’s after I’ve landed an onion smell --
call it the Manchester Flag --
on the moon.

The World Pipe Smoking Championships in Poland

The lady puffed.
While all around her coughed
and spluttered to extinction,
the lady puffed.

Poles apart,
the stained moustaches
and shrivelled lungs
sucked with the skill of decades,
and the lady puffed.

The lady puffed
patiently, persistently.
She puffed with Grace
until Grace expired,
but still,
the lady puffed.

From Pole position
the wizened leader
extracted his smouldering
glow from every
tobacco strand
in his perfect pipe
then dimmed to nothingness
and the lady puffed.

Wheezing wannabees
wilted with weary
wistfulness as their
tar clogged clays
tumbled cold
from their shrivelled lips,
while the lady puffed.

Minutes passed,
bowls emptied,
ash cooled,
suckers ceased,
the lady puffed.

Hours went by.
Judges fainted in admiration.
Seasoned and fancied
contestants were Poleaxed.
The lady wins.

It is said the the inhabitants of Vanuatu are the happiest in the world. They use shells and pigs tusks for currency. Unfortunately there is no exchange rate between pig tusk and the dollar so these poor people have effectively no incomes and are part of the world's poorest citizens who the United Nations are committed to relieving of their misery.

Make Poverty History

Less than two dollars
a day they say,
is misery
none can bear

The happiest country
in the world
is tiny Vanuatu.
Where they trade in
Shells and pig tusks
which have no worth
to us at all.

Without a single cent of cash
they have no hunger pangs.
No unemployment blights their lives
No tax besets their minds.

No need for UN bureaucrats
to save them from their plight
No use for international aid,
corruption, graft and slime.

End poverty for once and all.
Stop the suffering now
Scrap the UN bureaucrats.
Leave the happy to their wealth.

World hot dog eating champion 4 July 2007


Fast out of the traps,
Joey Chestnut led for America
with Takeru Kobayashi
thundering alongside for Japan.

Kobayashi, the six time winner
had been hot favourite
until Arthritic Jaw and
Wisdom Tooth Extraction
set him back.

'Jaws' Chestnut sprung
a pre-race surprise
by beating the dog munching
record with a dazzling 59.5.

With the also rans dropping back
the contenders matched
each other dog for dog
until the home straight.

With the twelve minute tape in sight
the Chestnut laid his claim
to the mustard belt
with a dogged chomp.

The yellow six timer
blanched on the finish line.
The sixtieth dog went in
only to jump straight back out
along with three of his mates.

God Bless America on
independence day.
The glorious Chestnut
takes the mustard
with sixty dogs down.

Princess Mummy

The accountant in the jersey
is browned off.
He petered out at the town's end.

Live Twerps

Following tight
on the heels
of Bob Bonio,
and the passion
to reward
thieving African dictators
with debt cancellation,
through live AIDS,

a bunch of private jet owning tossers
staying in seven star hotels
tell me to turn a light out
and not run the tap.

So! Some people like your music.
Good!
Stick to the knitting, dick heads.
You sing the sing,
so dance the dance.

Here is my contribution to global warming in trite prose cut up to look like poetry. I have not printed this on to any rain forests and I wrote it so quickly that I did not breathe out once with loads of nasty carbon dioxide. I am pedalling my socks (unbleached pure wool from the sheep grazing my patio) off to keep my computer running, but unfortunately my pot plant has died due to the lack of necessary pollutants.

The Dead Kennedys

Puff, puff, puff, puff,
puff, puff, puff, puff,
toooooot, toooooot.

Charlie frets,
the carriage is clanking.
His wife is moaning
and kids are creating
This journey is long
and there's no booze aboard.

He must have a fag
there just is no option
Although he supported
the ban with his vote.

Just a quick drag
out of the window.
No harm in that.
The train makes more crap.

Puff, puff, puff, puff,
puff, puff, puff, puff,
toooooot, toooooot.

“OK train man
stop your moaning.
You clearly don't know
who I am.”

“No I can't
put out my fag now.
Go and do your
job elsewhere.”

Puff, puff, puff, puff,
puff, puff, puff, puff,
toooooot, toooooot.

There were no great world events today. It's Sunday.

The lady who got second prize in the cake competition when she was the only entrant, doesn't count. She was yesterday.

Lavinia

What, no great world events 'cept someone coming second in a single entrant competition! What kind of a cake let's a person down like that? They should have baked biscuits, Obviously.

How about Geography? That's a Great World Event. Here's a poem about Geography. Will that do?

GEOGRAPHY
Geography is the act of transposing destiny,
it’s about the flocculent skin of the world telescoping towards the sun and moon,
It’s about Elvis wearing a Roman legionary cuirass,
his legs like the lines drawn on a schoolyard.

Geography.
It’s about trolls and their fondness for the song of cicadas.
Two trolls work a split shift, called an aeon,
And the two trolls slide cicadas into their ears
where the insects are restrained by wax
until the planet cools and the wax sets.
Then the cicadas climb free
Leaving perfectly detailed cicada impressions.
Subsequently, when the wind gusts
the cicada absence replicates cicada song.
The trolls, of course, complain of tinnitus,
And throw a sickie.

Sometimes in Geography
Netsilik Eskimos take old-fashioned printers’ tweezers
and pluck fish scales to create a living message

It says
To commemorate Elvis's life a consortium has created an
US army fatigue-coloured guitar-shaped bubble gum;
the raw materials’ delivery chute passes over his Graceland grave.
The flavour? His pituitary glands,
Their post mortem chemical analysis having been successfully synthesized.
Uh-hubba Uh-bubba, the gum has twang.

Meanwhile the trolls have created
the first umbrella capable of withstanding avalanches.

It's Elvis reassembled into spokes.