Chris Young

Biography

London-born and Glasgow-based, Chris Young is AVAILABLE FOR WORK. Over decades of writing and years of performing his poetry, Chris has worked his way up the ladder of underachievement. In June, he won the 2010 Glam Slam for "best verbal vogue", having previously placed highly in numerous slams, including third at the Scottish Poetry Slam Championship at the Aye Write! book festival. Chris performs with a high level of theatricality, often but not always with props, notably puppets. His subject matter ranges from the scientific and the political to the intensely personal, from family-friendly suburban whimsy to filth central. He is not above puns or limericks (a minor obsession being an effort to define every word in the English language in the form of a limerick - www.oedilf.com). Chris regularly appears in old-time music hall and has devised various ventriloquist and burlesque routines. Ongoing projects include pantomimes and a musical. Professionally, Chris used to write adverts for commercial radio. He went on to train as a lawyer. In 2010 he decided to take the performing more seriously and he now spends much of his time acting in murder mysteries or making school children think that he is a dead Scottish inventor. Chris's poems have been published in several Forward Press anthologies. He is currently working on a children's book and a more adult collection. Interesting facts: * Chris was the Liberal Democrat candidate for Glasgow Central in the 2010 General Election. * Chris won "The Weakest Link" in 2002 and has appeared on numerous quiz shows. * Chris is AVAILABLE FOR WORK.

Samples

Rabbits I have animal instincts And I am moved to write. I am moved by the sight Of cute little buns... They look so lovable With their twitchy noses, They look so huggable With their fluffy tails; But they are killable When they eat your roses And unkeepstillable When you clip their nails. And so I gave them up for hand-sewn bunnies, Roughly stuffed and bulging at the seams, And I share my bed with toyshop bunnies, Bunnying and bouncing in my dreams. And here’s another way I win: They don’t irritate my skin Like the rabbit in the hutch Which it is unwise to touch. They look so cuddlable As they leap then linger, They look so snugglable With their floppy ears. But they’re upsettable And you could lose a finger. They’ll get unpettable And it will end in tears. That’s why I fill my life with man-made rabbits, Rabbits made of cotton and velour, And let myself forget that rabbits, Real-life rabbits, eat their own manure. Underground Movement I belong to an underground movement. I take my art to dark places Between Cessnock and Hillhead. I sit on the subway, Scheming subversive verse As I traverse the city. I try out witty passages In tunnels Which funnel my thoughts Like so many commuting students. Sometimes, in stations, I commit whole stanzas. I write Because I can. I need not look for landmarks. I know where I am. And I am In a world of my own, Safe in my train of thought. Inheritance Why do I have to be a man Who wants to love another man? Why can’t it be the female form Which serves to make my cockles warm? Why should I have to hide my pride When changing with the winning side? Why do I seek my joy with those Who have a catalogue of woes? Why do I want to make a home With someone with testosterone? Why do I have to be a man? I’d rather be a lesbian. Perhaps you know Perhaps you know who sends you this, Who plies you with his artifice, Who wrote these verses in your card – To tease your mind and test your heart – And signed an as yet unknown kiss. Tossed off into his hopes’ abyss, You must have guessed these lines are his; And what his well-wished words impart, Perhaps you know… He likes you. That is all there is As yet. His dreams you may dismiss (For fictions fail and fall apart). But could these bare foundations start An incremental edifice? Perhaps, you know. For your ears only “Your ears look like bacon!” he said, moving around me to assess the backlighting effect from different angles. Intrigued, he manipulated the translucent pink organic matter with the delicate fervour of an experimental biologist. “And they’re hot!” Of course my ears were hot: I was on fire. What I felt for him threatened to ignite my parched paper skin and consume me. I looked at him, moistening my filling lips in anticipation of further experiments which might involve both our bodies. “Your ears look like bacon!” he said, smiling. He couldn’t say “I love you”, but he could say that. Ted There was a tight person called Ted Who wanted a cheap water bed. But none could be found Costing less than a pound, So he peed on his mattress instead.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.