Gray Hamm

Biography

Gray Hamm - a performance poet who deals with the subjects that really matter - racing pigeons at war, wannabe rock star poets, Burnley FC, that sort of thing. All put across with props, hats and gusto. This is genuine performance poetry that never fails to raise a laugh. A regular on the Manchester poetry scene, he’s performed all over the north of England, including, Liverpool, Salford and Lancaster. Not Turf Moor yet, but we can all dream. Audiences say (no, honestly) he’s “charismatic and very funny . . . has fantastic stage presence - a pro, very witty . . . really, really entertaining, pigeons rule COOOO!” (well, you ‘d have to see the act...). He’s also part of the ‘Hamm Horror’ two man show, and previously produced a radio fanzine which got rave reviews on national press and radio. Oh, and Punk poet Attila the Stockbroker describes him as ‘Pidgeon English poet about to take off!’, while Rory Motion a poet often heard on Radio 4 says he’s “confident and sparky.” And he’s open for bookings now. gray.hamm@ntlworld.com 01706-873439

Samples

Fracking (with apologies to John Cooper-Clarke) The fracking gas is fracking there We’ll fracking find out fracking where It’s fracking ours to fracking take A fracking piece of fracking cake All fracking hail the fracking shale The fracking earth’s for fracking sale You fracking weep and fracking wail We fracking will not fracking fail Your fracking land’s not fracking great It’s fracking des-o- fracking –late Vast fracking tracts to fracking drill From fracking field to fracking hill The fracking friends of fracking earth A fracking cause for fracking mirth We’ll fracking earn a fracking crust Turn fracking earth’s to fracking dust No fracking brass in fracking grass But fracking mud brings fracking gas To fracking turn to fracking cash and fracking burn and fracking crash The fracking bit’s in ‘fracking teeth I’ll fracking make this fracking brief We’ve fracking built our fracking rig We’ll fracking dig – you fracking dig? No fracking gounds for fracking fears No fracking ground for fracking years A fracking route to fracking hell All’s fracking well – a fracking well We’ll fracking make a fracking lake We’ll fracking shake a fracking quake The fracking water’s fracking mud Cos fracking money’s fracking good Now fracking rack and fracking ruin It’s fracking like the fracking moon The fracking place ran-fracking-sacked Fracking fracking fracking fracked Evi-fracking-dently fracked On and on ... (I wrote this before she died; you'll soon work out who. It was a plea for her not to, but awkward as ever, she did...) She wanted to go on and on But she won’t get that choice When the snatcher calls for her Some will cry ‘Rejoice!’ She can’t fight on forever There’ll be a right palaver To greet that longed-for Thatcher quote “We have become a cadaver.” Where there was hope she brought despair Error, doubt, discord Society – “there’s no such thing” But she put it to the sword Took from the poor gave to the rich Dumped workers on the dole Cannons fed to grab her votes Greed the only goal. She was only the grocer’s daughter - butchery had more appeal She carved us up, she ground the weak Beneath her iron heel She was only the grocer’s daughter And she knew how to sell Flogged off all that wasn’t nailed down And some that was as well Yes, she was only the grocer’s daughter But she was never green Put on a phony accent Thought she was the Queen. And while I’d be like Elvis Tramping the dirt down For some the dyin’ lady Really should have worn a crown Once she’s gone, they’ll go on And on and on and on As if she was a heroine As if she could do no wrong A national undertaking A funeral of state With puke inducing talking heads On how she was so great. Oxygen of publicity A perfect travesty She would put the bloody hag In hagiography No! No! No! Put out no flags Stop this Tory con For now she’ll have to linger She must go on and on Leave her mummified in limbo Those lying tributes save The lady’s not for turning Not even in her grave Racing pigeons at war We’re winging in over the briny on a mission dodging the flak get through and we’ll set feathers flying the first wave - all out attack We’re the flying coops, the loftwaffe the finest flock blighty has bred we’re the National Pigeon Service our hangar an old garden shed. cos we’re racing pigeons at war, racing pigeons at war we’re badder than Bader and coo, are we harder racing pigeons at war they’ll not show us the white feather we’re more into silvery grey we’ll stick out our pigeon chest - walk pigeon-toed we’re fit for service today We tune in to radio silence ghosting through enemy lines you can’t jam microfilm secrets when they’re whisked away over the pines cos we’re racing pigeons at war, racing pigeons at war we’re badder than Bader and coo, are we harder racing pigeons at war a trip out in a lancaster bomber a stooge lest it ditch in the drink we’ll head back bearing its bearings get help before it can sink We’re pigeons of mass destruction ‘bit of a flap on, chaps - fly; jerry’s encroached into pigeon range. Go give him one in the eye’ cos we’re racing pigeons at war, racing pigeons at war we’re badder than Bader and coo, are we harder racing pigeons at war the bally pigeon can’t be stopped though countless comrades fell we proud pigeons also serve we’re pigeon personnel Our return is gratefully greeted serenading a spy in the sky but now GHQ has a new show they’ve ordered a spy in a pie. cos we’re racing pigeons at war, racing pigeons at war we’re badder than Bader and coo, are we harder racing pigeons at war Flying Fat There’s a fat bloke In a sports car Thinks it brings him Back his youth. Though on his feet He’s apt to waddle In that seat He knows the truth. Cocooned in His yellow armour He knows he’s fast He knows he’s hard. Others see A flash of lightning, Don’t know he’s A tub of lard. His numberplate’s I.M.A Dickhead Or letters To that effect. He needs a badge To get him noticed His image present And correct. Boom box bumping Cover off Tailgating Outside lane. No flying fat Reflects on reflex So when he brakes It is in vain. There’s a fat bloke In a sports car Swaddled in Its custard rags. Might as well Be buried in it Not every martyr’s Draped in flags.

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