Biography
Host of Established monthly Poetry night 'Touch me I'm sick' ,cELEBRITY eUTHANASIS & London's Premier Poetry Karaoke Bingo night 'Bingo Master's Breakout', one of the founding members of Poetry's Gang of 4 'Vintage Poison'. Low tolerance to mediocrity and pointless backslapping. If you like being entertained and want to see a hidden side of the London Poetry scene, or interested in getting me to read at your events, gigs etc.., get in touch. Touch me I'm sick - 3rd Wed of each month Old Crown Pub 33 New Oxford St London - FREE Bingo Master's Breakout - London's Premier Poetry Karaoke Bingo night Mainly 1st Friday of every other month - get in touch or check Write out loud.
Samples
A.I.D.S is about the same age as Hip Hop next week, on the History of the Twentieth Century The Stone Roses debut album and how it sounds better now than it did back then but not much. ********************************************* Minus me I only popped in for a pint, avoided the stares of the cheese and pineapple as I fingered the eye buffet, but by then it was too late! Jukebox megalomania! I had to enforce my boy band moves to take over the dancefloor if not the world, and then she walks into my fist, me! Apache dancing, invoking the skies to deluge Morrissey, which through concussion she spoke to me and said, ‘You do realise I’m total Lesbian - minus you’, as my Elvis impersonation left the building, taking with it my shyness, which it was carrying like a sicknote. ***************************************** Birdie Num Num There’s a load of pig whipping going down in St Albans and the word is a piercing known as ‘The Frankenstein’ is said to be the answer to the left sided problem. ‘You can’t have him all – SPIT ROAST!’ One Superhero and his goalkeeping dog, I could watch this all night but I don’t have to as I have cable and I’ve got my tent with me cos I’m not fighting for a piece of floor even if it is in slow motion. That’s not her boyfriend, Look! Body language,ill fitting Jacket, only been worn once. All this as a Tartan Turbaned empress is writing a poem that will kill the sun sweetened with Lipstick and Coco Cola dancing like it’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World. ****************************************** Fast train Heaven IRA HUNGER STRIKER REVIVALIST! screams his hairdo Louder than the Human league in my ears during the 40 minutes I try to ignore between Maidenhead and Paddington, day in day out and what with the scene that this makes my gaze swings across him like the mast of a yacht, ready to knock him square but he ducks, bobs back up and is now throwing caged wildlife shapes at the surrounding passengers who have resolutely nailed eyeballs to their laps. All this, before Slough. ******************************************* Art Brut Bus It says something, when you have to scribble your chat up lines all over a bungled rainbow, a single launch at a butterfly who’s Dusty Barnet is doing it for me more than the Xeroxes of anaemic liquorice boys, troupes of cycling tops, so loud the audience went luminously deaf. You say ‘unfortunate’ but it’s not me who has to put up with blamange heaving cleaveges, rugby songs sung through rose red inbred cheeks. So as you find me here, Christian of Nigeria, my kisses have been misplaced as you can tell by all this pink paint over my lips Which, if it unsettles you like I know it must, you should see what the word of God has done to the state of my teeth. ******************************************** The National Institute of Pop, Amsterdam Conspicuous by their absence half hour in, it occurs to me Take That aren’t Dutch. Had they have been, they’d have been subsidised by the government. ‘Here’s your receipts for the pecs and Baby oil’ What is it about the mentally ill that makes them sexy? ************************************************
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