Malpoet

Biography

Google Malpoet and follow the links. I live in Wirral, Merseyside and go to poetry events in the north west. The Dead Good Poets in Liverpool on the first Wednesday is an excellent one, but better still come to one of the many on the Wirral. Lots more of me and my poetry on the web. http://www.facebook.com/home.php?ref=home#/profile.php?id=570784383&ref=name Your comments, questions and critiques are very welcome.

Samples

Great War Grandfathers Existing only as a line on a memorial, I know only he is gone, not how he lived. A body lost in endless trenches, filled with wasted youth. His nation needed HIM to be torn from his family to a far off war and a forgotten death. His blood mingling with those murdered at dawn by their own side, in front of the same trenches. Too frail to fight, Baker was a butler. Serving salmon on silver to the families of heroes who shot the 'coward' youths before their trembling comrades. An honourable war, being a gentleman to the gentlemen. Bobbing and Peering The street is lined with pretty girls, in micro skirts and cheeky curls. They look at every passing car. Bobbing and peering. Behind them lurk their pimping men. Waiting 'til they've scored, and then, seizing all their paltry gains. Far from endearing. Suited men in lavish cars, cruise around by seedy bars. Eying up each girl in turn. Drooling and leering. He cranes his head in semi dark. Selecting one before the park. Clipping kerb as he pulls up. Rocking the steering. They talk about the business deal. What she'll do, and how he'll feel. Happily they set the price. Laughing and cheering. Short journey to a lonely plot. He pays, and strips her on the spot. She rapidly begins the job. Bucking and rearing. It's over, in a sudden flash. He's angry at his waste of cash, and grabs her by the throat. Cringing and fearing. Blind with rage, he grabs his knife. He screams that she wil lose her life, and lunges viciously. Cutting and searing. In pain and choking, dripping blood, he kicks her out onto the mud, then drives away as she cries out. Fading from hearing. She's found and then identified. A few regret that she has died. They come to say their last farewell. Sadly revering. The punter has his day in court, regretting only that he's caught. Claims he's blameless, not his fault. Lying and sneering. The judge who sends him down for life, expresses sadness for his wife. As crowds outside, bay for his blood. Taunting and jeering. The girls are still along the street, standing at their usual beat. Working as they always did. Bobbing and peering. Dad Those feeble, ulcerated legs which cannot support your shrunken body are the powerful pistons that drove your heavy old bike to work. Your faltering, tearful voice speaks, but your bellows echo down the years. "Look at that silly tit over there" A nurse smiles back from her patient labour. "No bloody rabbit food or foreign muck for me" You eat the steamed fish and salad in a plastic dish. All politeness and compliance to the faces of black doctors and staff serving food you would have thrown in mum's face. "Want a new suit boy?" You grinned as you came in from the betting shop. "STAND STILL! Too late it's in the tree." Your pigeons were a fascination, but a terror too. Excited by you clocking the winning bird, and knowing that a loser would be my fault. "Bloody Arabs 'll cut your throat as soon as look at ya." The ranted bigotry lived on fifty years after a brief military encampment in wartime Egypt. "What have you done with my bloody glasses?" You squinted at the racing pages and clutched for the telephone as the horses lined up for the start. "No pay today gal." You mumbled as you came in from the betting shop. "He's got the darkies disease he has. Bloody idle." Revolting insult thrown at a black youth on the TV without bothering to listen why he was there. "Get 'em a cup o' tea gal." The command shouted from an armchair in front of the television made a visit feel an imposition. Glimpses of an intelligence sometimes shone through from your limited and distorted world. Off to work before I got up for school. Back from the pub after I was in bed. I knew you were home when I woke to the shouting downstairs. In your eighty fourth year you told me that seventy five would have been enough. My stomach knotted. Shame I never knew you. I am curious now you are dead. Original Sin Through coition came cognition, so we're told. From serpentine perdition, to the eve of our condition, is a line of pulchritude. The serpent was lascivious. Tempting Eve to coitus, by offering an apple to consume. His squirming, so voluptuous, slithering, conceptuous, lured her to perfidy and sin. From thus, homo erectus was hetero in his genius, until, through nostra damus, came il papa's mighty plan. By immaculate deception, came the godhead to reception as a naked babe in straw. Lacking sign of all suspicion, or hint of malefaction, the lord had sired offspring, but no genitals engorged. Through countless generation, from Adam and creation, had the genesis of humankind been drawn. By fervent copulation, foregoing masturbation, the race had been expanded and preserved. In coitus emeritus, no interruption hindered us and life was passed by orgasmagic down. From primeval broth evolving, through complex myths contriving, the human creature comes to speculate. No! It surely is apparent, that our knowing was descendant, and did not come from falling to a snake. All the love and joy in breeding, should be guiltless, not conceding any merit to the fantasists of god. Deus non magnificat, and coitus cum laude. Shagging is not sinful, but bonding beautiful. Piggy Belle is Dead Weather Pig sways lazily, peering from the roof. He stares at windy Wales with teardrops in his eyes. Of course he faces windward as he does throughout the year, but now his task is tearful. Piggy Belle is dead. Guard Pig lies at duty by the front door, as he must. His task to pee on Mormons, bite balls off burglar thugs. He is is lax about his duties, though always at his post. Today he glares with sadness, for Piggy Belle is dead. Piggy Ornamental has no job to do at all. She is just bronzed off with life today and yesterday as well. Her empty life is emptier, so decorously sad, Pigginess is lesser now, 'cos Piggy Belle is dead. All the piggy presences in Malpoet's grand estate, grieve the porcine paucity, end of the Belle Epoche. For years she hung out prettily. She called at dinner time. If needed on the telephone, she let me know in time. The constant task was arduous as was time and weather toll. Poor Piggy Belle has fallen now None more shall hear her call. How sad I was when I was told, she'd tolled her final toll. The porky rites at last are said. Piggy Belle is dead.

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

Blog entries by Malpoet

The Twelve Days of Christmas (23/11/2020)

Retraining Bert (08/11/2020)

God Bless America (08/11/2020)

Common Sense (10/11/2019)

The Farce of the Fright Brigade (09/09/2019)

That'll Cost You the Kettle (20/05/2016)

Carnivore (05/04/2011)

Round & Round the Rengabout (04/04/2011)

For Chris (04/04/2011)

Armed (30/06/2010)

Read more entries by Malpoet…

Blog link: https://www.writeoutloud.net/blogs/malpoet

Audio entries by Malpoet

The Twelve Days of Christmas (23/11/2020)

That'll Cost You the Kettle (20/05/2016)

Boring (21/03/2009)

Australian Wedding (17/02/2009)

Anno Domini (17/02/2009)

Andy (17/02/2009)

Alone In The Garden (16/02/2009)

Ali (16/02/2009)

A Good Age (16/02/2009)

Agadir (16/02/2009)

More audio from Malpoet…