I've succumbed to temptation

in the court of approbation,

swallowed the bullet and followed the bait:

an Open Mic Poetry evening awaits

at The Adam and Eve, where I'm led to believe

the inglorious meets the glamorous;

from first-time stammerers to those

who've shared a stage with bards of the age

that earn a living wage from this poetry lark!

Attila The Stockbroker, John Cooper Clarke,

but we can all be Elvis in the dark!

I recall a gig at the time of Punk,

entering a room at the back of a pub

where Chrissie Hynde was in the midst

of removing her top and showing her tits

and that never made me a pretender.

 

Include the bartender and the whole assembly

is still less than twenty,I'm thinking already

my glass is half-empty.

It's not quite like it said on the website,

they say it's one of their quieter nights.

I fear the worst and I'm not disappointed,

the opening act is double-jointed:

Big Ben and Dread, the bulk and the undead,

the stomach of the outfit and the sleeping partner.

Dread's a hybrid of Lemmy and Roger Daltrey

with a shiver and spark of electric shock

as depicted by Hieronymus Bosch.

Big Ben has a yen for Catholic schoolgirls,

drawling his vowels and shopping in Tesco's.

We aren't dancing in the aisles

as Dread flogs his guitar in phallic fashion,

filling Ben's vowels with a flounce of passion

and a lack of finesse that leaves me jealous.

Catholic Schoolgirls on sale at Tesco's!

Big Ben is insistent, Dread's unrelenting;

after twenty minutes of wordless glances

I check all the exits and get the drinks in.

 

Bob does Irish and Australian accents,

a passing impression of Northern comedians;

his tour de force is an epic poem

entitled: What is a Brummie?

A Brummie is the man who drives

your bus home after midnight;

A Brummie is the Nigerian doctor

who saves your baby's life;

A Brummie is the little old lady

who cleans the public toilets.

There's over a million punters in Birmingham,

Bob seems to mention every one of 'em.

 

Now a child with Madonna, a Mummy with a dummy,

a real live baby and her ma's a ventriloquist;

someone ought to call the Social Services.

Mummy's got a letter from her long-lost Mummy;

she feigns to be that Mummy while relating to the dummy

the letter and its cautionary contents,

why she was placed with adoptive parents.

The climax coincides with the re-entrance of Dread,

who's alleged to be the Daddy

of the dummy by her Mummy.

Expletives are exchanged, Dread is in denial;

I'm looking round for Jeremy Kyle.

 

We need another refill before there's a sequel,

Dread hovers and glowers, personified evil

or pantomime villain, we're not at all certain.

Then a Black Country wench, a local Mrs Merton

creaks upon the stage and croaks daft remarks

about sagging and withered bodily parts.

It's normality of sorts and a chap named Geoff

has a verse that likens Wayne Rooney to Shrek,

then there's a Stevie Wonder wannabe,

unable to see when he's outlived his welcome,

then me come thirty miles from Malvern,

no more the bemused beholder of Bedlam

but expected to climb into the cage.

I take to the stage but my heart isn't in it,

it ain't what I anticipated is it?

I rush through a limited repertoire,

I'm over their heads and I'd be out the door

but my friends want to stay and see some more.

 

We watch the last act, a blonde haired lass

clothed in a kind of football kit

that Queen Elizabeth the First might fit.

I fully expect, given what's gone before,

that she'll produce a skull from a hidden store,

toss it up and trap it, soliloquize and score!

It's only a trifle less bizarre than this:

she makes soulful heartfelt utterances

in a Slavic language, maybe Polish,

and takes up catatonic poses

for taut and tortuous silences

broken by guitar flourishes

as she's joined on stage by Dread.

It feels just a little incestuous,

the Mummy with the dummy's sat next to us

with her eyes cutting through the ambience,

the soulful Slav is all radiance

as she moves among the audience

exhibiting the ring upon her hand.

We finally understand - Dread's the lucky man!

But he looks like he'd rather be anonymous,

and I'm reminded again of Hieronymus

as we exit and screams vibrate the night

around this garden of earthly delight.