Heat 5 Entries

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Heat 5 Entries

Heat 5 Entries

Appended below are the Entries for Heat 5 of the 2012 Poetry Pentathlon, numbered 1 to 24.

Please read them all carefully and decide your top 3 poems.

Place them in order of merit, awarding them Gold, Silver and Bronze.

Submit your votes directly to the Editor via his contact page:


Emails are to be headed: Heat 5 Votes.

The body of the email should consist solely of the identifying numbers and titles of the poems in the order Gold, Silver, Bronze.

Entrants are reminded that they may not vote, or solicit votes, for their own poem.

Deadline for receiving votes is Midnight GMT Saturday 10th November 2012.

Failure to vote may result in disqualification from this Heat.

1: I Never Did Help The Farmers In Afghanistan And A Year And A Half Later My Mother Died. I didn’t realize I was wrong. It all seemed so real as I sat across from you, telling you of my pending journey to Afghanistan. I wouldn’t know whether you had died and you wouldn’t know whether I had been shot. I was so sure and so were you when you told me your daughter was trekking in Siberia. I believed you, so did you. We were both oblivious. You were right, so was I. In my world you stroked my hair and asked me for a puff on my cigarette. I refused and bought you black tulips. I didn’t come back until it was too late. I hope they wrapped you in your pareo and put your silver ring on your finger; your favourite and mine too. You looked like the Egtved girl one and a half years later. You said you were sorry and I would like to think I have forgiven you. I never went to Afghanistan and I knew when your heart ceased to beat. I don’t think you thought I had been shot. You had forgotten I was your daughter. *   2: The Rising of the Leaves The sapphires in her eyes; deep blue, lamenting, Engaging with the pain of empty chair, Cushions are her moments of repenting, In the fabric she finds strands of mother’s hair. Under lucid gaze the clock turns slowly backwards, Subverting time itself, and on the shutter screens; The waxing moon plays out a re-enactment Of waning life as nothing but a dream. Inversely the events of life unravel, The faded grey becomes blue, red and green. From the empty kitchen comes the smell of basil, The winter garden; warmed by summer breeze. A child’s face pressed up against the window; Her mother walks among the rising of the leaves. *   3: Mirror, Mirror… I look in the mirror and what do I see? My mother’s dear face has replaced the young me. Though I do love to see her — it saddens my heart, for my hair’s getting thin and the crown did depart. It lounges in bed and decorates the floor. Please try to stay on my head, I implore. I won’t feel as sexy without my lush hair, so do me a favour and hold tight up there. I see one more wrinkle than last time we met. A present from Old Father Time, I’ll bet. He likes to sneak up on us whilst we sleep, and carve little crevices half an inch deep. Many a night he will don a disguise, but the crow leaves his footprints edging our eyes. He playfully puffs up under eye bags, and oft hides a turkey ‘neath jowls that sag. He sucks all the moisture right out of our face, and makes our mind wander all over the place. My poor epidermis is papery thin; red and blue spiders are scattered within. Our once supple skin sinks in, then heads south. Luscious lips shrivel; collapse inside mouths. Our chin gets so lonely it wants a new friend, so doubles, then triples … is there no end? Like a well worn room that has been rearranged, we wake up one day to a face that has changed. Our noses get bigger and eyes disappear; hiding in folds, they are hoodwinked, I fear. Some try to thwart him in all kinds of ways. Going so far as to have less birthdays. Spending their money on nipping and tucking, stapling stomachs and fat thigh sucking (try saying that fast). Botox and facelifts will work for a while. If what you want is a porcelain smile; without laughter lines or a forehead that moves. Plastic you’ll be, but your skin will be smooth. Father Time withers the bloom we once had. Dots us with brown spots. He is such a cad. He can’t seem to help it, or so I am told, for time made him bitter, decrepit and old. I turn to the face who is looking at me, and make a decision to age gracefully. *   4: Maintaining Excellence in Credit User Services (MECUS House Longterm Facility) We are here because we are naughty. We are here to make good. Georgie went and shacked up with her man. But oh dear. Didn't do her Change of Circumstances did she? How can she get her Credit now? Just making ends meet? That's an old one. Not good. Shack-shack. Tutt-tutt. Naughty. We are here because we are naughty. We are here to make good. Kevin went for chemo. Blast the nasty cells. Yes. Yes. But has he got a claim? No. Did he do his form? No. Credit can't be given out willy-nilly. Kevin knows that. Poorly, silly boy. Nevermind he's 65, nevermind your cheek. Naughty. We are here because we are naughty. We are here to make good. James. Two bedrooms for one person? Entitlement no-no. His son ran off. Went AWOL, they say. Yes. Yes. But that's a different department. 0845755463. Option 6. They say the son had tendencies. James got bad. Night terrors. Wouldn't leave the flat. Sad. But, He failed. Didn't inform the correct department, did he? Naughty. We are here because we are naughty. We are here to make good. Alice. Oh Alice, she's got a temper. Sweeping papers off desks. That is very bad. There is no fight. Not here. Threatening behaviour will not be tolerated. Will result in prosecution. Sanction. But there's treatment for it. They have Special Powers. For special cases. Special Alice. Naughty. We are here because we are naughty. We are here to make good. Lorraine spent her Credit on cider. Yes, they knew all about it. She is naughty and must be sterilised. We have to do what builds. A bigger society. Screaming in the street: she wants her kids. Bad move, Lorraine. And look at her teeth. Bad girl. Bad mother. It will not do. Naughty. We are here because we are naughty. We are here to make good. And me? I can't remember a time when I wasn't here. This place. For Problem Families. The place of my father's fathers. You think I'm wasted. A tragic case. No, no I'm one of the lucky ones, I've got an Account and a Number. My friends are all here. And it's warm. I could be out on the street without Credit to my name. Anyway, I know that I've been bad. I know that I've been naughty. I am here because I am naughty. I am here to make good. *   5: Biology Lesson - The Clitoris (may require a projector or power point) This won’t take long, the clitoris is an uncomplicated organ, there isn’t that much to learn. In the human female it’s pea-sized, and an inch too far north. This makes sex with a man sometimes feel too much like hard work. The clitoris requires gentle stimulation, either the up down motion or the circular one. The reason for this is the human clitoris has twice as many nerve endings as the penis, approximately 8000 to his four. Genital mutilation should be outlawed. The female spotted hyena has a huge one. It’s as wide as the male’s penis, and nearly as long. They mate and birth through the clitoris and twenty-five percent of them die in the process. Sixty percent of them lose their first born. Too much pressure hurts. After this experience, should they survive, the clitoris becomes stretched and slack-walled. The bush baby and the spider monkey are other mammals who possess a long and pendulous clitoris. The spider monkey’s is three or four inches in length. The G spot, like the vaginal orgasm, is a myth. Some birds, such as the female ostrich,have one. An attractive creature, what a neck, don’t you think? I wonder why it doesn’t masturbate. There’s more to life than sex and violence. *   6: A Poet’s Refusal To Read She said no, stayed home stitched the shapes of poems matched to a tone of her own, measured the short distances to the end, left unheard the forced or fragile word, refused to counterpose the quiet voice of her room. *   7: Useless Obama Biden Osama Bin Laden Land sets them apart but not much else. We are all human, after all. Oh, and if you listen carefully to the new Compare The Market ad the meerkat squeak at the end is slightly higher in tone and a fifth of a second shorter than in the previous campaign. *   8: Wanderings I travelled recently, off the low road of my life And into a time of high adventure; Set free to venture out into a world unpackaged and to be inspired by it. For though there is no west or east on this spinning planet And we are touched by the same heat, from a burning star a galaxy away, We seem to be strangers in our day; forged by changing elements Into differing colours and metals and filled with varying poise and purpose. I dreamt to meet and know these others and their strangeness, To see red suns rise as old inhibitions fell, To feel blood coursing for more than just existence; And fortune graced me with a glimpse of these dreams. I saw daybreaks and the night’s creep in vivid array By rivers that still knew the intimate hands of humans, Beneath mountains that retained magnificent mystery Or in mud that remained the favoured home of happy children And on one memorable morning, in the sea off a Khmer shore, I swam naked in fluorescent swirls of plankton, Glowing bright in black waters and framed by shooting stars; Connected and contented with it all beneath glistening skin. Then enriched further in my encounters by the kindness of our kind, A beer here or meal there and words of different meaning joined in conversation And all I had to offer taken and in turn paid forward, The warmth of my heart shared with those I would never meet But now returned to neat, square lands and home I dream again of unknown wonderment in this world; Uncertain as to why our lives must be These mere flashes of luminescence in a darkened sea. *   9: Neighbours It is almost seven-thirty as I sit down for me dinner, Weight Watchers chicken curry (I could do with being thinner). But before I even taste it - a bang, a crash, a boom. The man next door is hammering, and it’s shaking the whole room. Every night he’s at it; I don’t understand at all, His flat is fricking tiny, is he smashing down the wall? And when I knock upon his door, he answers in his pants, The hammer in his hand, he stays silent - in a trance; It is really rather creepy, and so I let it be. Maybe I should blame myself for being cowardly. This block of flats reverberates with never-ending racket; I’m losing sleep, I’m on my knees, I’m desperate, just can’t hack it. Twelve stories high, a wall of sound, and me stuck at the bottom. There were good times when I moved in but now I have forgot ‘em. Upstairs has parties every week, their music’s shit and loud; I never get invited (they’re not my kind of crowd). Screaming babies all around, they never seem to cease, Cry and bawl throughout the night, will I ever get some peace? But what is this? The babies sleep. At last will it be silent? No. Here go the pair at number six – their shagging sounds quite violent. They’re in a vicious circle - of petty arguments Then making up, so noisily, with orgasms intense. They don’t offend that Mrs Bird, a really sweet old dear; Eighty-four, deaf as a post, she really cannot hear, Turns the volume to the top on her ancient television. This has to stop, it can’t go on, I’ve come to a decision. I’m moving on, departing, escaping out of here, One swift move and all my problems simply disappear. I now live in a cottage, in the middle of a field Not a soul for half a mile – you can see why it appealed. Things are going really well, I’m keeping to my diet, But I’m having trouble sleeping, it’s just too bloody quiet. *   10: This Is Not A Picture Of Cezanne Upon this page, I write a picture of a picture of his face; a fat, flat, bald and unrounded, painted face, in black and white, colourful words aN d rO uGh BrU sh sTRokeS. Its painted hair is as black as the ink on this page, though grey streaks seem torn through his beard; his face and jacket are a crumpled poem and its darkly deep hieroglyphic I’s pierce out into reality and through me like paper. *   11: Performer v Poet Can you feel it? Can you feel it? The passion in my words, that furious emetic urgency. Can you hear it? Can you hear it? The heartbeat in my veins, the tub-thumping carotid throb of life’s obsessive pump. Can you smell it? Can you smell it? The stench of ego, the foetid quagmire of untrammelled self. Can you taste it? Can you taste it? The spittle-flecked flavours of my screamed intent. Can you see it? Can you see it? The burning coals of poetry’s foundry, sparked by the shocking bolts of truth. Oh, yes. With all five senses, you get it now. Now. Now, because the performer, that empty vessel, that chained but barking dog, assaults your vital organs with my ink-wrought weapon. My own hesitant, stumbling delivery – more dripping tap than raging torrent – would never bruise your mind with such intensity. Or would it? Had you but listened, the message was here all along, In the slippered, slow-dancing chatter of finger on keyboard, Where the pressure, the deletes, cuts and pastes remain ultimately invisible. Draft one, ideas and themes. Draft two, refine and filter. Draft three, review. Draft four, perfect. Ons, offs. Ones, zeros. In finality, precision. Literal oblivion. No ripples warp my screen. The process remains unspoken. My reputation does not rely on the power of single takes. In a century, where will we be, performer and poet? Atomised to Etherea? And where will my poems be then? Nestling in the leaf folds of language, hidden in foxed and fading paper as always, on lichen-covered tablets in an ivy graveyard. Perhaps. But ready to jump and grab your throat in verbal resurrection. We will win. Us poets. Our progeny will endure. We’re in charge. Poets will grind organs long after the performance monkeys have faded to dust. *   12: Psycho-Psychotic Underwear Thief From Tunbridge Wells. 1. I hate the world, the world hates me, I wake up late about half past three Take an operated ride to the launderette, Where I case the machines, play Russian roulette Search out all the dryers, see what I can find A pair of spotted boxer shorts, the Marks & Spencer kind Don’t care if they’re slightly soiled or harbour evil smells ’Cause I’m a psycho-psychotic underwear thief from Tunbridge Wells 2. I’m public enemy number one, reported on the news For nicking knickers and panty-hose and pregnant women’s shoes I’m a master of disguises, I’ll never get caught alive The police are looking for a glamorous Arab aged about ninety five From Bermondsey to Bridlington, Paris to Peru My empire stretches far and wide from the oldest to the new I’ve formed a network of dumping grounds and indeterminate cells ’Cause I’m a psycho-psychotic underwear thief from Tunbridge Wells 3. I hide in shop doorways like a ruthless marine Button up my duffel coat, make sure I can’t be seen Then sprint across the gardens like a Puma in the bush Pinching pants and old string vests, then I make my final push As the word gets round and housewives faint and the police arrive on the job And neighbourhood watch schemes roll into action and a vigilante mob Of retired colonels mount machine guns with instamatic gels But they’ll never catch the underwear thief terrorising Tunbridge Wells 4. ’Cause I’m a working class hero, the local boy made good I steal from the rich and give to the poor just like Robin Hood People come from near and far, clamour outside my gate As I distribute silk undies from an upmarket housing estate Old ladies beg for bloomers to ward off winter chills The unemployed burn bags of pants to reduce their heating bills Bigger than Batman, Rambo and the rest and a thousand William Tells I’m a psycho-psychotic underwear thief from Tunbridge Wells *   13: Despatches Christmas morning; that off kilter smile...a last gift from you to me, and mine – your favourite skin cream. “Moisturise, moisturise, moisturise...” your motto, your mantra – your lifeline. And so I massaged you; every north, south, east and west of you; watched you skim the coast...drift to your island; only touch keeping you afloat. Eyes that, once, sparkled with massed crystals like the scales of a Blue-Paradise fish, fought to stay open, as I strove to keep you in my sights in the unforgiving mist of yesterdays and my own self-pity. This wasn’t how it was meant to be; not what I’d had in mind at all... since the first stutter of your eyelids brushing my cheek became the last thing I’d forget... And you, running in from the yard; your brow – curved like a dandelion flower; trenchant, as you’d grown... a question mark of a curl on your forehead, small hands cupped, as if in prayer... a baby sparrow, fallen from the nest. “May we keep it?” you said, and I taught you the art of letting go, as I needed you to teach me...then. My hand in yours, felt the love affair you had with life, fast slipping through your fingers, as fell petals to the floor – French lavender, and lilac in the vase by your bed that caught the light; angled stints of a gilt edged blackberry sky, snagged on purpure thorns of goodbyes. Your room – dark, but for the unflinching, blue, luminescence of an indifferent T.V. Half-past eight, and how I wanted to ‘stop all the clocks...’ lace curtains quivering with the draught from an open casement window. Moonshine on frosted glass..shimmering like a seabird’s wings, risen from the tide; the ether – electric with escape. Fly high, fledgling mine. *   14: Performance (I Love you, Pam Ayres) I'm not entirely sure of how I arrived here, fumbling paper leaves in the footlight glare; my poetic flame exposed to anticipatory moths and uninspired mice, notoriously suspicious of elusive sparkle, unexpectedly extracted. Sculpting from the core, I deliver my offering: I love you, Pam Ayres, with your razor and wire nestled in wit, and your bumpkin delivery, perceptive and sweet, I love you, Pam Ayres, though you've never heard of me... and pushing my broom, I exit stage left, humbled by scurries of rodent applause. *   15: AUTUMN ROSE A single full-blown rose Blushes like a shy ballerina peeping through Curtains of leaf green, looking for her lover. The pale pink petals interweave Like the folds of a gossamer gown; She inclines her head as if in recognition Of a ripple of polite applause, As a gentle breeze rustles the long dry grass. Then a flurry of papery leaves, Already autumnal gold and brown, Flutters round the delicate bloom As if to guard a solemn secret she holds dear. Like a lively corps de ballet They dance around their queen Then drift softly to the ground in quiet submission. And I know that all too soon, alas, This fragile, fragrant flower Will surely shed these stately robes: Just as all earthly things must pass. And whilst I marvel at such beauty So perfect in its sweet maturity, A sparkling raindrop falls onto her velvet cheek And rests there like a tiny tear; Frail, fading foliage quivers in sorrow As she sways and gracefully turns her head - A prima ballerina dancing her final dance On a theatre’s empty stage. I see the first precious petal float silently down, And with sadness and love, I remember my Mother - My Mother, Rose. *   16: Jobcentre On Friday Jobcentre fucked up again. The screens started blinking and then went blank. Outside the grey clouds began pissing rain, their shapes looked like old men having a wank. My crap umbrella was missing three spokes, it flapped and waved at every passing car that sped over the puddles leaving me soaked. The stares made me feel like a washed up star. Holes in each sole let the water straight in, soaking a pair of cheesy socks right through. Mountain beacon spots throbbed on my wet chin. A curled turd joined the party in one shoe. When I reached the recruitment agency, they said sorry business was very slow. I should fucking email them my cv. They’d claimed the same things a few months ago. A drowned rat with a stunted sewer tail, was drier than me so I stopped my search. I jumped when police sirens started to wail. A sniffing freak warned me to join their church. On Gumtree, I looked for a cheaper place, I could afford on housing benefit. I’d have to share a room with some nutcase, half the dole pays for my tiny bedsit. I ate tea at the local soup kitchen, had to wait in an hour long hellish queue. The shit smell from my feet fitted right in, it won’t be long till I’m sleeping there too. That night I dreamt I owned a bomb that sweared. On impact, it screamed just you fuck right off. I aimed it at people who’d never cared. It deafened loads of skanky Eton toffs. *   17: Kitchen Sink Drama I am at the kitchen window - a blackbird shrills a warning then in a feather flurry tumbles to hide beneath the berry bush; the sparrow watchman flees his post following his flock to cover; the coal tits dart away as they always do, with sunflower seeds, slim black arrowheads, in their beaks; a streak of grey - a pinch of white down floats to earth- the sparrow hawk has gone. And all this takes less time than it takes to tell. The blackbird resumes its perch, guzzles berries. *   18: Slouching Towards Bethlehem The stone slides shut upon an empty cave, where women knit their clothes and choke back cries– a life returned out of an unknown grave, a son surrendered up from whips and ties. Surrendered up, unkissed, to where the least of dregs and scraps – a miracle – combine into the blood and body of a feast, foreshadowing how love may conquer time: how waters flow back from a mirrored road, and dead men, uncomplaining, leave the light; as moneylenders settle what they’re owed, while worlds turn widdershins for forty nights. All carpenters clutch fists of unbent nails. All stables swallow up these earthly tales. *   19: Aunty Hilda Every family has to have one But mine was just the best She was legend in our household Our true lovely special guest. Played cards and darts and dominoes Knew the rules of every game Smoked the strongest cigarettes around Aunty Hilda was her name. Family parties were quite rowdy Piano banging out old tunes Uncle Ernie on the saucepans Aunty Hilda on the spoons. She could sing a bit could Hilda Bring the party close to tears She would drink a quart of whisky Then start opening all the beers Had a cure for every illness Had a tonic for every flu Might just be homemade medicine Might just be strong home brew. Feeling hot and rather sweaty Got a nose that’s on the run Just shout out for Aunty Hilda She does more than three in one. She could change a plug in seconds She could make your garden grow She knew every dirty swear word Even more than Aunty Flo. She’d play football with the neighbours kids Every one of them knew her name She could tackle like old Bobby Moore Score a goal and win the game. She could windsurf in the ocean Go down headfirst on the slide She could even change your sparkplugs Then she’d also pimp your ride There’s a lost page in the bible God tells Noah to make his Boat But poor Noah aint too clever And can’t seem to make it float. So God asks him what’s the problem Answers “Not sure how to build her.” Gods just gives a silly grin and say’s “Just shout for Aunty Hilda.” *   20: Tree-Line, Rewindings Leaning bent upon his stick, he gazed upon his tree, stark, – struck by lightning long ago, now gnarled, its history in his mind unfurled … Its years of green, his adult shade, youth spent climbing, swings he’d made – a piece of rotten rope still now hangs on a knot on shrivelled bough. … the nests in spring, the busy feedings each year of numerous fluffy fledglings; boxes in his shed constructed to shelter tits, – from harm protected; … a woodpecker nesting in the bole; the site a nuthatch later stole – used mud to shrink the entrance hole; … summer evenings’ leisurely listening: the blackbirds’ rich, melodious trilling, and nightingale’s exuberance thrilling; shared happy times with grandson, watching those thrushes, warblers, sparrows, bullfinch – who came some tasty buds to pinch; … the caterpillars, galls galore, birds’ creepy-crawly feeding store, thick growths of lichen, mossy clumps, fungi brackets, trunk burl humps, the squirrel’s play, and scruffy drey; … the changing seasons, slow decay as underneath the litter lay, spring’s swelling buds – like waterfall the strings of dangling tassels fall from fuzzy flowers for pollen showers. … a tiny acorn’s burial spot three hundred years before today: there, undisturbed, grew strong tap root – no squirrel’s meal, no squashed decay from rambler’s roams – emerging shoot … … and even now, a buzzard perches, as Grandad John his memory searches … *   21: The Lottery Ticket (A parody of Pam Ayres’ poem “Oh, I Wish I’d looked after me Teeth”) Oh, I wish I’d looked after me ticket, spotted that someone might nick it or else that it may be chewed by the dog and end up all screwed. Oh, I wish I’d looked after me ticket. I wish that I’d been more attentive, as winning was such an incentive and the jackpot could have made me rich. The thought often made me twitch but you know I’m not anal-retentive. I showed the numbers that I’d picked and was told that none had clicked; the ticket was checked by a crook who spoke naught but gobbledygook. I would hate to think I was tricked. I wish I hadn’t been so confused for I feel that I may have been used. He took ten pounds from his pocket and promptly got hold of my docket. The transaction left me bemused. I am certain that it wasn’t cricket but I was left with a sticky wicket. And to think that I fell for that trick! It’s demeaning, it makes me sick. Oh, I wish I’d looked after me ticket. *   22: Dance Macabre As the midnight hour approached On the eve of Hallow’een Gaze through any graveyard gate And witness a hellish scene The graves they all lie open Their occupants standing near One holds gin, one has wine and one is gulping beer! Jimmy Powell, a youthful ghoul, who crashed his car one night With bulging eyes and green tinged skin, is not a pretty sight But he’s dancing cheek to jowl with a girlish ghoul he met Her limbs are slightly slimy and her mouth is terribly wet Now, Grandpa Jones, with creaky bones, is doing a jig in the heather He has no skin to keep the heat in but doesn’t mind the weather. Amourous Annie, the heart attack Granny, is on the prowl for a beau Not many men, alive or dead were willing to have a go The twins, Dick and Joan, died when they were born, flitted from tree to tree With their new angel wings, the pretty wee things, were as happy as happy can be. Handsome Jack Moon who can carry a tune, is disintegrating fast He will sing from his heart, then have to depart, this party will be his last. The graveyard is lit like a carnival show Graves lit from within with an eerie glow Revellers writhe in a grotesque dance And if someone should happen to see them by chance A wanderer who has lost his way Too much booze on a holiday They’ll stagger and stare and probably think The blame lies with the demon drink But if they’re sober and ambling along Death due to fright and they’ll join our wee throng So beware and avoid on Hallow’een Eve The Dead Zone of a graveyard, that’s if you believe In ghosts and goblins and bumps in the night! Witches and Warlocks and Vampires who bite!!! *   23: Final Destination Some like the buzz of motoring, I like it when we stop, I`m in love with motorway services, The toilet, the buffet, the shop. I've been to Washington, That's services, not DC, Baldock and Burtonwood, And Pease Pottage on the A23. When a man's bored with Thurrock, He must be bored with life, I stayed there for a fortnight, Took the three kids and the wife. Vera took the hobby well at first, Decided on Trowell for the summer, Then she opted for a weekend in Paris, Funnily enough, so did the plumber. Things took a wrong turn at Knutsford, All she seemed to do was frown, Claimed she'd broken three fingernails, Opening her pre-packed ham on brown. Then she ordered coffee, And that's just what she got, No water, no sugar, no milk, Just granules in a pot. That's when things got nasty, She said I'd got half a brain, If I wanted to spend Christmas, In the buffet at Clackett Lane. So here I am alone, The kids are climbing Etna, I wanted somewhere romantic, So decided to visit Gretna. That's when I spotted Ursula, Breaking open a UHT milk, Her eyes were like Muscovado sugar, Her skin the texture of silk. I'd planned to go on to Heston, Before Cupid entered the equation. But now I'm happy where I am, I've reached my final destination. *   24: Emulating Archie I have written a poem of power and fury a full-on feral, fearsome chant, a fucking pheno-mental rant. My visceral, vicious poet’s voice bellowing out in language choice, a judgement on the placid jury, concerning the merits of this or that poem by some untalented twat with as many layers as a Formica top - sincere like Soviet Agitprop. I judge you all like Ian Dury, you’re all Patricia’s tiresome friends, I hope the message that this sends will pierce your play-doh brains at last: I am the bravest iconoclast. I have written a poem of power and fury, my full-on feral, fearsome chant, my fucking, pheno-mental rant, my Duff-y-ish delivered , timid voice whimpering all that language choice. *
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