Chrome poles and foxholes

With the West now bombing Isis, whatever good that will do, I couldn't help noticing that Southampton has a lap-dancing club of the same name, and so a little satire was born - currently a work-in-progress...

The day the West dropped bombs on Isis

Cash in the wasitband’s medieval,
objectifying, shallow – yes, but not evil,
seedy, that’s true, thoughts unclean,
small uprisings, some scenes are obscene,
barbaric acts need reprisals it seems
but such punishment’s too harsh, in extremis,
high explosives used on unarmed ecdysists,
the day the West dropped bombs on Isis.

Some general somewhere, deep in the Pentagon,
bullet-headed, a limited lexicon,
lost by long words, confused the terms
Terpsichore and terrorists,
gyrators and jihadists,
shaking their fundaments
doesn’t make them fundamentalists.

Military Intelligence didn’t check their facts,
planned the attack using Google Maps,
managed to mix up bunkers in Iraq
with a slightly cheesy city-centre strip-shack,
as dancers wiggled on laps and tables,
missiles were launched from a secret Naval
base, seconds later, dumb target’s struck,
one interrupted a private booth-fuck,
shenanigans costly, rude, uncouth,
the other hit the dancefloor via the roof
and exploded, scattering sequins and G-strings,
middle-aged men who seek releasings,
ripped by lip-gloss shrapnel, no more sleazing
at the go-go girls blown through the ceiling,

peeling off layers of lurex and rubber,
shredded epidermal cover,
no teasing rhythm to this stripping,
as club-beats are cut,
lust lies bleeding,
all gone Pete Tong, gold thongs
hang limp from rubble,
lager and worse dripping
from stag-night posses caught, gaping in fishnets
and rags of High Street smart-casual,
congealing as the dust settles, dead confetti,
flakes of foundation, orange as amaretti
no longer concealing crisped skin,
smoke black as Kate Moss’ caked mascara,
Rimmel’s London Blitz look,
billows from kitsch curtains
and pink satin pillows as they shrivel,
shrink like recreational dental-floss knickers

and the emergency light’s first tentative flicker
illuminates a lone perspex platform stiletto
lying on its side, still clasping something varnished,
chipped but glitter-sparkling,
part of a daughter of Isis,
goddess of slaves and sinners,
mother of Horus,
who could not be protected by doormen
or hands-by-your-sides no-touching rules,
all just damaged collateral,
another day in the death
of the War of Error,
mongered by fools.

Passion playtime

Written to be performed at the Art House-hosted launch of Grant Sharkey's album Free Nuggets - the 3rd of 40 albums planned to be released over 20 years. The theme of the night was 'passion' and it landed around Easter...

Rhyme of passion

Passiflora edulis,
flowers' elaborate sex-organs,
botanical baboon-bums
on display for all to see
and sniff
and lick (that’s bees),
fruit split and parted
by deft fingers, practised thumbs,
sticky seed-mass probed with tongues,
while Easter Sunday mornings
are more fun
with tousled tumblings,
duvet bundlings
than Via Dolorosa sufferings,
a two-thousand-year old tale
used to summon church-roof funding
from ex-Brigadiers,
broad-‘tached and grumbling
that ‘eating’ wasn’t so messy in their time
but hey – pleasure isn’t guilty
and passion’s not a crime.

From bad to verse

Along with some poetical chums, I'm currently working my way through these exercises as poem-a-day prompts. Yesterday's was "Write the worst poem you possibly can. Now edit it and make it even worse."

So I did. As did others.

What was interesting was (a) how difficult this was - the urge to avoid 'bad' poetry is strong, and (b) once achieved, the results are still good (in their own way) because they are funny, and that is positive. A lot of humour is about the unexpected, the disjointed, the out-of-place-or-time and so on, so maybe this isn't too surprising - and creating some mirth has to be a good thing, so maybe no need to analyse further. Here's my attempt:

Bad sex poem
[My submission to the ‘erotica’ section of this year’s Vogon Eisteddfod]

Jagged buttocks warts clash
Clash; clash clash; clash
Clash CLASH clash.
Oh, compartments! Look!
Oh, oh dumpling’s! Lovelier blancmange
From a packet. NO!
And some plastic sponge.
It wobbles.
I can see a cauliflower.
Woe! WOE!
My vegetable won’t grow –
WITHOUT some gravy.
Greeeen.
Cleverly I say ‘noirmange’
Now you see!
Yes, they are French but opposite.
That is clever so you like it. Vert!
Oui! Non! Like that.
But better.
Desire akin to that penned a few years ago by Alan Titchmarsh winning an award that’s somehow appropriate here but not the one he would have wanted I think it is over.

NaPoWriMo day 24

NaPoWriMo's day 24 prompt was to take the results from putting your name into an online anagram-finder and use them to write a poem about yourself. I’ve tweaked this slightly in the light of the words that popped out and, after some umming-and-ahing, decided instead to plump for pure smut!

Anagram me filthy

A bidden velvet bush,
Shaved bulb evident,
Dubbed in the valves,
Stubbed vein halved,
Behind de best vulva,
Delvin’, have bust bed,
Vend thus, Devil-babe,
Lavish event dubbed
“Have duvets nibbled”

NaPoWriMo day 17

NaPoWriMo day 17. Following the valediction/farewell poem on day 6, today’s prompt is to write a poem of greeting; I’ve gone a little louchely beyond a simple ‘hello’ to a full-on moustache-twirling ‘helll-oooo!!!’

The Bawd and the Belly-dancer

Glorious curves,
You send sparks ‘long my nerves,
With your shimmy and wiggle and sway,
To those arabesque grooves,
Oh, your sinuous moves,
As you jingle your jangle my way.

Diaphanous veils,
Kohl-rimmed eyes, jewelled nails,
Hips shake and bells ring out their tune,
An erotic alarum,
Evoking the harem,
An odalisque-dream that’s come true.

Keeping time with the oud,
And darbouka-drummed mood,
I’m not sure who’s more all-of-a-quiver,
But the mixture of wine,
And incense divine,
Makes me stand up and want to deliver!

photo (c) Hafla Dancers, Kappa Fotografia, Medieval Divas