Not quite The Monkees

The Monkees sung about loving Valerie, so I wrote a poem about loving Valkyries. (As Barry Norman may have said: “And why not..?”)

As tall as trees
Those buxom breasted broads
Leather tunics straining
Into battle, swinging swords
Flaxon braids, a sheen of sweat
Flashing blades, a crimson jet
Of blood. A kill. My Valkyrie
Victorious once more
Removes her leather armour
As I step in through the door
Valkyrie erotically
Divested of her swords
Rides again in battle
Lewd, Licentious, buxom broad.

Doubting Tommy

Wrote this today while I walked home from work.

Doubting Tommy

“Oh ye of little faith!” they said

And thought that I was silly,

But still I couldn’t couldn’t countenance

That God could have no willy.


“But what about his son?” I said

“That Jesus bloke that died –

How’d his mum get pregnant?

How’d God’s semen get inside?”


“Immaculate Conception, dolt!”

Said Sister with a sneer,

“Mary was a virgin!”

Then she cuffed me round the ear.


“Balderdash! What rot!” said I

“You nuns are full of cack!”

So they took me to the basement

And they put me on the rack.


“A stretch will do you good,” they said

“And stop you being so silly.”

But it didn’t. I’m now 9ft 10

But God’s still got a willy.

Figuring out weather

I’ve been trying to figure out weather. I haven’t got very far. It’s just too full of contradictions. Take sunshine, for example. The sun is very hot, and sometimes when the sun is out the weather is very hot too. But sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes it’s freezing when the sun is out. That’s understandable when it’s windy as well as sunny, but sometimes the sun is out and the air is calm but it’s still cold. So, logically, that must mean that sun and wind have no relation to ambient temperature. Except that’s bollocks. Because sun and wind do affect the temperature.

If logic is bollocks, and sun and wind do have an effect on temperature, then that effect must be unlogical, random, unpredictable. In which case all those weathermen on the telly are talking out of their arse. They must have no more idea about incoming weather than we do. So they should be fired. We should close down the Met Office and use the savings to fund research into something more useful. Like chocolate kettles or left handed rakes, perhaps. Or – whisper it gently – a robot that can figure out the weather.

The sun is bright, the sky is clear
But more than that I’ve no idea
Freezing? Boiling? Don’t ask me –
I hate you, Meteorology.

M1 Southbound

Southwards, ever southwards
Far beneath a Simpsons sky
Grinding past the landmarks
As the settlements fly by.
Doncaster and Maltby
Sheffield, Worksop, lots of sheep.
Power stations, Mansfield
Tibshelf coffee, fighting sleep.
50 zones and traffic cones
No workers can be seen
Windmills spinning slowly
Webs of power, clean and green.
Donnington and Shepshed
Down to Leicester Forest East
A footbridge crosses overhead
The traffic has increased –
Lorries, coaches four-by-fours
And hatchbacks by the score
Timid mice and roadhogs
Wives and girlfriends looking bored.
Watford Gap, where football fans
Are always hanging round
Then off at 16a at last
M40, homeward bound.
No crowds to meet and greet us
Simply Oxfordshire at peace
Hills and fields and hues of green
A sense of sweet release
From the weight of being absent
And the heavy Northern air,
The motorway was trying
But I’m home, that’s all I care.

Scavengers Of Horus

I start work at stupid o’clock every day, which means that I get to see 6am in all its myriad forms. At present I walk through town just as the buildings on the horizon are turning grey, and as the first hints of purple hit the sky.

There are a fair few people about, despite the early hour, but they’re quiet – almost silent – as they go about their business. No-one ever shouts before the dawn. But seagulls, on the other hand? Noisy bastards to a man.  There was a flock of them overhead this morning, divebombing pigeons and stealing their chips whilst screaming blue murder. Then, all at once, they rose into the sky and buggered off back to sea. Which was my cue to write a poem…

What noise! The seagulls circle
Up above at 6 am
Round and round they hurtle
Round and round and round again.

Drawn by chicken drumstick bones
And chips left on the street
They’ve left their natural seaside homes
To forage, and to eat
In Reading, umpteen miles inland
Before the sun’s arrived –
They woke at 4am, as planned
Were here by ten past five.

How they scream in harmony
Above the Metro Bank
Before they head back out to sea
Without a word of thanks,
Godspeed then, noisy scavengers
May Horus guard your fate.
Farewell then, noisy scavengers
Be gone. The dawn awaits.

The Prophetic Bottom

I’ve always loved Bottom. The comedy program that is, not the wobbly hairy things above a man’s legs. I love all the episodes (although the 3rd series went a bit downhill) but one of my favourites is ‘Apocalypse’.

In this episode, Eddie and Richie visit a fairground and, in a bid to escape a man they’ve shot in the eye with an air-rifle, they end up in the tent of a crooked fortune teller. The fortune teller (Liz Smith – brilliant) tells Richie that “Before the moon rises three times.. you’re gonna die!” And here’s where I get to the point of this essay….

Richie, the most gullible man in the world, falls for this rubbish hook line and sinker. He is completely terrified by his impending death, and decides to take preventative measures: he turns the sofa upside down, covers it in blankets and proceeds to spend the next three days hiding underneath. He won’t come out for any reason, and he wont even eat any food unless Eddie has safety-tested it first.

A bit of an extreme reaction, perhaps, but nonetheless that is exactly what I would be doing now if I was a celebrity over the age of fifty. Every time I see such a celeb on the telly I’m thinking “What are you doing you idiot?! Don’t you know this is 2016? Haven’t you heard! Hide, you fool! Hide, hide! Take cover under your sofa and cower ’til we get to 2017!”

I’m not exactly sure just what 2016 has against celebrities, but whatever it is it has to be pretty big. You don’t kill this many stars on a whim. This isn’t just a case of “Celebrity X didn’t return my lawnmower and I don’t like his eyes – they’re too close together”. This is serious. This is major. Someone has fucked 2016 over in a hardcore way, and now it wants revenge. And somewhere, somewhere there’s a celebrity who knows why. A celeb who knows exactly what’s got 2016 all annoyed, and who is, right at this very  moment, hiding under his sofa.

So here’s a message for this celeb. This parasitic, cowardly star who won’t come out and face the music. The message is simply this: “Show yourself! Own up! Show a tiny bit of honour and sacrifice yourself for the sake of your celebrity colleagues! You owe it to mankind!”

I don’t see why this poor excuse for a celebrity should be allowed to live whilst other, nobler souls are lost. I don’t want to lose any more Victoria Woods, or David Bowies. Or even Ronnie Corbetts, although he did scared the shit out of me as a kid. It’s time for the scumbag concerned  to show himself, and to face the music (assuming there’s anybody left to play the music by then, of course).

So if you’re the guilty party then reveal your identity now, I beg you! And if you’re one of his friends then grass on him, dob him in, throw him to the wolves! And if you’re just a common or garden celeb aged over fifty… get yourself under that sofa! Now! Before it’s too late!



A Sister Blog

I was bored yesterday and worked out that there are 448 days left until I turn 40. On the spur of the moment, therefore, and in the great British-Eccentric tradition, I decided to write at least one poem a day, every day, until that birthday arrives. I do like a challenge!

I’ve started a new, sister blog called 4four8 where I’ll be posting up the daily poems. (I’ll still be posting to ThingsKristerWrote too, so please don’t cancel your follows!)

If you’re interested in following my challenge, you can see it here. Thank you!