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Spontaneous Poetry: Not always a bad thing

Andy says:

*MOTHERFUCKING SOLO!
*Jesus is that guy too good
*He shouldn't be allowed

Lee says:
*Barnaby Jones and his Fortress of Swing

Andy says:
*The new book
*By Harold Shipman

Lee says:
*It's a poem in the making
*It's got quite a rhythm to it
*Bar-na-by Jones and his For-tress of Swing

Andy says:
*Much like a jagged dinosaur

Lee says:
*Barnaby Jones and his Fortress of Swing
*A harrowing tale one must shout and must sing
*Racing through time in a big yellow coat
*There's an owl with a meter stick perched on his boat
*Where oh where will the Swing Fortress stop?
*In front of MacDonald's and some other shop.
*Barnaby Jones steps out into the store
*With an owl underarm and potentially more
*I should stop

Andy says:
*Until you pop
*And an old man starts to glare
*As Harold removes his underwear

Lee says:
*Harold's old boxers are made out of zinc
*And sausage and mash and cotton, I think

Andy says:
*A truly bizarre state of affairs
*That leads to a sexual lust for old stairs

Lee says:
*Putting one's cock on the stairs is a task
*It's best to protect it by wearing a flask

Andy says:
*One not tried by the faint of heart
*A task no novice is likely to start

Lee says:
*You must hammer it, twist it, *clunk clank and plink*
*It's much easier to just put your knob in the sink
*But think of the germs! The plates and the mess!
*It makes us erect, we all must confess

Andy says:
*A deed that I often commit
*Even when my penis refuses to fit

Lee says:
*Some try the kettle, or pans and a pot...
*My penis was skinned - it's just far too hot

Andy says:
*Others will slam genitals in doors
*But it's not advised as the blood often pours

Lee says:
*This talk of penis is making me tire
Let's speak of magnesium, of foxes and wire

Andy says:
*Items a true fisherman aspires to own
*Even if the neighbours are likely to moan

Lee says:
*Throw them all in a box, step back and you'll see
Your legs will transform into iced raspberry tea
*A physical state that makes fishing a chore
*It's best to forget it, just go to the store

Andy says:
*But beware of the store, the shopkeeper's mad
*He still claims to be Richie Blackmore's new dad
*With a handful of nails and a mug full of noodles
*The shopkeeper's best known for killing his poodles

Lee says:
*A deed not forgotten by his wife and his kid
The poodles were raped and then punched to Madrid

Andy says:
*The Spaniards came out, ablaze with their rage
*And built the shopkeeper a really shit cage

Lee says:
*The Shopkeeper roared in a flustery splutter
"MY KNEECAPS ARE CROOKED AND COVERED IN BUTTER!"

Andy says:
*Unaware of the damage from this
*The Spaniards all celebrated, starting to kiss
*When all of a sudden from out of the sky
*Came rocker Mick Jagger, wielding beef pie

Lee says:
*The Spaniards all gathered, their mouths were agape
Mick Jagger flew lower, flaunting his cape
*The pie was delightful, all crispy and brown
But then Mick fell in it and started to drown

Andy says:
*The gravy he sank in was just far too thick
*He struggled and sank as he fondled his dick

Lee says:
*The pie was now tainted, the Spaniards did flee
The shopkeeper was left, with Mick and a tree

Andy says:
*With blood on his hands and his new found guilt
*The shopkeeper proceeded to roll up a quilt

Lee says:
*He packed it up tight and rode it back home
But his quilt was too fast and ran over a gnome

Andy says:
*He arrived in Italy, tired and worn
*Followed by Harold, a gnome-lover scorn

Lee says:
*He put on his hat and then turned into dust
Harold fell over and died from disgust
*This would not have happened, were it not for one thing
Fuck Barnaby Jones and his Fortress of Swing
**Lightning*
*THE END

Andy says:
*That was excellent as fuck

My Musics

Worldlines



Empathica

Some Things Never Change

A Cry for Help (Note Post, Vol.1)

New carpet. When you've got new carpet, you can pretend you're a celebrity.
Lay it down and admire your handy work. Draw on yourself with chalk and act like nothing happened.
You're alone with the carpet, but that doesn't mean it has to be about sex.
Sometimes you're the only person to notice the carpet.
Everybody else just walks over it like it isn't there.
You see the carpet - you wish you didn't. It perverses things. The carpet hides the truth.
The truth is in the wooden panelling. Some say the proof is in the pudding, but this is a lie.

The proof is in the panelling

Roll up the carpet. What do you get? Nothing.
Pry up the panelling. What do you get? Everything.

You get the mayor's Sunday vest. You get as much dust as you can eat.

The proof is not in the pudding.

Balloon Men - Pt.1

I sit patiently at my desk.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Sat with a book in front of me, I wait... wait for it to make its move... wait for it to make a mistake. My eyes drift listlessly to the bottom left corner of their peripheral vision, surveying the dust in the corners, watching detachedly as Hillary Clinton slinks carelessly into the room, making dirty tuba noises before clambering awkwardly into the fish tank and disappearing amongst the reeds.

*Rustle* *Rustle*

My eyes dart back to the book with the hideous immediacy of a hawk with lead feet falling on top of a newborn child. The book has not changed. A formidable opponent. This one will require the darkest depths of my cunning.

Silently, I slip out of the bedroom door, creeping down the stairs and into the kitchen. Reaching into one of the lower cupboards, I pull out six packs of Werther’s Originals and a watering can. I bring them back upstairs and arrange them enticingly at the far end of the desk and survey the book with a look of smug triumph. I know I have its balls in a vice.

All of a sudden, the book turns red and catches fire.

“AHA!” I shout in delirious victory, grabbing the book by the corner and Frisbeeing it out of the window, to avoid scorching the watering can. Almost content enough to dust my hands of the situation, I freeze, mid-hand-dusting, as I hear the book ricochet off of human skin and plop lifelessly into the pond. I crane my head around slowly and see a pink balloon float absently skywards, past the window.

Worry begins to creep coldly through my veins as I start to speculate over the cause of such abrupt balloon presence. Knowingly, I skulk to the other side of the room and rotate the dimmer switch on the wall until the bulb on the ceiling becomes no more than a dull ember. I slowly raise my head over the windowsill, already certain of what I will see.

Balloon Men.

Three of them. Four, if I were to include the one sprawled out on the floor, empty-handed, blood gushing from a book-shaped wound in his scalp. One stood by the pond, another stood near the shed and one stood half-buried in the vegetable patch up to his chest. They all hold a single, coloured balloon, left-handed, staring blankly at my bedroom window. They each wear ragged, formal suits, littered with coffee stains and bread crumbs. The one loitering around the shed turns to the pond-stander and begins to speak in loud trumpet noises, asserting its dominance as it spray-paints “Jumanji” on the fence, marking its territory. My worry is forgotten in a moment of white fury as David Attenborough sneaks out of some nearby long grass and begins to play Twister with a jaguar. The jaguar asks David to put his right foot on blue and it’s more than I can stand. The last straw.

I turn away, horrified, and slump against the wall beneath the windowsill, my mind bulging with questions. Why are they here? Why me? Who threw my book in the pond? Unhelpful questions all likely to have equally as unhelpful answers. I begin to pace the length of my room, pondering a way to rid myself of these unwanted guests. After what seems to be an eternity of pacing, I stop dead in my tracks, having walked straight into the fish tank, spilling tropical fish and Hillary Clinton all over the new carpet. I casually sweep the unlucky fish and the ex-president’s wife under the rug, when an idea hits me square in the jaw. Dazedly, I pick the idea off of the floor and jam it into my head, massaging my bruised chin. Sudden clarity begins to circulate around my brain. I know what must be done.

Exercising extreme caution, I snatch the watering can from its position as centrepiece in the tantalizing display of garden equipment and chewy, butterscotch toffee treats on my bedroom desk. I grab a side of the watering can in each hand and begin to stretch it – stretch it wide enough to fit a leg in.

Then I stretch it some more.

I stretch it far past the recommended stretching size written on the bottom of the can. The sides of the can stretch to the point of transparency as the warning siren begins to blare from the town centre. Village folk burst from their houses, ugly screams of panic shooting from their mouths and splashing all over the floor. They carry hastily packed bags under their arms, many of them wearing their children as slippers, too lazy to carry or wake them. They’re running for the emergency bunkers, used only in case of nuclear fallout, and the excessive elongation of gardening goods. I let go of the watering can... yet it continues to swell.

The walls of the bedroom begin to buckle and creak as the monstrous, green balloon continues to bulge and distend. The large double windows shatter outwards and spray the Balloon Men in the garden with confused shards of glass. They squawk in their violent brass voices and begin to tear up the Twister mat. David Attenborough shoots a sharp, accusatory look at the Balloon Man in the vegetable patch (the only one unable to seize his beloved Twister mat) and explodes in a hectic shower of snakes. The snakes swarm up the walls of my house, oblivious to the gravity urging them kindly to stay on the ground. They begin to pour in through the open window and pile into the rapidly-growing can like clowns into a tiny car – a tiny car that has been turned into a giant watering can.

What have I done?

The roof of the house bursts, sending scraps of brick and tiles sprawling out into the road and garden. Despite the weight of its new residents, the ex-watering device begins to float upward and out of the room. Instinct seizes me. I was born for this moment. As the big green balloon takes flight, I leap into the open hatch and slump down into the pile of writhing snakes. The can ascends higher into the night sky and I peer over its edge, down at the rapidly shrinking garden. The plan has not gone entirely awry, after all: I’m leaving the Balloon Men behind. A strong sigh of relief escapes me as I slouch back into the slithering carpet that fills my new abode. Where to now? Wherever the can desires...

Old College Work!

The series of images that follow make up my English Language AS Creative Writing coursework. The story is a very loose re-write of the classic Fairytale "Snow White". It is written in a vaguely Sci-Fi style in a post-apocalyptic environment.