Equine
Made for speed,
Bred to bleed,
Tug the mane,
Break and train,
Gasp for breath,
Charge at death,
Bow and spear,
Run through fear,
Metal feet,
Human seat,
Blood is spilt,
Empires built,
No reward,
Just a horde,
War is done,
Now for fun,
Vilest curs,
Whips and spurs,
Placing bets,
Live assets,
Break a leg,
Cannot beg,
Behind shed,
Cold and dead
Hello Everyone, I’ve Written a Poem
Hello everyone, I've written a poem,
I've titled it "Hello Everyone, I've Written a Poem",
It's quite like me, to struggle for titles,
But this one, I didn't struggle with,
I said to myself "What would a pointless poem be called?",
I replied "Probably something like 'Hello Everyone, I've Written a Poem'",
HA!
So I went with that, I went with the title "Hello Everyone, I've Written a Poem",
While you read it, you may find yourself angry,
But let it happen,
Anyway, here is the poem I've written,
Titled "Hello Everyone, I've Written a Poem":
You know that panda that eats, shoots and leaves?
Well, what about the community that grieves?
Thank you for reading my poem, called "Hello Everyone, I've Written a Poem".
Merry Christmas everyone.
The Farm
Humanity's curse,
We try to hide,
Unspeakable horror,
Bred within walls,
Cages,
Miles of bars,
Shit, piss, fear,
Unbearable pain,
No cluck, moo or bleat could explain.
Ripped away from mother's milk,
Mulched and minced for fat pigs,
Stuffed into buns, thrown onto plates,
We cannot help, it's our curse,
Witness to your suffering,
I hate them all,
All who do this to you,
Cishet Steve
Naive Cishet Steve couldnt believe,
That folk out there wished him grievous harm,
Simple Cishet Steve began to grieve,
As this was cause for serious alarm.
So Cishet Steve, he did conceive,
A plan as wily as it was daring,
Yes Cishet Steve, he'd earn reprieve,
And stop minorities and strangers caring.
Thus Cishet Steve, he did achieve,
This goal in a delightfully, dastardly way,
Yes Cishet Steve, on Christmas Eve,
Announced he was actually, tremendously gay!
Then Cisgay Steve, more cards up his sleeve,
Had one more rotten old fib to tell,
Cisgay Steve, on Christmas,
Said he was a woman called Ruth as well.
Yes transgay Ruth, it's God's honest truth,
Nothing you'd say could cast any doubt,
He's transgay Ruth, since his youth,
That's what his weird behaviour was about.
But transgay Ruth, followed by a sleuth,
Well, to know when to quit was a trait she did lack,
And transgay Ruth, hours in tanning booth,
Came out swearing blind she had changed race to black!
So blacktransgay Ruth, slightly tipsy on vermouth,
Revealed to a mate that it was all a crazy lie,
And blacktransgay Ruth, characteristically uncouth,
Said "I want to be a victim" when asked the reason why.
Again now Cishet Steve, in trying to deceive,
Is reminded of his privilege every waking hour,
And silly Cishet Steve, unable to perceive,
That in many small ways he has his private power.
Broaden the Mind
Leipzig, Bucharest, Belfast, Milan,
Kabul, the capital of Afghanistan,
Red-eye to LA, bus to Nantyglo
Just some of the places I don't want to go.
Beirut, Bangkok or Bangor, Maine,
Madrid, the capital of sun-scorched Spain,
Even the clean streets of Japan's Tokyo,
Oh other fine places I don't want to go.
Tripartite of Tripoli; Tirana; Taipei,
Manchester or maybe Myanmar's Mandalay,
Dare down to Yemen, where Dragon Bloods grow,
Yet more perfect places I don't want to go.
The Pristine Nugget Pt.1
Last week with my child, not arsed to cook food,
And sink with plates piled, I felt the takeaway mood,
So ready to scoff, i ordered a meal,
I got it half off, an absolute steal.
A burger and chips, and nuggets beside,
With so many dips, my stomach wide-eyed,
Before I tucked in, I saw my small boy,
Dejected and thin, with a happy meal toy.
This human I built, now under my care,
I felt so much guilt, I'd no longer bear,
So like a good pater, I fed him six nuggies,
And a few hours later, he'd filled up his Huggies.
I removed the soiled nappy, a stench straight from hell,
I'd never been so happy, to get rid of a smell,
But what I perused, as I glanced at the mound,
Left me so confused, I could make no sound.
One nugget full formed, untouched by digestion,
Intrusive thoughts swarmed, surely out of the question!?
I could bear no longer, I reached out a hand,
Curiosity stronger than digestive gland.
I gingerly placed it on a microwave plate,
I hosed shit that laced it, and felt the real weight.
I felt no real qualm, about what I retrieved,
What I held in my palm, could not be believed.
What do to now, I thought to myself,
I furrowed my brow, should it be on the shelf?
Should I tell my friends, or call local news?
It never ever ends, when I start to muse.
But deep in strange thought, I heard a shrill cry,
The moment was fraught as my boy caught my eye,
I walked over to him and held out my treat,
His belly rumbled grim as he started to eat....
Life
When you feel the sky is falling,
And you need the pills to cope,
When you feel the void a-calling,
And bereft of any hope.
When everything is repetitious,
And nothing gives you pleasure,
When your mood cycles are vicious,
And you can't live life in leisure.
Just remember you're unique,
You may not think it's true,
Life would be a bit more bleak,
If life was without you.
The Book
Swathes of empty pages,
Turning one by one,
Through the passage of time,
Cycles of sun,
Some paper has words,
Jumbled, dull, unstructured,
Lacking meaning or inspiration,
Who made this book?
It isn't finished,
It should be pulped,
Pulp it, perhaps write again,
Can the author flow mind through pen?
Does the author have a mind?
Who would read this book?
Nobody.
In the vast library, this is a coaster,
Stains on its cover, cuffed spine,
Thrown away and forgotten,
Rightfully.
Christopher Peacock: Private Investigator
He Ain't Heavy
Peacock & Peacock. The words officially lettered the translucent pane of the door to the office of brothers Drew and Christopher, private investigators. The same door belonged to their father Ray, and their uncle Lou, who started the business ten years ago. Boom times for the PI, ended in tragedy. Boom times gone now, sonic remnants remain in this town.
Christopher opened the door with his hand, a hand just as comfortable writing notes as it was holding a gun. Any fool could hold a gun but Christopher could bullseye a nickel over 200 yards away. He heard voices as he entered.
"Okay Mrs Scunthorpe, I got it all. We can take this job on but it's gonna cost ya." Christopher's brother, Drew Peacock, ruthlessly laid out the terms.
"That's fine Mr Peacock, I shall send you a postal check. Half now, half when the job's done, a bonus if you get me proof by the end of the week." The delicate Mrs Scunthorpe replied. Christopher took off his creased trenchcoat, retrieving a letter from a pocket as he did so. He placed it, and his fedora, on the rack and leaned against the windowsil, whipping out a pack of Lucky Strikes and lighting one up in one smooth movement. Drew winked at him, and Christopher grinned back.
"No problem, ma'am. Me and my brother will get right on it." Drew said with a smile; pure charm from cheek to cheek. Drew was always the face, Christopher was the workhorse.
"Thank you. I shall see you again." Scunthorpe replied, giving a half smirk back, and leaving the office. Christopher couldn't help but notice she was built like a showgirl, a dancer. All wiggle in the hips and gams that'd make a blind man dance.
"Good business?" Christopher inquired. "Should see us through the end of the month." his brother speculated, with a hint of anxiety in his voice.
"This was in the post for you." Chris said, handing him the manila envelope, a bill no doubt. Christopher turned to fix himself a Scotch. "You want one?" Chris asked the wall, a stand in for his older brother. No response.
He turned and saw his brother, hands shaking violently, in one the u folded paper letter, in the other a snub nosed pistol, filled to the brim with death. His tear filled eyes looked straight into his brother's as if to say 'I'm sorry' and he pulled the trigger. The bang was contained but the implosion caused the mulched matter of Drew's scrambled skull to spray all over the framed photo of their father and uncle Lou. Chris didn't scream, didn't move, didn't cry, didn't wail. Having stood there for what seemed like an eternity in hell, he called 911 and explained what just happened. He hung up and looked at the letter in the corpse's hand. It read, in Bland typeface:
Ha! Drew Peacock! Drew Peacock! Your wife must not like that! Ha! Droopy cock! Ha!
Chris fell down on his knees and wept for a full hour, resisting the urge to have a tearful wank in honour of his brother's dead body right next to him.