Biography

Host of Established monthly Poetry night 'Touch me I'm sick' ,cELEBRITY eUTHANASIS & London's Premier Poetry Karaoke Bingo night 'Bingo Master's Breakout', one of the founding members of Poetry's Gang of 4 'Vintage Poison'.
Low tolerance to mediocrity and pointless backslapping.

If you like being entertained and want to see a hidden side of the London Poetry scene, or interested in getting me to read at your events, gigs etc.., get in touch.

Touch me I'm sick - 3rd Wed of each month Old Crown Pub 33 New Oxford St London - FREE

Bingo Master's Breakout - London's Premier Poetry Karaoke Bingo night
Mainly 1st Friday of every other month - get in touch or check Write out loud.

Samples

A.I.D.S
is about the same age
as Hip Hop

next week,
on the History of the Twentieth Century

The Stone Roses debut album
and how it sounds better now
than it did back then

but not much.
*********************************************

Minus me

I only popped in for a pint,
avoided the stares
of the cheese and pineapple
as I fingered the eye buffet, but

by then it was too late!

Jukebox megalomania!
I had to enforce my
boy band moves

to take over the dancefloor
if not the world, and then

she walks into my fist,
me! Apache dancing,
invoking the skies
to deluge Morrissey,

which through concussion
she spoke to me and said,

‘You do realise I’m total Lesbian
- minus you’,

as my Elvis impersonation
left the building, taking with it
my shyness, which it was
carrying like a sicknote.

*****************************************

Birdie Num Num

There’s a load of pig whipping going down in St Albans
and the word is a piercing known as ‘The Frankenstein’
is said to be the answer to the left sided problem.

‘You can’t have him all – SPIT ROAST!’

One Superhero and his goalkeeping dog,
I could watch this all night
but I don’t have to as I have cable

and I’ve got my tent with me
cos I’m not fighting for a piece of floor
even if it is in slow motion.

That’s not her boyfriend,
Look!
Body language,ill fitting Jacket, only been worn once.

All this as a Tartan Turbaned empress is writing a poem
that will kill the sun

sweetened
with Lipstick and Coco Cola
dancing
like it’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World.

******************************************

Fast train Heaven

IRA HUNGER STRIKER REVIVALIST!
screams his hairdo
Louder than the Human league
in my ears during the 40 minutes

I try to ignore between Maidenhead
and Paddington, day in day out
and what with the scene that this makes
my gaze swings across him
like the mast of a yacht,
ready to knock him square

but he ducks, bobs back up
and is now throwing
caged wildlife shapes
at the surrounding passengers

who have resolutely
nailed eyeballs to their laps.

All this, before Slough.

*******************************************

Art Brut Bus

It says something, when you have to scribble your chat up lines
all over a bungled rainbow, a single launch at a butterfly who’s
Dusty Barnet is doing it for me more than the Xeroxes of anaemic liquorice boys, troupes of cycling tops, so loud the audience went
luminously deaf.

You say ‘unfortunate’ but it’s not me who has to put up with
blamange heaving cleaveges, rugby songs sung through rose red inbred
cheeks.

So as you find me here, Christian of Nigeria, my kisses have been misplaced as you can tell by all this pink paint over my lips
Which, if it unsettles you like I know it must,
you should see what the word of God has done
to the state of my teeth.

********************************************

The National Institute of Pop, Amsterdam

Conspicuous by their absence half hour in, it occurs to me
Take That aren’t Dutch.

Had they have been,
they’d have been subsidised by the government.

‘Here’s your receipts for the pecs and Baby oil’

What is it about the mentally ill
that makes them sexy?
************************************************

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.