I'm a North Somerset-based poet and spoken word artist. My poetry tackles hard-hitting subject matter, like Christina Rossetti's fondness for pasta, and the sex life of verbs, but mostly I just moan about the epic crapness of lovelife. I have a reputation as a comic poet, but most of my poems are supposed to be serious - it's just that, for some reason, people laugh at them and I never let on. I am regularly booked for headline and feature slots across the South West and was the 2015 Bristol Hammer and Tongue regional champion. You can see more of my work at my website, my Facebook page and on YouTube.
Like I’ve never had much luck with men, not had the lovelife I deserved. It doesn’t help that I’m like a library copy of the latest novel by JK Rowling writing as Robert Galbraith: always reserved. I can’t give off flirty signals, I’m very shy, indeed, I’m like the end credits of a Sunday night BBC drama: very hard to read. So, maybe men think I’m not interested and that’s the reason why, like someone taking Dionne Warwick lyrics way too literally, they walk on by. And some men get scared by my intelligence – they don’t like it when I say things they don’t understand and it makes them feel like Bridgwater Station between the hours of 2.30pm and midnight Monday to Saturday and all day Sunday: unmanned. The kind of males that chat me up just don’t appeal to me, mainly because most of them are like the recommended ambient centigrade temperature for the safe storage of foods: under 8 or over 63. And when men my own age ask me out, the prospects still aren’t bright, because, for some indefinable reason which I can’t quite put my finger on, they’re like the dominant hand of Rafael Nadal, Paul McCartney and Osama Bin Laden: not right. My friends tried to set me up with a guy, they thought we’d make the perfect pair, but it was like my school timetable once I’d finally made it into the sixth form and could drop all the subjects I was shit at: there was absolutely no chemistry there. And when I finally meet a man who lights my fire, who makes my heart rate surge and my nipples tingle, he’s like the finest cream in the chiller cabinet at Asda: not single. I cannot find a boyfriend, despite my best endeavour. I’m like the MMR vaccine and autism: no relationship whatsoever. So, while I have the attention of all you lovely people here, like a person who’s just enrolled on a glass-blowing course, I want to make something clear: Platonically, I’m sorted – I’ve got lots of lovely mates, but, like someone shopping for Christmas cake ingredients, I’m looking for dates. I’ll shut up on this subject now, but let me leave you in no doubt, I am not like the books in the reference section of Bristol Central Library: you can take me out.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
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