A comment on pescetarial consumption in The Old Town.

The whelks are coming
I saw them, it's true.
from my veranda last night I watched them seep through
Slowly from the breaking surf
their glistening bounties did quiver and lurch
Until forth upon the moistened sand
the chieftain of these foul husks came to land
"I am your harbinger of Doom" he said
Bow before me to avoid your death"
Yet I am alone in such offers of grace
others of you look decease in the face.
For as the sun dips below the sea's petticoat hem
so do the wooden shacks bustle with murderous men
whilst the benches outside heave with their pawns
a pint of whelks, a peppered mackerel or a small pot of prawns
And when the oral corrosion so requisite is complete
the bloody carcasses of their brethren litter the street
Such careless disregard for actual digestive need
and instead insatiable ordering of fish for our greed.
Perhaps it is no surprise, this war on mankind?
This genocidal retort
seeding plans in their mind
Yet I will not be subservient vassal to their strike
These malodorous urchins must at once face a fight
Or alternately, here lies the correct portions of fish
laid out by The University of Delaware to peruse if you wish
They might just get over it.


Whole Fish 3/4 to 1 pound
Dressed or Cleaned Fish 1/2 pound
Fillets and Steaks 1/4 to 1/3 pound
Crab, Cooked Meat Only 1/4 pound
Crabs Live 1 to 1-1/2 pounds
Lobster, Cooked Meat Only 1/3 pound
Lobster, Live 1 to 1-1/2 pounds
Mussels, in the Shell 1 dozen
Soft-Shelled Clams 1 dozen
Oysters, in the Shell 1/2 dozen
Clams, in the Shell 1/2 dozen
Oysters, Clams, or Mussels, Shucked 1/4-1/3 pint
Scallops 1/4-1/3 pound
Whole Shrimp 1 pound
Headless, Unpeeled Shrimp 1/2 pound
Headless, Peeled Shrimp 1/3 pound
Whole Squid 1/2 pound
Cleaned Squid 1/4 pound

Han Solo's Lament.

I used to be a rebel,
But I got tired of all the shit,
Of poncy suits and silly droids
And overgrown sandpits…
I got tired of always being
The second in command
Of sexual tension between siblings
And that fucking dreadful band..
Now I am a poet
And I focus just on me
So Luke, can stroke my wookie
And fuck camaraderie.

The Next Station

The next station is… too far from the one I want
If I’m eaten by chavs before I get there
I’d like this printed in standard size 12 font.

London via Tilbury

I wish I had an Ipod,
so this journey was less gay,
but it’s probably all that I deserve
for going the Tilbury way.

Upskilling.

‘Upskilling’ they call it, whoever ‘they’ are,
another super idea they developed at the bar.
“Let’s put them in a room that smells of tuna melt,
the one decorated by the guy with a hard-on for felt.
I don’t have the time to go over it much,
I’m running too late for my buffet lunch”
Don’t worry that the computers were made in 14BC
Or that the trainer has done 17 lines of Charlie.
How much were ‘they’ paid to come up with this plan?
Seventy Thousand a year, Big Up to ‘the man’.
If you think this is speculative,
That’s really a shame,
Cause I’m sitting in that room and I’m feeling the pain.
The guy next to me thinks he’s a real comic wit.
But in reality he’s actually an absolute tit.
And now he’s started eating a fucking pork pie,
Oh God somebody tell me, why won’t he die?
I mean do I really look like I give any kind of a shit?
'Cause, I’m actually having a neurological fit.
I’d like to see Tony Blair sat here in my chair,
Preferably doused in petrol and clutching a flare.
But I never will, he’s a busy man you see,
Indulging in a spot of bondage with the delectable Cherie.

Jobcentre.

And so here it is, Monday again,
Another week of sheer bollocks,
Another email from Ben.
Sifting through papers and checking the clock,
Imagining my manager’s head on a block.
The chains are removed and in comes the first
Looking like he should have arrived in a hearse.
And a ruinous smell permeates the air,
Like a week old untreated, gastric tear.
Still I sit here again, surveying the hoard.
How did I get here? Fuck me I’m bored.

Trapped Wind.

I knew the man on the train had eaten KFC
I knew this fact because
his bowels were telling me.
When I say that they were 'telling' me it was more of an aggressive shout..
If his arse had been a man,
He'd have been a ticket tout.
When I say 'ticket tout',
I don't meant the guy with a spare,
I mean the Cretin outside Highbury and Islington,
with the Terry Wogan hair.
When I say Terry Wogan,
this isn't about 'Children in Need'
It's about a man on the train to Tower Hill,
Whose farts made my nasal hair bleed.