Dimbleby's Face

Child's drawing
Of Nicholas Witchell
However you spell it
Opened a paper mouth
Groaning at the sun
Sicked up the news
Like Wensleydale that had been
Subjected to domestic violence.

The NHS on a dirty German train
Leaves for Auschwitz
Whilst elsewhere an Osram lightbulb
Is beaten into blackness
By a dog in a wheelchair
In a suit
In a state
Pushed by death
In his (or her) slippers
Through a portal
In David Dimbleby's face.

Oh

Please save us
David Dimbleby's face.
Who
Will save us
From
Catastrophe
If you wont will then?
If you wont will then who will then now then?
Now that Sir Jimmy Saville has gone?

Sausages and the Offalgeist

Pig fingers from the afterlife
Haunting your frying pan
As the heat begins to punish,
The squeals and satanic hiss ferment.
At night, the darkness promises
The Offalgeist will appear
Dressed in tight, suffocating skin
Fragrant herbs in your nostrils
Inches from your snoring throat.
Your strangulation is ready to serve
But sadly
The offalgeist
Has no hands.
You are pardoned.
He will add
"grow hands for next time"
Onto his Google calendar.

The Dangerous Building

Oh, beautiful dangerous building.
Oh, dangerous building that stands
Literally between cemetery
And fire station
Oh, the irony.
I can see you from inside you.
I cannot see your danger but I know of it
Like the terrible temper of
A secret wife-beater.
When the fire alarm yelps into action
During a routine practise
The security door circuitry fails
All doors become walls
To bang our panicked, sweating, disembodied brows against.

However, there is another exit.
Always a way out
Built into the building's design.
To find it you must first unlock the secret email
That has not yet been sent
By the buildings supervisor
Who is there to hold the dangerous buildings hand
In case it makes a mistake.
I hope that fire
Never visits here.

Her Giant Hands

Her giant hands
Gave the game away
After countless messages
Professing her sexuality
Appeared on a local musicians messageboard.

No one could see her giant hands
That once were mistaken
For foam equivalents
During Wycombe Wanderers versus MK Dons.

She tried to shrink them

Using vinegar

Using a hot oven

Using small glass gloves

Like a ship in a bottle.

But the fire brigade were unimpressed
As they filed the report.

But on messageboards
No one can see you type
No one can see you drinking honey
From a foxes skull
And no one can see your giant hands
Or the Duplo keyboard
Bought from a mobility shop.

But
Inevitably
Your giant hands
Gave the game away.
You couldn't resist meeting up,
Hanging out,
Thought he was nice.
He'd be ok about the "hands"
More bothered about the giant labia
Like plutonium-fed moths exiting a hairy arse
Or the breasts like tentacles
Seeking out a mouth to suffocate.
But it never got that far.
The hands were too far
Too much.
They saw their chance
Removed themselves from your arms
And flew up into the chimney pots.
Alive at last! Into the world.
Leaving stumps confused
Blood released
Screams
All that was left.

Damn you Nanette Newman.

Edmonds

"Chicken
Gas mask
Chicken chicken
Gas mask"
The sad sound of Edmonds
Sorting through the things
She left behind.
Oh, woe is he!
She pulled up her comfy breasts
And staggered off into the twilight
In a huff.
And all because of his putrid charm
That he left
Dangling like melted cheese
Tongue-like
Where all her friends could see.
A lion with melted cheese for a face
No surprise
She felt sick
From all that Kraftwerk
Pushed against her glorious mask
During love-making
Or ironing his sprouts
Or passing wind together whilst reading the Argos catalogue in bed.
No more cosy flatulence. Cheese ruined
That.

Gary Busey

Gary Busey
His teeth
Reflecting broken society with delight
Or perhaps the sound of a crow
Wanking on a US talkshow
If crows can wank that is.
I once saw a Jackdaw
Pecking at a sleeping tramp's jap's eye
Through a hole in his sick-stained suit.
That tramp became Gary Busey.

Horror of magnets

The Horror of magnets
Iron filings in your face
Magnet makes the beard.
Your credit card slain remorselessly
Random killings.
C90 of 80s hits
Mutilated
By an impersonator of the north pole.
Synapses follow the leader
Alignment
Crashes into Boots
In a golf kart
Killing Bono.
Prison
No more magnets.

Terence Trent Mugabe

Terence Trent Mugabe
Sent himself to Derby
In a mouse's pocket.
"You're an idiot mate",
Left his mouth
And swept
As a spectre
In a breadbin
Into the uninterested sky.
Meanwhile,
Lord Mayor of Derby
Passed a hot stool
Into the uninterested u-bend
And a love affair began.

The monocle

Patrick Moore
Lunar submersible
Stomach like a wooden globe drinks cabinet
Face wrapped around a little glass window
Squinting at diamonds.
Underpants like a sleeping bag
Out under the stars
In a tent full of black and white memories
Of moonwalks and space probes.

And I see his mass expand over the years
Along the Herzsprung-Russell curve
So when Patrick - now  Red Giant trousers
Throws off his gases, recklessly towards his neighbours
Will he turn into a dwarf? A small core?  A bean?
Or maybe all that is left
Shall be his monocle.

Your Dinner

Your dinner
The Ark Royal
Inedible disaster
Sinking like a singularity
In Stephen Hawkings bed bath
A forlorn dollop of raspberry compote
Has fallen like a body bag
Upon your knee
When will you ever learn
Not to eat at the museum
Of Maritime history
Without your spectacles

Ode To The Western Fundus

Your face,
Like a freshly soiled settee
Hangs upon my synapses
As crabs offer me flowers
To compensate the deviation
That your gravity demands of my cortex
And black, oil slick dreams of Noel Edmonds
Taking his pants off
And peeing in the bread bin
A chutney unveiled
"Great soup, Norman!"