Boobs (2013 Remix)

Another of my older poems which I’ve started updating and making snappier. This old classic, which always used to get a great reception at Epicentre on those crazy Epicentre Nights, now confined to legend.

 

Anyway, as a bonus there are four new poems:

 

On boobs. (2013 Remix)

Haberdasher in custody.

Space is big.

Singularity.

Urges.

 

Boobs. (2013 Remix)

 

I’ve never liked boobs.

I’ve never been in to them.

You can put those away, Mrs Palmer.

I’m not interested.

They cling on

Like limpets on the hull

Of a sleek yacht.

 

I have no fascination

In that area.

I’d much rather have a flapjack.

 

Why do they wobble

Like jelly on a washing machine

When you have a coughing fit?

What’s that all about?

My only interest is architectural.

 

My friend Mark goes all unnecessary

When he sees them.

I have to fan him with the Argos catalogue.

There’s only one tit in this room, I quip.

 

They make me feel

Claustrophobic.

Thrusty busts.

Improper floppers.

Bulbous knockers.

Flame-grilled whoppers.

Burial mounds

Harbouring the last rotting remains

Of my heterosexuality.

Protruding impediments to intimacy,

I expect,

I’ve never really tried it.

I don’t see the point.

The points.

Of them.

 

Unnecessary full-frontal terrain.

Stop that, Mrs Palmer!

I was going to have dumplings later

But you’ve put me right off.

It’s like being nuzzled, simultaneously,

By two rather curious polar bears

And I don’t like it.

 

When you dance they sway like airbag pendulums.

You went to buy a bra

But the alphabet only goes up to Z.

When you were sunbathing

A passing helicopter hovered for eight hours

And then ran out of fuel.

When you wore that tight t-shirt with a quote from

Wordsworth on it

The town’s literacy rate improved

Particularly among teenaged men.

And then a man

Walked straight into the window of Costa Coffee.

I don’t want to see your cleavage.

I can do without your puppies.

I’d rather not make one with your fun buns.

Not for me your gazongas, your jambongas,

Your bosoms, your melons your twin honkers,

I don’t find them tempting,

I don’t find them teasing

It’s a wonder carrying those around

You’re not constantly wheezing

They jump up and down whenever

You start sneezing

But you can’t tempt me, you can’t capture me,

You wont get very far with me

Because quite honestly

I don’t get boobs and I never have done

I can think of other ways of having fun

They don’t do it for me

They make me feel quesy

I prefer knobs.

 

Haberdasher in custody.

 

They’ve arrested my haberdasher.

He phoned and asked me for bail money

But I had none.

I can’t just magic it out of thin air,

Mr Haberdasher,

And say ‘Abracadabra’,

Mr Haberdasher.

I’d cook a meal

But I haven’t got a potato masher,

Mr Haberdasher.

Nor am I a party crasher

Or an atom smasher, or a gravel basher, or a flasher,

Mr Harberdasher.

Nor will I start a fight

While saying how much I like Swedish pop

Surrounded by people who like other kinds of music,

I’m no music mish-mash Abba clasher,

Mr Haberdasher.

What have you been arrested for, Mr Haberdasher?

Did you really do it, Mr Haberdasher?

Or have you been stitched up?

 

Space is big.

 

Space.

It’s big.

And there’s lots of room.

It’s why it’s called ‘space’.

It’s in your face.

It’s all over the place.

You can disappear without trace

In space.

You can always find somewhere to park the car.

It’s got a vacuum

Unlike my flat.

It’s got no atmosphere

Just like my flat.

It’s bloody cold

Just like my flat.

It’s got galaxies and things.

It goes on and on.

It’s very persistent.

It’s existence.

It hasn’t got corners,

Like my flat,

Or a Specsavers.

Space.

It’s kind of like Dartmoor

Except without the ponies.

 

Singularity.

 

I once had a nightmare

That the world had been stretched out,

Nothing left, squeezed,

Elongated into a very thin line

Upon which I, the last man alive,

Must tightrope walk over the abyss

Of nothingness.

 

I woke sweating and,

Thinking it was real,

Pushed myself right into the corner of my room,

My sweaty palms flat on the walls

So that I knew they were definitely real.

 

Years later

I read about black holes

And what happens to things that get

Sucked in.

 

Urges.

 

He anticipates his urges

And occasionally he purges

Himself of his urges.

His fascination with urges

Verges on the perverse.

As the pride inside him surges

He merges into the background

Of a world without urges.

Excited, he swerves

From urge to urge

As if his oeuvre

Is a scourge of those

Whose urges converge

Into one

Big

Overwhelming

SPLURDGE

Of anti-urge sentiment.

Then he has a bit of a lie down.

And here’s a little video I made today, too:

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