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Having picked up the poetry bug from my last trip to Jawdance, the open-mic evening of spoken performance that takes place every last Wednesday of the month at London’s Rich Mix Arts Centre in Shoreditch, I was eager to give it another bash. However, having arrived a few minutes after seven, I was 25th in line. Alas, being on the reserve list meant I was due for a disappointment. I and several others had no chance to give oral pleasure – of the recitation kind, that is. Stung by this disappointment – no one would now hear my meditation on the mystery that is DR ROU (rhymes with, well, you know) – I found myself composing something new.



Please sir, I’d like to become

A warrior poet

‘Take your place in line,

We’ll get to you shortly’


Please sir, I’d like to whinge

Of solace under moth-like wings

Be an iambic metered cab that sings

Of cyclists, rage and other things


Pray sir, a connection’s what I seek

On tube or bus I sneak a peek

Or leak if I have had an ale

Before I set off to Camber-well


Manic, hispanic, hyper-dynamic

I raise my voice in tones Germanic

What kind of project is solitudinous?

Oh, standing at a bus stop in the nud-ious


The five-two diet prompts a belly roar

I should stop eating football scores

One man sculpts with salty sea foam

Another cries rape with a megaphone


Peaches, Peaches, where is Peaches

Peaches, peaches, the man beseeches

Peaches, Peaches, he’s wearing breeches.

Maybe we’ll find you near some beaches.


JJ, JJ is missing too

It’s time for your slot – three minutes are due

Raymond plugs Russia Today

Happy to admit he isn’t gay


There are films, double features

But this time, no ex-teachers

A strange lady with a Union Jack bag

What do you carry in a Union Jack bag?

Copies of a book, unread, sad


I’d like to teach the world to sing

But only after I learn myself

To record every answer phone greeting

A facsimile of perfect health


Is it possible that the man with gun

Can take a breath before he’s done?

Will Philip Schofield take offence?

Imagined as a six foot tench


Caribbean memories, domestic violence

Boys on long journeys, prayers and hyacinths

A young ‘un with a nest in his desk

McIntyre puts us all to the test


It’s ten o’clock – I haven’t spoken

He doesn’t know, I am heart broken

The MC fares-well, offers Capri Sun

To the soldiers that have been shunned


25 September 2013

About the author


Independent film critic who just wants to witter on about movies every so often. Very old (by Hollywood standards).

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