“I Hate the Bastard”

this is an ever changing expanding performance piece – it opens quite mellow and then I explode in venom and rage – nobody escapes the excoriation – people love it when I jump up and down enraged and ask is it about so and so?  My reply? It’s about whoever you think it’s about. Not great poetry but great fun  🙂

please no clapping

don’t scare away

the tender bird of awe

with raucous applause

After a night of unbridled passion

Exquisite bliss

She said, “ I’ll do anything for you”

So I sent her jogging down

To Cafe Nero in her jim jams

For coffee and a croissant

And any Sunday with a supplement

She returned twenty minutes later

With a takeaway tea and rock cake

Saying, “After last night’s

Performance

You’ll need this later”

And tossed across a defibrillator

As I scanned the glossy ads

Looking for a brand new Aga

I saw his picture

They called him a luminary

Not just a poet,

A prophetic visionary

All I could think was how much

I hate the bastard

With his witty repartay

And brand new anthology

Of nuanced elegance

That nobody wants to read

Except students, critics,

And his mum

Who’ll buy two dozen

For family and chums

Boring her pals at ‘stitch n bitch’

With how well her Gervaise is doing lately

Showing the cutting and bragging,

“We christened him Gary

He changed it because

Gervaise sounds more poetry like

I always said he’ll be famous one day”

But he wouldn’t be famous long

If I had my way

And knew the address of a reliable hitman

Because I hate the bastard [slimeball]

With his tofu salads

Wild garlic

And organic herbal infusions

Caffeine free tisanes

Quorn sausages

Goji berries

Quinoa

Soya cheeses

And he claims he’s a vegan

But has a fridge full of bacon

For sarnies when he gets the munchies

After smoking a five skinner

Of finest Afghani

Bleeding works of art

That never fall apart.

And his black Pashley bike

He ponces on around town,

And I hate how his so called

Fanny magnet

Never fails

And he pulls the birds

And his krypton U lock that broke my cutters

And stab proof tyres that bust my knife.

And I hate the bastard [creep] for the way he asks for

“Just une petite Pinot Grigio, s’il vous plait.”

And I hope he chokes on the lime slice in

His soda chasers

And I hate his well known social conscience

He has John Pilger’s private number

And he only watches Al Jazeera

And his metro-sexual flirting

With adoring fans

Bragging he sold out

At the Edinburgh fringe

If you ask me

He bleedin’ sold out years ago

His workshops are shit

Won’t provide even a biscuit

Book signings at Waterstone’s

Holding court like he was a celebrity

A somebody

And not an ugly no talent bastard [bell end]

Running rip off weekend seminars

Where he beds the good lookers

And steals the best lines

And calls it ‘sampling’

When he puts them in his writings

And seeing him standing legs akimbo

For a Spencer Tunick photo shoot

Front of the queue – painted blue

I hate the bastard for his ‘Grecian for men’ hair

Worn in a bun or a pony tail

And his hipster beard

Handlebar ‘tache

And La Leche League badge

And I hate the bastard [skanky wanker]

For his hand knit Kaffe Fassette

Pure wool sweaters

And solidarity with Gaza keffiyah

And designer distressed jeans,

Or the white linen suits

From Primark de luxe with the labels cut off

He wears with a panama hat

And I hate the bastard when he stands on stage

In the spotlight

Dentures ivory white

All sang froid languid

Black fedora at a cock sure angle

Reciting in a Dylan Thomas meets Allen Ginsberg

Affected accent

He thinks adds gravitas to

His puerile foul mouthed

Free verse rantings

Like John Cooper Clarke

But without the spark

Straining what laughs he can get

From Salford launderettes

And life on the dole

For the northern proles

That London crowds flock to

Hear him perform

And I hate the bastard way

He pockets the dosh

And humbly accepts the praises

Heaped on his no talent head