Thursday, 26 February 2015

A link to the television trailer for Talk to Frank TV series filmed and produced by Bielecki and Bielecka.

Monday, 11 November 2013

13th Victim

This is the original music for the television pilot for Talk to Frank television series, filmed and edited by Bielecki & Bielecka, cast by MSFT Management and directed by Linzy Attenborough.

To be ready for December 2013.

Music by indie band Big Deazy.

Check it out!

We Just Know

A link to my spoken word Poetry Video for We Just Know

Talk to Frank Interview with Theatre and Performance magazine.

An interview I did with Theatre and Performance magazine after the opening night of Talk to Frank at The Etcetera Theatre.

Sunday Surgery

Here is a link to a video explaining what Sunday Surgery with MSFT Management is all about. All London based writers, actors and directors should check this out! I am in the video talking about Creature at the Crack of Dawn (my second play).

Talk to Frank

Here is a link to a 3 star review of Talk to Frank in the 2012 Camden Fringe festival.

The writing feels 'young and unashamed.'


Here is a link to my playella Eileen which has been developed into a full play and I am currently workshopping it with MSFT Management. It was included on Descent Theatre's blog in October.

Please have a read.

Sonnet to Bohemian Massala

Here is a link to my poem Sonnet to Bohemian Masala published on the Bar None Group website.

Please check it out!

Sunday Morning at St Pancras

Here is a link to my poem Sunday Morning at St Pancras published on the St Pancras official website

Please check it out!

Sunday, 7 April 2013

You Just Know

So we talk until our lips are numb,
And we lie, and we skag, and we let our minds run.
My arms tremble as I hold myself up,
My lips tremble as the sides curl up.

I narc out and I dream of you,
I know life wasn't what it seemed until I met you,
To know you to love you,
We stood shy and kissed and we both just knew.

Not even the sea can keep us apart,
Miles melt to inches within the beat of a heart.
When its cold I stand outside
And I smoke with you,

When you leave my heart breaks a little each time,
Weeks go by insignificant,
Till the days come and we say 'didn't time fly'
And once more lifes magnificent

I wear you like a back-pack
We fit like lego bricks
I think of you and my heart beats
And my throat sticks

I see you and it aches
And my face makes the silly face
That only lovers pull
And we just know

Because we just know.

Thursday, 24 January 2013

Girl who Fell...again

A first touch of lips
Vodka and cigarette tips
She's the girl who fell

Give me...

Give me them looks
Them smiles for adoring
Give me them drinks
Them good times pouring

Give me them words
Give me them meanings
Take that distance
Give me them feelings

Give me a fluttering chest
A blood temp soaring
Dream through the ceiling
Give me them drawings

Take negative vibes
Bad times ignoring
Private joke sharing
Private part pawing

Give me a stolen look
Give me a beating heart
Give me a day together
Over a week apart

Thursday, 27 December 2012

Saturday, 1 September 2012

Spat out by Saturday night...

Slashed wide open...the heart of a hesitant poet.
Daring to dream but ever second guessing,
Where are the beautiful lines?

A beautiful line created from a memory of a better time.
I've been in love and I'm capable of great feeling
My heart gets stolen about twenty times a day,
But always given back or snatched back from the jaws of victory.

12 minutes...acceptable time to wait for a train.
Anything longer is a strain on my brain...a waste of a life.
Cold bum on cold blue steel with a mouth so dry.

Kate's voice fills my ears with modern wisdom in youthful Tempestual tones,
And I often nod my head to the relevance and no need to force a smile.
It's true Icarus flew but no matter how hard I flap my arms I can't take off...
Won't stop me trying though.

I look around at Sunday morning leftovers...chewed up and spat out by Saturday night.
The city has taught us another lesson but not one of us has learned.
I'm never drinking again...
I tell myself again...

I smell, of sweat and of shame
I'm getting too good at this game.
Skill comes with experience.
I often look down on an old drunk but I'm fast becoming a veteran.

Train my pen still races upon the page,
And my heart bleats when I realise I'm gonna be late.
I'm becoming a plain mess
The same mess that tore us apart.

And now my headphones talk of love...
Heavy thoughts bounce around my head and it hangs with sheer weight.
But before epiphany or beginning to contemplate...the train arrives,
Full of bodies because it's late.

So I swap blue steel for blue plastic and I'm relieved.
Pleasantly surprised to look in the mirror and see youth staring back.
I draw sharp breath as the train jolts and I nearly throw my phone in the bog.
Panic averted I end up with no more than a little piss on my shoe.

A night forgotten as I move in a straight line towards HOME.
The warm sun magnified by the dusty window illuminates my face,
And once more heart and pen begin to race.

Not one face smiles back.
I heard smiling was infectious and I put my theory to the test.
I flash a big angry guy a winning smile.
His reply.....'whatchoooo farking gawping at???'

I get some giggles from a gaggling group of girls...
So I cheered someone up.
As I try to look anywhere apart from at him a handwritten message on the wall tells me to...
'Go Fuck yourself!' and it seems fitting.

My ears still ring with the sound of Saturday night
And cracked lips make it hard to speak.
Robbed of my usual eloquence I sit and I scribble.

Friday, 31 August 2012



He was, he knew, he could have been

Anything he dared to dream.

Instead, he is, he will not be

Anything apart from lean.


To learn, to dream, he had quick wit,

Eloquent, to say the least,

But now, not then, he’s prisoner

To the drink they make from yeast.


He slurs, he spits, he does not know

What it is, that makes him tick!

He thinks, his words, are interesting,

Bright red nose, a whisky trick.


To say, he was, articulate

And possessed with wit and grace

To deny, would be a lie

If he wasn’t off his face.


He was, he knows, he should have been

That which it was he dared to dream,

But here, he is, he’ll never be

Anything, apart from lean.

A Table Laid for Two.


 Swear I left me phone on the table,

Probably her ringing again,

We’re going to sort things through at last…

Mad to leave a full glass, and drinks on the house!

This is living, me and the boys.

Leave it on the bar...I’m off for a smoke.


God me nerves are in bits, I’m dying for a smoke.

With heavy heart and hand I lay the table.

We talked of kids, he wanted boys.

He won’t be home again.

Still stuck inside this dusty house,

He’s had his chance, this was his last.


I’m cleaned out, better make this last,

Here, have you anymore smokes?

What’s her problem anyway...a house is a house is a house.

Me head weighs a tonne, lay it on the cold table,

The electrics gone unpaid again

This isn’t the life I imagined when I was a boy.


I can see him now, ‘big man’ with the boys,

The bars are closing, why is he always last?

Painful decisions made, I eat alone again.

Dinner burnt black, a room full of smoke,

Cards laid flat on the table,

It takes more than bricks and mortar to build a house.


Kids? Who’d rear kids in such a house?

Sure it’s early yet, rack them up boys!

Dinner stone cold upon the table,

I deserve a drink, stone cold sober since Sunday last.

Look at the state of me, baggy eyeballs black as smoke

There’s the bleeding phone again.


I’ve warned him time and time again!

Does he really think I won’t leave this house?

I remember the blue-eyed boy bumming a smoke…

The man who thinks he’s still a boy.

No regard for me, ‘if you’re not first you’re last’

Two uneven legs make a rocky table.


Never again will I eat alone in this house

The eternal boy is free at last

When the smoke clears I’ll lay my own table.

Sunday, 8 July 2012

Sunday Morning at Kings Cross

A wooden piano stands alone.
On the side the words 'play me.'
A waif like girl approaches and takes a seat.
As her delicate fingers slide graciously over the ivory keys
A bleary eyed young man
Weighed down with the guilt of living his life manages a smile.

A small child sits next to her
He ruins the harmonious sound by randomly hitting the keys without discrimination.
She plays on.
He bangs harder and looks up expectantly for her approval.
She smiles.
He smiles.
All is well with the world.

Thursday, 7 June 2012

Talk to Frank

Welcome to the world of Dr.Odd. You may or may not feel a might feel something being shoved up your arse...or you might see your Mother doing things she should only be doing with your thing is for will only wake up if he wants you to fucking wake up!

Tickets available now!

Sunday, 27 May 2012

Talk to Frank Tickets

Tickets for Talk to Frank at the Etcetera Theatre (2min walk from Camden Tube Station) will go on sale Friday 1st June! Treat yourself to a sunny day out by Camden Loch with some absurd theatre thrown in. Not to be missed!!!

To buy tickets go to or or buy them from the brochure on

30th July to the 3rd August....Don't miss out!

Monday, 7 May 2012

Talk to Frank

My first play Talk to Frank will debut in the Camden Fringe this year at The Etcetera Theatre on 30th July to the 3rd August at 4:30 pm each day. Tickets will be available from Etcetera or Camden Fringe soon!

'A heart-warming tale of smack-heads, pimps and psychotic medics.'  Watch out for further announcements, it's going to be a shocker and one not to be missed!!!!

Thursday, 29 March 2012

Is Britain Broke?

Luton Town is very much a town.
As I look out from my window
The buildings don't so much headbutt the skyline as shy away from it
Negative stories fill national newspapers

From the Extreme to the Far Right
And Paddys Day gave us all a break
With some cultural positivity
But I still woke the next day with a head-ache

The town's not so much grey as multi-coloured
And as the High Street closes down
You can't help but frown when you hear rioters had to travel
To the next town for something worthwhile to rob

There was no looting in Luton
But the train got smashed up
By a mob, mashed up on cheap booze with nothing to lose
But a bag full of free stuff

Is Britain broken?
Because no one seems to be broke
They still watch widescreen T.V. and it must be a joke
Because no one is going cold turkey over a tax hike on hot food

Is Britain really broke?

Tuesday, 27 March 2012

It's not actually a concrete JUNGLE

You're not really from the concrete jungle, it's just a grey forest
The only thing concrete about you
Is those big clumpy shoes
You wear on lazy feet

I say lazy because you like to talk, to brag, to boast and come BIG
But you act small...and unless you're backed
By an angry mob,
You don't act at all

Any chump can wield a knife, But it takes a low kind of low-life
To wield that knife
And take a life
It's not a concrete jungle

Just an excuse for youths to revolt and roam wild
It's bleak,
Urban grey
On the brink of civilised.

Sunday, 25 March 2012

A kind of dry wit

No place is more evident of a changing face
Multi-cultural advertisement watch this space
I was king of the night...I knew it only too well
But now I too conform to a changing face

I knew it only too well
'til bang, new years and the strike of the bell
I turned old, or grey,
And new years day found a change in ways
From king of the night to a participant of day

I was only learning, and I fell of my imaginary perch
Debauchery's not religion...nights not a church
Now Sunday morning I'm awake when the church bell chimes
But all Sunday morning means is Sunday Times
Instead of the beat of a drum and a mouth full of grime

It's nice to wake with a mouth still moist
And participate through my own free choice
I jump out of bed and without even yawning
I nip outside and participate in morning

I zigzag down dodging the past nights puke points
And arrive in town slightly smug with my viewpoint
With a clear head there's room for inspiration
Without fear of failure for my aspirations

My sheets don't stink, there's no sick on my shoe
My heart still beats at a normal rate
I'm not fiddling around with a pocketful of change
Stomping around in a world of pain
Cursing my choice to live life lagging in the bus lane

Wednesday, 7 March 2012

Britain...A Country in Recession

FB Mob

Now they no longer
Run, when you stamp your foot, they
Puff out their chests, I'd call it a strut!!!
Smashing and looting, they no longer take flight
Uniform riot, scarf covered face and hooded head
Hoards of obese pigeons, shamefully scrounging
Can't afford nuffink, posing for pics
With their swag, the sorry state
Of the FB mob

Almost Multi-Coloured Boy

I saw an almost multi-coloured boy

The only colour about him true
Were sparkling eyes of deepest blue
With a nose and mouth of almost red
From sniffing glue to numb his head
Skin almost green, hair almost white
From malnutrition and sleepless nights
More problems than most, with bruises to
Beaten almost black and almost blue
Feeling of shame, I'm taken aback
He revealed my own heart to be black
For upon seeing him I must say

I just wished he'd go away.


I miss
The annoying ping.
Elastic has stretched,
Gone are
The stomping days.

They clip
Onto my trousers.
They could,
Make me look,
Like a scruffy skinhead,

Or a smart Grandad.
They were
I don't feel Special anymore

They got
At fancy dress.
The worry
Is turning me grey.

Saturday, 3 March 2012

Camden Town

Graffiti'd walls never seemed so at home
Snarling punks
Congregate on the brige

More than content
To wander alone
Doc's for the skins, Cons for cool kids

Dublin Castle to Dingwalls to Loch 32
Speed or weed
From the man on the street

Eyes aghast
A human zoo
Pricked ears search for familiar beats

Thinking or Drinking?

I'm a worrier and a thinker
I worry and I drink
About day's gone,
And what the day will bring

Time flies
And worries disappear
More oft than not replaced with beer
It's hard to think
After a night on the drink

I'd rather feel a little bit queer
Than be sober and worry
As I lie here
So I say as I think

It's worrying and thinking
That drives us to drinking
So fill up your glass
And empty it fast
And let them all disappear

Upside Down

The wind beats down upon my back
The sun is howling through my ears
The snow is warming up my hands
The rain is drying up my tears

In Autumn the world begins to flower
To get nice and dirty I jump in the shower
The poor eat, and live like Kings
Birds sleep, while people sing

Children fight, parents get along
And kids teach adults right from wrong
Feelings of joy, expressed with a frown
Or am I just upside down

Sober Judge

Is it fair to be a sober judge?
And tell a drunk he's had too much?
'I don't care if I see the 'morrow,
So please just let me drown my sorrow!'
Or is it fair for him to sit there,
Smelling like shit, dressed like a bum
And why indeed should one hold one's tongue
When plain as day, or a pretty penny
He's had a skinfull more than one too many

Wednesday, 22 February 2012

Population Reduction

People love to hate
The only way to obliterate hate
Is a total population reduction.
To put an end to reproduction.

Even then,
Long as you have at least one mate
You won't have to dig too deep to find a reason for hate
So put your spade away...

'Because reason is treason'
He could be fat, gay or just another race
Maybe you just don't like his face

So back to population obliteration
Unfounded hate without foundation
Turns us into a bitter nation

Now...I ain't getting lemon
So don't screw up your face
Hate can...and will leave a bitter taste
So be accepting and make haste

If you're a bitter man
Then change your ways
Because karma will juice you up
And drink you down like lemonade

Tuesday, 14 February 2012

New Beginning

Starts the Winter thaw

Frozen breath
Cold shoulder
Ice covered floor

Mercury rising
Too strong to ignore

Me and you
A team of two
Together forevermore

Monday, 13 February 2012

A devious Wife

As she looked at the ever-present bags under her eyes, she realised that her body clock was indeed ticking. If she listened hard enough, she was almost certain she could hear it. She sub-consciously put her hands tenderly to her belly and rubbed it. A smile crossed her lips as she remembered the bump that had made her so happy.The smile left, quicker than it came. That bump, or lack of, was now a constant threat to her marriage. The very dynamic of her family life had been turned upside down in the aftermath of that bump.
She hardly knew what to expect as she nervously blurted out,
'I'm late!'
They had been so happy together, they were a team. When he cheered and span her around so her feet were flying through the air her heart could have fluttered right out of her open mouth.
She wanted that feeling again. Now, it was him and her. She needed an ally. Is she even dared to open her mouth to her naughty daughter, the two of them would shout her down. The time for discussion was over.
'We have one perfect child, why would you want another one,' he would patronisingly reply.
It was time to restore the balance, to even up the teams, and most of all to be swept up and spun around in the arms of her happy husband again.
As she tipped her pills into the toilet, and pierced holes in her husbands condoms with a sewing needle she allowed herself to smile for the second time that evening. As she pictured her husband waving the condoms in her face and saying
'You can never be too careful!' she convulsed with laughter.


His long face was beginning to resemble the withered poinsettia he once cared so much for. His latest business venture had failed miserably. 'The future is online,' he told his wife. An online fortune telling business...who knew it wouldn't take off. She had actually laughed in his face when he told her.
It was her bloody idea to start his own business in the first place. He fingered the silver locket round  his neck containing her photo, and with the picture of her laughing face embedded in his mind, he ripped it off and threw it in a rage.
He walked over to the mirror and took a long look at his reflection. The auburn was growing out of his hair, and the grey roots were coming through thick and fast. He sighed as he saw the lap-top he was struggling to pay for in the reflection. He remembered happier days when he wasn't so bogged down with divorce settlements and computer payments and he had spare money for luxuries, hair dye being one.
He weighed up his options while he absent-mindedly sharpened a pencil. He was a recently divorced, middle aged man, with a failed online fortune telling business behind him, struggling to pay for a lap-top he didn't even want, and he had grey/auburn hair. Form an orderly que ladies.
An ironic smile crossed his lips, and he even almost laughed before driving the pencil straight into his eye, right through to his brain. He didn't worry anymore.

Writers Block

Have you ever seen a sea of screwed up paper? Its a wonder there is even room for furniture, sparse though it is.
A desk, popping out from the vast paper expanse, like an island on stilts. An uncomfortale chair, as wooden as the desk. Sitting upon the desk however, the most beautiful object in the room; a pen. A pen of such beauty, one can only imagine that any word that sprang from its magnificent tip would be pure gold.
Dirty coffee mugs surround the pen, outnumbering it ten to one. They stare at it, stifling its creativity, daring it to fulfil its potential. One coffee mug lies broken against the wall. Its contents stain the wall; a constant reminder that a fit of rage is only temporarily calming.

Shaving Haiku

Woke up with a pinch
A pin-prick on my senses
Need a sharper blade

First Kiss Haiku

Heart beating faster
You never forget the first
Are my lips red too?

Sonnet to Bohemian Masala

4 wooden posts, an 8 legged friend
Cow dung floor to keep us on Earth
Sweet insect music, an antique hearth
2 lovers crash, no dispute to amend

2 heavy bags, 1 hand to lend
4 sandy shoes, a nervous laugh
Aching muscles, sandy skin from the surf
Sun-kissed bodies, burns to attend

A knowing look, then into the den
Solitaire and a lamp-lit book
Time to unwind 2 tired minds

1 asleep, before the count of ten
1 awake, stares with loving look
Admiring the room, what a find.

Sunday, 12 February 2012

A music loving dentist.

Nothing could possibly excite me more, than pulling a tooth to Beehoven's 9th. Oh wonderous joy! Is it the pulling of the tooth, a mere violent act. In silence, there is no art to it, it is just a job. Is it just the music? No, I can enjoy the music alone but it's just not enough. Coupled with the savage act of pulling a tooth from a person's mouth though it's a truly remarkable thing.
Just reaching into their mouth, toying with the tooth, tugging and twisting through the Allegra non troppo, um poco maestoso is enough to make any man go moist. 'We enter drunk with fire!' The stormy opening of the pianissimo over the string tremolos as battle commences!
I normally feel the tooth loosen as we move into the scherzo, and I compose in mid-air with my dental pliers. With a triumphant grunt, work must go on, and as I go back in the tooth begins to surrender.'Join in our jubilation!'
The third movement, the Adagio molto e cantabile. Oh, ode to joy, the lyrical soft movement comes in when it becomes evident that victory is imminent. I lessen my efforts to savour the moment of victory. 'Joyful, as a hero to victory!'
Finally, timed to perfection, victory is mine with the forth and final movement, and with the presto the tooth is pulled. I hold my trophy aloft to my dental light. A perfect whole tooth, pulled from a clean wound. 'Joy, beautiful spark of divinity!'
I love being a dentist!


What's that sound? Applause...but not for me. Whoever heard of the slapping together of hands for big red lips? Or for two giant shoes perhaps, not even half-full. Perhaps I could live in one of those? But where then, I hear you ask would my tiny feet reside....Maybe I could stay with Bozo for a while? Or I heard Koko's parents are out of town. If only I hadn't upset good old gonzo. hy do clowns only hang around clown's? 'Stick to your own.' That's what my Dad always said. 'You were born a clown, from a long line of clown's and you'll die a clown.' At least other clown's don't laugh at me. That's the problem, no one laughs anymore. That's why I didn't get paid.

Short story

Third person limited omniscient:
As she looked at him, she realised what she had to do. She was fond of him, she always would be, but it was'nt enough. He was handsome, rich, and he loved the bones of her, but she felt nothing for him anymore.
Since that kiss, her mind was elsewhere. 'What kind of man wants to plan his own wedding anyway?' she asked herself. She had tried to drive him away; ignoring him for days on end, showing no affection, even belittling him in front of his own friends.
He showed her no emotion, no anger, no pain, just the same inane smile. 'That's ok honey,' or 'You're just tired honey,' was all the reaction he could muster. It just made him try harder, and be nicer. She was'nt interested in 'nice.'
Deep down she knew she did'nt hate him. She pitied him for being such a doormat, but she was starting to dislike herself for dragging this on. She wanted out. She needed excitement, and she knew where to find out. She knew Joe would treat her like shit, that he would'nt call, and she had even felt physically threatened by him, but just the thought of that unclean man could make her neck spasm with anticipation. She shuddered as she thought of him and she felt alive.
'Time to stop being a coward,' she whispered. She was going to put him out of his misery and tell him she wouldn't marry him. He'd probably just squeak 'That's okay honey,' anyway.
Third person omniscient:
He'd had a tough upbringing. Raised on tough love, or no love. No money. A small, awkward child, he'd grown into a fierce, handsome man. His hard youth had given him a determination to succeed and a ruthless streak to be feared. He had the world at his feet.
She was the first person to ever show him any tenderness, or love in his whole life, and he would do anything to get it back. When he thought back to when they were first dating, his heart leapt. For the memories alone, he would love her unconditionally as long as he lived, and he would do anything to win her back around.
She'd agreed to marry him, so he would just keep buying her gifts and letting her have her own way until things were back to how they were. 'I wonder what she wants to say?' he asked himself.
'Look at his pathetic face,' she thought, 'bet he won't even put up a fight.' She thought of Joe, and a ripple of excitement shot through her body.
He noticed her smile, and feeling relieved he told her, 'It's okay honey, whatever it is, we can work it out.'
She winced, she hated being called 'honey.' She looked him in the eye and just blurted it out, 'I don't want to marry you!'
Third person objective:
He slapped her hard across the face. The sharp crack echoed around the room. She blinked, and swallowed hard, but she didn't cry.
He didn't apologise, but looked at his hand for a few seconds and smiled. 'That felt good,' he told her. She looked stunned, and just sat there speechless.
He walked over to the window, fished around in his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and some matches. He lit one up and threw the match on the floor. After a long drag he slowly exhaled and faced her again.
'So, who is he?' he asked, suddenly business-like. She took a while to find her voice.
'Fuck you,' she replied.
He walked slowly across the room until his face was inches from hers. He smiled, and took another deep drag from his cigarette. After blowing the smoke in her face, he slapped her again, this time harder than before.
'I didn't know you smoked,' was her only reply.
'There's a lot you don't know about me, but you're about to find out. I won't ask again. Who is he?'

Sardine Can

15 hours on a bus. You don't even have a seat. There's so many people packed on the bus, and you are in much closer proximity to strangers than you feel comfortable with.
You have always hated the smell of sweat, yet there it is. No matter which way you direct your nostrils, the smell will find them. Is it better to crouch down near someones arse? Or to have your face stuffed into someones armpit? You can't decide.
Worse than the human sardine can, even worse than the smell, is the loneliness. Everyone else has a travel companion. Lovers, friends, families. Yu have noone. Noone to laugh at the locals with you. Noone to make the smell bearable with hunmour. Noone.
The realisation that you are alone suddenly makes you feel vulnerable. Did he just grab your bum? You panic, and you struggle for breath. Everyone looks, but noone looks concerned.
'I'll be waiting for you at the other end,' he had promised on the phone. Suddenly the smell becomes funny, and you crack a smile. Only 15 hours to go.

Turd Burgular

The turd burgular would sneak around,
stealing peoples turds,
Until someone pointed out,
'That's totally absurd!'
Now he sneaks around...
Just putting the turds back
It's gonna take ages...
He's filled a whole sack!

Methane Man

The Methane man was full of hot air,
He used to blow off without a care,
The noise was funny but the smell was crude,
He's banned from our house,
Mother thinks him quite rude!

Tomato Head

The terrible story of tomato head,
Who gobbled tomatoes, ignoring what the doctor said
'you could be more careful, you eat them too fast,
Someone turned into a turnip the week before last!'
Joey wasn't ashamed and continued to scoff

What did the doc know? The silly old toff
One fateful day, he opened the fridge up
Filled with tomatoes from bottom to top
He scoffed and he stuffed his greedy chops
Not stopping for breath to bring his head up

When all of a sudden with a yelp and a yell
Joey's small head began to swell
The yell turned back into a yelp
For no one was even on hand to help!

It swelled and it swelled, and began to turn red
And filled dear Joey with absolute dread
From the top of his head, grew a green sprout
And poor Joey shouted out, his very last shout

It's going round and red and red and round
And no one sees as i sink to the ground
Now in came his brother for a tasty treat
A tomato is exactly what he wanted to eat

His eyes befell the big juicy fruit
Deliscious and bulging, unguarded to boot
His belly rumbled and he thought it was fate
He picked up poor Joey and ate and he ate

Now this disaster fills us all with dread
If silly Joey listened to what the doctor said
He wouldn't have turned into tomato head
And be in his brothers belly stone dead.

Coconut Helmet

Sweet white flesh
Scooped out
The year 1802
I find myself exiled
To Timbuktu
Hairy brown outer
Like a seventies suit
Savage land with savage race
Hard of hand
Fearsome of face
Solid purpose
Ill fitting

Thursday, 9 February 2012

Fly Boy

One unfortunate couple gave birth to a fly
'He's hideous!...Away!' Mother cried
With human body and intellect
But with wings, and the body of an insect

She need not have worried
For he flew right away
For he was as unhappy
As Larry is gay

'I'll never be happy!' he thought and he cried
'I wish she'd swatted me at hard that I'd died!'
But before his tears had a chance to dry
A smile lit up his face as his fly eyes spied...

A sight to light any fly's face
A port'a'loo overflowing with human waste
I'll live forevermore in this disgusting pit!
For nothing makes a fly happier than a big pile of shit!

Oblivious Girl

She sleeps and I stare
I could never love her more
Oblivious girl

Wednesday, 1 February 2012


The early winter sun, brought early winter cheer
I noticed with delight, the daffodils were here
Then overnight, a frightful frost did fall
The cold arrived and duly killed them all.

Pet Fish

If I could have just one wish
I'd wish I'd never murdered that fish
I picked him up, and choked him to death
And I laughed, as he breathed his last fishy breath,
Now I'm filled with remorse and regret
To cheer myself up, I'll get another pet.

Mr Matchstick and Mrs Candlestick 2

For Mr Matchstick and Mrs Candlestick,
Wedded life was not one of bliss!
'It's no wonder I have got the hump,
I'm stuck with you, you waxy lump!'
'You're really starting to get on my wick,
I'm lumbered with you, you burnt out stick!'