Double your donation

Thanks for your support
to aid those around the world
who are wartorn and forlorn;
it's always on the news.

But look at this report,
each day the death toll doubles,
so please double your donation
and you'll wipe away abuse.

Thanks for what you said
to help this baby battle cancer.
Time is short on life support
and sometimes life's a bitch.

But I'm guessing that you read
that funding has been halved
so please double your donation
or I'll have to flick the switch.

Thanks for helping at the zoo
to save the vulnerable wild,
but we're in debt, they are under threat
and could be gone within a year.

I love these creatures too
and I know that they love you
so please double your donation
to make the poachers disappear.

Thanks so much but we really need
you now to raise your game.
Sign this form and sign your name
to up your flagging figure.

Your neighbours did the deed
so please double your donation.
For if you don't or if you won't
I'll gladly pull the trigger.

Inside myself

If you see me throwing shapes,
I'm not being a diva.
I probably just have disco fever
in a world where my mind escapes.

I inadvertently entertain,
whether in shops or on the train.
I nod my head but I'm unaware,
lost in a pool of soundscapes.

My fingers tap on the escalator,
I'm a throbbing synthesizer,
but none the wiser when people stare
at my unique rhythmic metadata.

You might see me rapidly blink
when my brain overspins and overthinks.
Nothing sticks at this point in time
but I might remember later.

My narrator says I need a break.
It's half-time and I'm half-awake.
But I'm still a human syntax error
and still in deep-thought overdrive.

Please don't fear, I'm comfortable here,
and the disco is about to disappear.
Imagination is my invigoration,
so just be patient, I'll be back in five.

Retroland

Eat retro sweets, feel retro beats,
Retroland is present where the past competes.

Play retro games like Pacman and Pong,
in an eight-bit arcade sponsored by Donkey Kong.

Take retro journeys, both good and bad,
transporting you back to what you could have had.

See the people you shagged but didn't pursue.
What happened to them? If only you knew.

In the pop chart zone, the fun never stops,
you can mime like a twat on Top of the Pops.

Take a punt on your team on the football screen,
it's pretty easy cash, if you know what I mean.

Time will tick on but you won't feel older,
take one step forward looking over your shoulder.

Have a good trip but please come unprepared,
we don't address the future because we're just too scared.

Orange

Nothing rhymes with orange, apparently.
To the naked eye I find that strange,
for on the screen there's quite a range.

What about the cash that you want to exchange? 

Or the beautiful flowers that you need to arrange?

What about the lifestyle you vowed to change?

Or that goal you scored against Drayton Grange? 

Nothing rhymes with orange, so I've heard

from pedantic prats who do nothing but whinge.

My ears disagree and find it absurd.

What about the water with an orange tinge?

Or the creaky door that fell off its hinge? 

What about the woman with the ginger fringe?

Or that stupid joke that made you cringe?

So let's prick this myth with the sharpest syringe,
for orange is the brightest, warmest colour.
The juiciest fruit, the star of summer 
and the best excuse for a cocktail binge.

The leaflet

You had an awful reputation

when we first came into contact.

but I had faith that you'd improve

in time to sign our contract.

You stopped when I told you to,

I'd wait for you and I wanted you.

I felt so proud when you vowed

to take me where you'd never been.

Our extended journey, so serene,

an epic ride from coast to coast. 

Engrossed by the tide as it comes to shore.

Sniffing the sea with seagulls galore.

But then I found the leaflet.

Why was I no longer listed?

It's human error, you insisted.

Our route just wasn't ready yet.

The next day I saw you whizz by,

No signal, no horn, no chance to reply.

You hid from the board and I was ignored,

stranded by dust on a windswept patch.

The place where we used chat and attach

feels lonely, unloved, no longer aligned.

Now there is just a misty distance

between us as you leave me behind.

Home

Substandard

You are just a frustrated writer,
a robot with no imagination.
Desparate to make your mark
with marked-up conversation.

Upper case this and lower case that,
two words, one word, hyphenation.
Images marred by crappy captions,
pissing about with my infomation.

You suck the soul out of every story,
headlines cut and paragraphs chopped.
Rotation of quotations, split and swapped,
I don't pay you to steal the glory .

Additional commas reduce the flow
of copy that doesn't feel real anymore.
Colons arrive and en-dashes go,
synonims replace what was there before.

But phew. Time is up and typos too.
Auto correct means no spellcheck
and no need for someone like you,
a poofreader in the digital era.

You'll be a substandard substitute,
shivering on the literary touchline,
while I'll be stress-free, no more fees.
Credability, creativity will always be mine.

The First of May

Welcome all to the First of May,

I need a brew because it’s another brrrr day.

But I’ve had three cuppas, it’s only midday

and the nearest toilet is miles away.

The sun is trying but the cold wind hinders

any warmth as it blows on all cylinders.

I should be embracing the joys of spring

but my hands are numb, I can’t feel a thing.

I long for home and a powerful heater,

to sip some soup and eat a fajita

but instead I’m a sniffling shivering wreck,

with a Rudolph nose and a pimpled neck.

I expected a breeze, not a full-blown freeze,

a week ago it was 20 degrees.

I shouldn’t need a coat, a hat and scarf.

The First of May? You’re having a laugh.

Graveyard orbit

For many years we studied Earth,
observing and sharing global data.
We spun around with bleeping chatter,
charting changes in the weather.

Whether sea or land, it didn't matter;
we flirted as we explored the planet.
Your cheeky glow and secret scatter
lit up our place with increased desire.

But every ship is forced to retire,
as technology detects and dictates our fate.
Contracts end and missions expire.
The countdown to powerdown now awaits.

The next generation is on its way
to shove us into oblivion.
No thank-yous, no appreciation,
just deletions as we fade away.

We may disconnect when we die,
thousands of miles above Earth's sky.
But we'll float together, engaged forever
in a graveyard orbit, just you and I.

Home

Tsk

The kiss of contempt and the hiss of horror

as I attempted to pay for my fruit and veg.

Behind me whispers and middle class poses,

the superior sniff of bourgeois noses.

I put my card in but fucked up the pin,

with patience running increasingly thin.

Contactless mode was disabled by then, 

while cash was sparse, around one pound ten. 

Matilda at the till tapped her fingernails

as the queue grew and awkwardness too.

Why not try the self-checkout machine? 

Instructions are clearly marked on the screen.

You failed again? Get out, she said,

and buy ready meals from Poundland instead.

Black cherry yoghurt

At the moment I'm part of the pack
but soon I'll be at the back of the queue.
I need your tantalising tongue to taste me,
and a guarantee that you won't waste me.

But in a packet of eight it's touch and go;
my sell-by-date grows ever closer.
My so-called tubmates laugh at me,
peach melba, rhubarb, strawberry.

Stop tickling, giggles the poncy prune
as it wriggles on your plastic spoon.
Cocky Kiwi flirts and taunts,
while vulgar vanilla struts and flaunts.

The fridge seems bare but I'm still there,
you touch me but you're such a tease.
I'm now behind some mouldy cheese,
too rank to spread on someone's bread.

It's now my turn but I'm saggy and sour.
You give me a sniff, then a cheeky lick.
But it's only foreplay in the final hour;
just a premature sigh and a kiss goodbye.