Talos

Bronzed and beautiful,

sleeping like a baby;

your stance in eternal preparation

for the battle beneath.

A coma of the toes,

you are rudely awakened

by cramp

and a handsome hands on thief

rifling through your tomb.

You turn your stiffened neck,

frowning in confusion

and cold, avenging anger.

Your one vein heats up,

hotter than the Sardinians

placed in a sardine tin

of your boiled embrace.

He notices you

and the terror that graces his face

is in respect to your raw brawn

that brandishes itself

on your taut, iron body.

All you wanted was a decent nights kip

and instead you are forced

to attack these argonauts of arrogance.

They run,

ants racing for shelter and escape.

You defend your home,

your belongings

and your honour

as you smite them with rocks

that rip through skin and bone.

You stand alone.

One brave, bronzed soldier

with a chip on his shoulder

and a bolt on his boot:

A slowly smoting bolt from Zeus,

rusting from the fire of his faith

that your destiny is his.

The man with one sandal

sneaks behind you,

with no need to stab you in the back

when he can go for the jugular of your ankle.

The cork pops

and out spurts the bubbles of your life force.

The metallic in your mouth

is the dried rusted blood of your demise.

You roar, you fall, you die;

and for Talos no man cries.

Thirst.

Thirst.

Some people thirst for romance,

like a cherry ghost,

wanting and waiting to be popped.

It is a weasel

that’s been pawned

for a bevvie in the bar;

a different thirst:

a thirst for social acceptance

or an alcoholic need.

It is the unquenchable desire

for success,

and money

over family and love.

It is a thirst for knowledge,

for change,

for the acceptable to become

unacceptable,

to become extinct.

It is a thirst for escape,

as the key locks

and they wonder

just what they did wrong

as the nuns

reign down,

heavy and powerful

with their tiny rocks of fists.

It is a thirst for justice.

For a queer religion

to not fear women

or hate them

for their beauty,

naivete,

and youth.

It is that thirst

for forgiveness.

For the all powerful priests

to bathe their bodies

in the Holy water;

to let them dance in it,

free and wild,

bathing in their love of God.

Drinking Him.

Devouring Him.

Forgiving Him

for a religion that dooms them

at birth.

They wish to throw the water

up high into the air,

watching as it falls

like gravity’s tears.

Earth Hour.

Don’t get me wrong,

I like a panda as much as

the next person,

and those little monkeys

hopping and swinging about

with their big red bums out

give me much amusement

at a zoo.

Don’t get me wrong,

it’s a shame the lions

are dying out

and that the seas are rising

and the fish are diminishing;

but really,

I’m just one bloke

whose meant to be turning his lights off

on a night that the footy’s on.

It’s only a few lights on and the T.V

(cranked up loud for added effect),

so what’s the big deal?

Yeah, so, two football pitches

worth of rainforest

is being destroyed

every five seconds

(or some ridiculously

small amount of time like that)

but we all like a good Kit Kat

don’t we?

I just wish this world

would get off its bloody high horse

and leave me with my beers,

my T.V and my football team to cheer.

You all carry on with your little candles,

your little prayers,

and your silly little websites

that are asking for support.

We are all fucked in 2012 anyway.

I Am A Wasp.

I am a wasp.

An eternal, painful memory

in most children’s childhoods,

along with stinging nettles

and the death of their first pet.

I am a wasp.

A rebel without

a cause,

a wild eyed,

slim-ringed loner

with no friends,

or a need for them.

I am a wasp.

I will chase you

when you try to enjoy

your sunny BBQ.

I will sense your fear

as it quenches my thirst for more

as I sit on the rim

of your coca cola can.

I am a wasp,

a layabout,

with no job and no purpose.

Those dumbass drone bees

should be more like me:

Powerful,

Independent,

Slim,

Manly.

My sting does not pull out

after one virginal penetration

into the flesh.

I can do what I want.

Sting who I want.

Whenever I want.

Those bees have nothing on my kind,

with their constant obsessive worry

that if they don’t do

their pathetic,

shitty,

menial job

the world will end.

So what if it does?

They buzz around,

buzzing away

like busy little bees

that are busy saving the world.

Maybe it was that stress and pressure

that made them so fucking fat.

I am a wasp.

Now fuck off

before I sting you.

I Am A T. Rex.

I am a T. Rex.

The most feared creature

and tyrant of all time.

I am also extinct,

which makes the probabilty

of me writing this poem

slim to none.

I am a T. Rex.

I can not do push ups,

but I can rip anything and

everything apart

with my tremendous teeth;

in particular I like vegetarians

because the irony amuses me.

I am the thalidomide child

from a prehistoric era;

but my era is historical

because I am of course

in history

as the greatest and most fearsome

creature of all time.

I am a T. Rex.

Leader of all Lands,

and killed only by something

that came from out of space.

My machismo mass massacre ways

are seen on such films as

Jurassic Park,

Jurassic Park II

and if they bothered to do a third

I was in that too.

I am also the inspiration

behind popular characters

in this modern culture

such as Godzilla and Rex

out of Toy Story.

I am a T. Rex.

My piss-pant inducing prowess

is cartoonized in children’s

t – shirts which depict me

as small, green and cute.

Sometimes a speech bubble

will say “Rawr” in tiny letters

which is wholly unrealistic.

It is indeed fact, that I would deafen

those little toddlers,

and give them the bollocking

of their life, as they listened

in their offensive

and emasculating shirts,

then I would rip them to shreds

to teach them the importance

of respecting your prehistoric elders.

I am a T – Rex.

Now fuck off

before I make you as extinct as me.

My Heart Goes Pop.

Don’t tear my heart,

my achey break heart,

for if you do

expensive and extensive

life saving surgery

will have to happen

and it is highly likely

and completely possible

that I could die.

A million love songs later

and here I am, trying to tell you

that I have written and sang

the word “love”

Twenty two million, three hundred

and fourty eight times.

It has left me with a hoarse voice

and rheumatism in my right hand,

my writing hand.

All at the tender age of twenty-three.

I’m loving angels instead

‘cuz through it all

they remain unseen and unheard.

They do not complain

if I pick my nose and wipe it

on the carpet.

Nor do they shout at me

to do boring chores

when I could be playing X box instead

When you’re in love with a beautiful woman

you watch your eyes

as you develop a nervous twitch

in the greying bags beneath them.

This beautiful woman has cheated on you

because you are not good enough,

never will be good enough,

and don’t know how to find her clitoris

with a magnifying glass.

This crazy little party girl,

how you love her.

Particularly when she isn’t

chugging her guts up,

dancing like a spastic

and foaming at the mouth

from all those E’s.

I would do anything for love,

but I won’t do that,

you dirty bastard.

If I could turn back time

I would never have gotten with you

in the first place.

I get so emotional baby

every time I think of you.

This is because you are

selfish,

devious,

conceited,

conniving,

denying,

crocodile-crying,

and above all…

never trying.

Isn’t it shocking what love can do?

I’m leaving on a jet plane.

Goodbye forever,

I won’t be back again.

P.S Your morning breath

is like a cat’s bum hole

on a hot and humid day.

Don’t save your kisses for me

‘cuz love aint here any more.

Ode To Orange.

Orange is a colour,

is a very pretty colour,

is a very witty colour

indeed.

Orange is an orange

that is the colour orange

which is really quite bananas,

indeed.

Orange is a carrot

but not a golden carat

so there really is no connection

to see;

but gold that does spark

can help you see in the dark

like carrot helps a rabbit,

you see.

Orange is the sun

it is our only one

but it also is a paper to read.

This paper gives us tabloid news

intermingled with real truths

about the future of our planet

to read.

Orange is a colour,

is a very pretty colour,

is a very witty colour,

indeed.

Mario IIII: The Racist World.

O.K,

so,

I’m just a plumber,

I’m just a simple Italian plumber.

You know,

the sort who works on pipes

and eats lots of spaghetti

(trust me,

the stereotypes are there

for a reason).

So as I was saying,

I was hard at work

on some old boilers pipes,

giving them a good seeing to

and any other innuendoes

you can think of

that make my job of

sifting through shit

seem much cooler than

it actually is.

So,

there I was plunging away

when I get a phone call

from the King!

I mean,

the King rang me!

I said:

“Mamma-Mia!

Carbanara

with bacon bits!

Is this a joke?

Am I on Trigger Happy T.V?”

to which he replied:

“No Mr. Mario,

I am afraid this is no joke.

It is in fact

as real as real can get for you.

I’m afraid my daughter,

my darling daughter

- what a peach! -

has been kidnapped

by an demonic dragon!

We need you,

Mr. Mario

- and your slightly less popular

brother Luigi -

to help save my daughter.”

To this I laughed heartily

as one would after a lot

of spaghetti meatballs

and fine Italian wine.

The King continued,

in his sternest of stern voice:

“This is no joke Mr. Mario,

we the higher people

selected you at random

for the job.

We were hoping for someone

with S.A.S intelligence,

a ninja,

or a karate kid,

but we are no bad sports.

Mr. Mario, you have 50.5 seconds

to get on the roof

where a chopper will collect you.”

I hung up the phone

and ejaculated:

“Pepperoni pizza!

And tomato ketchup!”

before racing to the roof

of my apartment block.

In the helicopter

as we flew

to my destiny

a hard ass,

smart ass told me

what he thought of me,

an illegal immigrant

in his Amazing Country.

“We are Nintendo pal,

we don’t need no fat

little Guido’s

like you,

with your shit little

red dungarees

when you should be

making pasta and pizza

or smashing grapes

and eating and drinking

which is all you lot seem to do.

Why don’t you fuck off home

and leave us to save the princess.

She’s not your princess anyway,

guinea-pig fat boy.”

It was then that I realised

that stereotypes are there

for more than the reason

of showing our heritage

and interests proudly.

It gave guys like this

the opportunity

to get their boiled pots

off the hob

and onto plates

ready to dish out their poison

to those that don’t wish

to hear it.

And it was then

that I thumped him,

hard,

in the back of the head

and he passed out.

The helicopter went down.

We were out like two lights.

Our helicopter landed in the land

of the Yoshi’s

who, upon seeing this succulent arrival,

stuck out their long tongues

like lassoes

and swallowed us whole.

I can only assume

that my wholesome,

plump little body

was better than his bitterness.