I am terribly sorry
if this gives the impression
of being a poem.
It may have the word ‘poem’ in the title,
and I know that
some of the lines are longer
than others;
it does indeed also appear
to be broken up into stanzas
thus creating the impression
of being a poem,
but really it’s nothing of the kind.
If you are looking for a poem
you’re in the wrong place.
And I can assure you
that even if, perchance,
this is a poem,
I sure as hell didn’t write it.Angels We Have Heard While High
I Saw Hancock Kissing Santa Claus
Do They Know It’s Lockdown Time?
Mistletoe and Crime
Conniving Home For Christmas
Gaslight My Fire
Baby There’s Proles Outside
Confess, Ye Scary Gentlemen
Legal Clause is Coming to Town
Randox The Brown-Nosed Profiteer
It may be that your artefact is somewhere on the moon
It may be in the jungle being mauled by a baboon
It may be in a manger being blessed by three wise men —
I guarantee that Hermes parcel won’t be seen again.
It could be on a hillock being sullied by a yak
It could be in Gibraltar in a disused cul-de-sac
It could be in a farmyard in a mountain of manure —
A parcel that’s from Hermes won’t be coming through your door.
Perhaps it’s on a rocket being fired up to Mars
It could be on a spaceship that is circling the stars
You can holler up to heaven, you can genuflect and pray —
The parcel that you’ve ordered will not see the light of day.
It may be in a cavern in the bowels of the earth
It may be at a therapist because of low self-worth
It may be in a forest in the centre of a clearing —
I promise you that Hermes parcel will not be appearing.
It could be up the rectum of a big Alaskan moose
Or else in a bordello and exposed to grave misuse
It could be being borne aloft as part of a procession —
The fact is Hermes parcels don’t come into one’s possession.
But hark! Is that the doorbell, though it’s in the dead of night?
You whoop with pure elation and you bellow in delight!
So out of bed you clamber and then down the stairs you go —
You open up the door… is it the Hermes parcel?
No.
Sometimes they’re too big
and they crowd your mouth
so your lips can’t close.
Sometimes they crack apart
like crockery and turn to paste
as you try to talk.
Sometimes there’s just one huge one
projecting from your face
like a narwhal’s tusk,
and sometimes they disappear
and spontaneously regenerate
as your mum refuses
to call the dentist.
for Arthur
Sometimes
I don’t believe in god
until I read a story
about a six-year-old boy
who died screaming
no one loves me
and in this moment
I think there has to be
someone
out there
to reveal the love
he never saw
in life
for
no one
is ever truly loved
until everyone
is.
I think, if I were cancelled, it would be a lot of fun:
I’d write for The Spectator and The Telegraph and Sun.
I’d get a slot on Question Time and maybe Fox News too.
Just think, if I were cancelled, of the things that I could do:
Joe Rogan would come calling for a guest slot on his show,
and Peterson would venerate my bravery and so
I’d tour around the world declaiming righteousness out loud
and say I’d been ‘no platformed’ to my vast, adoring crowd.
If only I were cancelled then I’d get a chance to bleat
in every major outlet for the corporate elite.
I’d pen a hardback book about the voice I’d been denied,
its pages would be laden with the truth they couldn’t hide,
and everyone would read it and they’d know my bloody name,
for once I had been cancelled life would never be the same.
The snowflakes wouldn’t like it but their impact’s next to none;
I think, if I were cancelled, it would be a lot of fun.