Posts filed under 'God damn poetry'

Toast Girl

“What do you mean you’ve never heard a dove cry?”

I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen
The wondrous sigh of fair
Joanna, the wild and thoughtful girl,
Who keeps toast in her hair?

Crazy styles are out the door
And heated bread is in,
Just do a favour now and then
And wipe the crumbs from off her chin.

January 12th, 2012

God Damn Poetry – Joint Effort

Dark were the eyes of the man who baked,
As he realised that Mr Kipling’s cakes were faked.
A pain of knowledge that rodents were used
Left him angry knowing that they had been abused.
They swam around in scented batter,
All the while growing fatter and fatter,
A mouse, a rat, to them it didn’t matter
As they were drinking tea with Alice and the Mad Hatter.

So the man broke in to get some justice,
Swinging from a rope he had tied to the buttress,
Spoon in hand, passions aflame,
To rescue the captives before they all went lame.
He tore through the building, opened every cage,
Thinking of the story that would be on the front page.
When the sun came up just behind Fenner’s Hill
He sat back to watch them scurry off to the nearest landfill,
Though the legal action against him would be severe
And could possibly mean the end of his glorious conveyancing career.

(Words by S. Black and I. McIver)

November 10th, 2011

God Damn Poetry – Shrap

When I check my pockets
I’m looking for change
But all the coins make me slightly deranged
I’ve got shrap, too much shrap

When I’m paying for tabs
Or a few sticky dib dabs
I’m pulling out coppers I didn’t know I had
I’ve got shrap, far too much shrap

There’s no end to this mound
Wish I’d swapped for a note
It’s too early for me to be dealing with crap
I’ve got shrap, endless shrap

Help me Metro machine
Won’t you help me clean
Out my trousers of coins, it’s damaging my loins
Bank won’t take what I’ve got, not one little jot
So I’m trying to strive, to stake out and survive
Buying shopping with fives, coming out with hives
From the pressure and stress and my face is a mess

I’ve got shrap. Take my shrap.

October 26th, 2011

God Damn Poetry – Got It All Wrong

I loved a girl so much I stalked her face off,
In that I did it a lot
Not that I actually got
Up and removed the skin
To show the vessels within.
I followed her home,
She watched Bugsy Malone,
Then she closed all the curtains like a toblerone.

It was much easier to do that you might have expected.
Her peripheral vision
Was compromised by a fishing
Accident as a child
So her sight was quite mild.
I could sneak round her house,
Like a seedy woodlouse,
Steal a look through a window then disappear like a mouse.

I should be a little less creepy in my romantic pursuits,
Because I may be kind,
Of sound body and mind,
A little podgy of hips,
I smell like tortilla dips.
I’m lacking a certain something
That makes me quite appealing
Girls are more likely to run than to dance on the ceiling.

October 24th, 2011

Winter Poem

Today somebody at work asked the question, “what is winter?”

It’s a good question. For some it sounds like a stupid question but to me I like to address it on all levels, so in order to do so I have written a short poem. I hope you enjoy it.


What is winter?
Is it just snow? No, it’s not.
It’s more than snow.
The answers are within me,
Buried, also like the snow.
I will respond to them like echoes
Across snow-ridden clifftops.
Ah. So it is mainly about snow then.
That answers my question.
Winter is snow.
Oh, and Christmas too,
With a smidge of festoons added for good measure.

It came from the heart, so I told the heart to do better next time.

4 comments August 8th, 2011

Gravity Bash

Gravity. It’s a funny old thing. Having to explain the idea of gravity to a six year old is very hard work, that is until he decided he’d had enough and walked off, waving me away like a fly on his ice cream. Here’s me hanging from a swinging trying to explain why things have to go down with nobody to listen to, so I started singing a song about it which instantly upset the aforementioned six year old even more. Kids hate it when their parents sing.

I’ll slap some ukulele to it later when I’m not as sweaty and not listening to the Eels. So here, enjoy some music-free assorted lyrics:

Gravity means a lot to me
Gravity won’t set me free
Gravity has a lot to answer to
I can’t fly and that makes me blue

Gravity means the rocks and trees
Won’t fly away in the morning breeze
I can cough and I can wheeze
Gravity makes me very displeased

Gravity won’t listen to reason
Gravity isn’t affected by seasons
It can’t be bought, beaten or bribed
It’s hollow as fuck and has no insides

Gravity, gravity, gravity
Grab my neck and let go of me
Let me sink to the top of the sea
Let me swim to another galaxy
Of course there’s no air in space
So I’d more than likely asphyxiate
I’m doing it on my own time though
It’s my decision I hope you know

Gravity. Take a poke at me.
I’ll poke back, just wait and see.

Yeah, take that science. You’ve just had the full force of musical harmony dangled in your chops. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Jim!

July 3rd, 2011

Digital Poetry Corner

… it’s more like a nook than a corner.

We like to encourage diversity here at Pouring Beans. Never one to turn our backs on creativity no matter how stupid it may appear on paper I have been working on a song or digital poem about a recent amusing story whereby an acquaintance of mine kept confusing things for milk. At the time I couldn’t see the potential yet several evenings later, whilst frothing my whiskers, it hit me like a lead skillet. I therefore present the early version of  ‘It Could Be But It Isn’t Milk’.

It Could Be But It Isn’t Milk

Some kitchen roll, truth be told
It looks like milk but it isn’t milk
There’s a duvet where this morn I lay
It could be milk but it’s not milk
That fabric softener, that Debra Toffner
They should be milk yet they’re not milk
Cup of PVA in the DVLA
Isn’t milk, it’ll never be milk

And that chemical solution
Which solidified an intrusion
Of my fridge-time expedition of a curious coalition
It stands near my hands and wagers damn demands
For mountains of wondrous hundreds and thousands
It might well be made of milk, but it certainly isn’t milk

Fuck off yoghurt.

1 comment June 20th, 2011

Car Park Tiara

Winking through the Northern grit,
A beauty of some description sits,
Lost for words, the moments drip,
All because her face didn’t fit.

Dirty eyes are watching, need
To look away and just believe
That one day through a gentle deed
A home is found for broken seeds.

Tip-toe Charlies scuzzing fast,
She’s picked up, flung, a gulp, a gasp,
This treatment hopefully won’t last.
Once she was Queen in the distant past.

May 11th, 2011

The Merry Blender

The merry blender doesn’t have a gender
It swirls and twirls and slices
All the things you throw in and a couple of spins
Later, a smoothie! Oh holy devices!

It never looks down, never appears unsound,
It’s always of sound body and mind.
If I could give it a name it’d be Churny Dufraine
Or something equally glamarous and kind.

A sturdy companion of sorts, like a dog or a horse,
It’ll take any challenge you throw.
But nothing too big, like a pineapple. Try a fig
As otherwise the fuses will blow.

March 10th, 2011

The Ballad of the Gin King

I have obtained a reputation of sorts, a name amongst my kin,
For smashing faces, breaking chairs and gouging gallons of gin.
Everyone was shocked at first due to the severity of my condition
But none could fault my ballsiness, nor pick at my ambition.
The taste was pleasant and rich, a tapestry of flavours
That challenged my ability to walk and pissed of all the neighbours,
Especially when they caught me urinating on their flowers in-between receiving sexual favours.

They look at me though as a pioneer, a pilgrim in the rushes,
Would they themselves spend an hour furiously vomiting in the bushes?
No, not they. Too clean for them. I’d figure that they’d rather
Entertain a spot of family then play bridge with mumsie and father.
I was told I’d went too far one night, waking in a pool of grime
With a donkey, a goose, three pipes, one wrench, an onion and a lime.
Instead of taking to the baths I did a little skip,
Downed another shot of gin then skidded on my sick.
I don’t think I’ll ever stop though. I’ve grown accustomed to this way,
It’s only others who believe it’s full of anguish and dismay.

Many scream and shout at me, many do implore,
“I thought you weren’t going mad but now I’m not so sure.”

November 24th, 2010

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