Monday, 27 April 2020

Multiple Poetsonality Disorder

Multiple Poetsonality Disorder.

As I sit on my chair with a poem to write,
I invoke inspiration to visit my words,
I'm aware that my poems are mostly absurd,
So I beg for a gift so my wrongs become right.
It's so easy for cliché to dirty the lines,
Or to savage a sentence so metre can breath,
I don't want to be shamed by the words that I leave,
Or for words to exploit  me 'cause nothing else rhymes.

Bollocks this poetry shit isn't difficult,
I can just dribble it out in my sleep.
Sometimes I grant you that rhyming is difficult,
Following rules just like prosody sheep.

Perhaps now is the time for the truth, I'll come clean,
There is more than one person that lives in my head,
He's a dick but I should introduce you to Fred,
I have been diagnosed, and I have Schizophren-
-ia. What I would give to make him go away,
He is always there lurking, he waits out of site,
I know Fred will turn up just as soon as I write,
He's a poetry vandal who ruins my day.

Hush now you're boring, just call me Your Majesty,
I am the one with a talent for verse,
I am the King of this crap you call poetry,
Blake wrote some shit but your poems are worse.

I suppose it is true, I might not be the best,
Do you truly take pleasure in pointing it out?
When you know that I suffer with waves of self-doubt.
You're a ruinous breath, you're a poisonous pest.
All I ask is the chance to just finish a page,
Without Fred turning up and disrupting my flow,
I can start with a concept in mind but I know,
He will pop up and soil it with eloquent rage.

Eloquent? That is a word that you shouldn't use,
That is an insult although it is true.
Better you work in a field that you can't abuse,
Never forget I am better than you.

You abuse me and mock me, you piss on my flames,
You impede my expression with violence of speech,
You indulge in disruption with nothing to teach,
You besmirch me in public with terrible names.
All I ask is you leave me to scribble in peace,
You bring tears to my eyes with frustration and grief,
I am nothing to you like a dead Autumn leaf,
Yes I may be a sheep but you've hacked off my fleece.

Finally feels like you're writing with empathy,
Poems are best when emotions run free.
Harness those feelings let words become energy,
I don't need you but I think you need me.

Thursday, 23 April 2020


Brother Binky thought that you might be interested to know that his latest poem is written in Iambic Pentameter with a Spondee at the end of every other line.
Everyone loves a Spondee.
Brother Biscuit-Banjo.

Don't upset your feet.

There's nothing quite as silly as a flip-flop,
They're always sliding off your bloody feet.
There's nothing that's as prone to make your head pop,
As shoes that won't stay on your plates of meat.
I don't know why you'd use them for a beach walk,
You just get sand between your foot and shoe.
I tried it once and then I heard my feet talk,
"Remove these things before we murder you."
I took them off and held them, one in each hand,
And let the sea cascade around my toes.
I took a breath then ventured back to dry land,
Then picked a grain of sand from out my nose.
The beach got stony so I wore my flip flops,
And used them to protect my sandy soles.
I slipped and cut my ankle on a sharp rock,
My skin was broken, blood came out the holes.
My feet piped up again and said, "We warned you,"
"We said to keep those fucking shoes away."
I answered back, "I only tried to help you."
They turned me round and said, "We'll make you pay."
They marched me down the beach in to the cold sea,
Then said, "We think it's time to say goodbye."
They carried on until the waves consumed me,
I wore flip-flops and now I'm going to die.

Wednesday, 22 April 2020


Here is the fourth poem in Brother Binky's series of, "Mundane poetry".
We hope his words bring you some comfort in these strange times.
Brother Biscuit-Banjo.

Everything is better in pastry.

I walked in to the kitchen to knock up some food,
But there isn't much left, so I'll see what I've got.
The delivery slots have been so hard to find,
But I've got one on Thursday between five and six.
When I look in the fridge there's some pastry to use,
There's a leek and some cheese and potatoes here too.
I'll just throw it together and see what I get,
If I wrap it in pastry it's bound to be good.
The potatoes and leek have been chopped up and fried,
In the pan I chuck garlic and pepper and salt.
I then crumble in stilton, the King of all cheese,
With a stir of the filling it's ready to go.
I remove the cold pastry from inside the fridge,
And I flour the surface so nothing can stick.
As I roll with my pin and the pastry gets thin,
I go forward and back then I turn and repeat.
I look down at the sheet that I've just flattened out,
And there's something inside it I can't quite make out.
So I lean to the counter and peer at the mark,
It is ever so small and it's round and it's dark.
I lean closer to see. Has the black become red?
Then the pastry flies up and envelopes my head.
I can't breathe and it feels like my body is lost,
I have rolled out the pastry, but shit, at what cost?
Though my limbs are all flailing I can't feel them swing,
Just the pastry my facetry becoming one thing.
There was something I thought, but I think I forgot,
There was air in my lungs but there wasn't a lot.
But it's fine I don't think I'll be needing it now,
I am muddled and fuddled my thinkles are how.
I'm as big as the world like a savoury mat,
I am not me, I'm pastry, I'm beige and I'm flat.

Tuesday, 21 April 2020


Here is the latest in Brother Binky's series of, "Mundane poetry".
Stay safe, and stay inside.
Brother Biscuit-Banjo.

And repeat.

I try to fill my empty days, I cook,
I write, I exercise, at least sometimes.
But when the evening comes along again,
I feel it's justified to watch TV.
If something peaks my interest, I'll watch,
A film or documentary if I can.
But mostly I am watching things I've seen,
Before. Repeat, repeat, repeat some more.
It's comforting to watch a thing I know.
I sometimes think I waist a lot of life.
Just one more time, I'll spend the night relaxed,
With shows I met when I was growing up.
Tomorrow I will start on something new,
So many things that people recommend.
A comfy chair, the evening's closing in,
Familia lines go round the screen again.
The credits roll, it's time to carry on,
With series two, one more before I sleep.
I try to reach for my remote control,
My hands won't move, my head is stuck as well.
My eyes feel sore, I try to squeeze them closed,
But they won't move, the episode begins.
The intro tune invades my panicked ears,
My body's frozen in this comfy chair.
The show repeats, the one that I just saw,
It ends, then starts, then ends and starts again.
My eyes are dry and racked with stabbing pain,
I need a piss, my bowels begin to move.
That fucking show just ends then starts again,
I've heard the words so many times, but this,
Is torture. What's that noise that I can hear?
A drip that comes from under me, it smells.
My fucking eyes, they need to fucking close.
The credits roll, but then it starts again,
The puddle spreads and starts to make me cold.
I think I'm fusing with this comfy chair.
Excruciating pins inside my head.
I try to move my hand one final time,
But I just sit, and watch the same repeat.

Monday, 20 April 2020


Here is the second in Brother Binky's "MundanePoetry" series.
We hope you enjoy. It has put Brother Dribblystick off using our shower.
Brother Biscuit-Banjo.

The surprising shower

Once again the shower calls me,
Shampoo loves a hairy party.
Arm pits next, then bits and bobs we,
Always do the same routinely.
Soapy meditation's blissful,
Hairs collect 'til there's a plug full.
Drain unblocker makes the list of,
Shopping I forgot or missed off.
Meditate whilst finding head space,
Wash the sleep away from my face.
One more squeeze of shower gel it's,
Willy time, I've done my arm pits.
Something's really, really wrong here,
Icy fingers grope in cold fear.
Where the hell's my penis gone? It's,
Been replaced by ladies privates.
This is really fucking weird now,
Words come out like shit and fuck how?
Showers should be something minor,
I've ended mine with a vagina.