Binky's poem library

Time waits for no mouse.

Though the mice and the men make the greatest of plans,

We can't fashion the fate which is out of our hands.

We can add up the numbers and circle a date,

But frustration and anguish will batter the gate.

When your walls are built thick and supplies have been stowed,

You're repelling the siege but the debt is still owed.

You've signed up to a promise that someone else made,

You have greased up the wheel, the machine has been paid.

Now you're out of control and you're trapped on the ride,

And your fingers are crossed, looking out from inside.

You're reliant on everyone doing their part,

This seems far more grown up than it did at the start.

Every day I await a majestic report,

A reward for my practice of positive thought.

When disaster and bliss can both share the same air,

At a paradox party, I've nothing to wear.

When the targets keep moving it's hard to relax,

There's a glimmer of light but it quickly retracts.

I keep hoping that everything works itself out,

But there's always that place where I harbour a doubt.

I remember when time was a bountiful gift,

There were months upon months for the mountain to shift.

But the days drift away and the hurdles remain,

And my ears hear the echo of every grain,

As it falls from the timer and heralds concern

By the envelope bulging with language to learn.

If there's something to glean for the man and the mouse,

There is nothing so stressful as buying a house. ,

Four times Four.

I think I see the horsemen come,

We have to turn the final page.

It's pointless now to turn and run,

From sixteen legged violent rage.

We had to turn the final page,

The ending can't be turned away.

This sixteen legged violent rage,

Cannot be stopped or held at bay.

The ending can't be turned away,

The darkness merging Earth and sky.

We shall be stopped and held at bay,

It's us or them, and they can't die.

The darkness merging Earth and sky,

Is spreading up and left and right.

It's us or them, and they can't die,

It's they who come to stretch the night.

It's spreading up and left and right,

As chaos rips the tended ground.

I see who comes to stretch the night,

I see their hate at what they've found.

As chaos rips the tended ground,

The wounds that come are quick and deep.

I see the hate at what they've found,

 I see the waves so dark and steep.

The wounds that come are quick and deep,

The place we knew is ripped apart.

I hear the waves so dark and steep,

That vie to be the beating heart.

The place we knew is ripped apart,

The light has gone, the world is blind.

We vied to be the beating heart,

Our master race of human kind.

The light has gone, the world is blind,

I think I hear the horsemen come.

Our master race of human kind,

It's pointless now to turn and run.

Home

I need to find myself a home.

To start I'll need my own full stop.

I want to use my own front door,

By turning round my perfect key.

I'll put my things just where I like,

I'll paint it black if that's my want.

A place for me is all I want.

Don't need to borrow someone's home.

I'll fill it with the things I like,

No one to make me change or stop.

My happiness will have its key.

My opening will have a door.

I'll shut the world behind my door.

I'll plant a tree, and if I want,

I'll find a place to hide a key,

In case I'm locked out of my home.

I'll build a place where time can stop,

And stock the fridge with things I like.

I won't allow what I don't like,

So mushrooms won't get through the door.

I want a place where friends can stop,

I'll make them tea, and if they want,

They can stay over in my home.

A house is home, and that's the key.

I could just give my friends a key,

And they could come round when they like.

I want my guests to feel at home,

As soon as they come through the door.

The simple things are all I want,

So complication needs to stop.

That limbo world can also stop,

I think I have the magic key,

That has the power, should I want,

To fill my world with things I like.

The things that only I adore,

Because it's no one else's home.

I'll have to stop what I dislike,

I'll lose the key to my old door,

As all I want is my new home.

Virtual Pain.

It's true that life is easier with our technology,

But here's a glimpse inside my world, how things can often be.

Sometimes I fucking hate my phone, I want to cave it in,

I'd use a hammer, smash and smash, then toss it in the bin.

Although I'd soon regret my actions, that would make it worse,

I'd wish I had a time machine and set it to reverse.

Computers are the ultimate in torturous technique,

I'd love to throw mine at the wall from once to twice a week.

,But then I'd sit there breathing deep surrounded by the bits,

Just wishing that I wasn't prone to violent techno fits.

And now we need a password. One for every bloody site,

You may well even get locked out if characters aren't right.

It used to be, a single word would get you out the dark,

But now we need an upper case and exclamation mark.

It's fair to say that generally, my TV's good as gold,

But then they launch technology that makes my TV old.

Occasionally by accident I'll sit on my remote,

Then spend the day deciphering what tiny swirls denote.

Each button has a purpose but you never use a few,

So how am I supposed to know what fucking buttons do.

Mechanic brains are spreading like a virus in our lives,

The pubs will have I-rinals and we'll sleep with robot wives.

The things they make can do our jobs, and do them twice as well,

There's only one direction and it's down to cyber hell.

A recipe for disaster.

If you think that it's easy to write then you're wrong,

Why don't you have a go? Why don't you make a song?

You will first need some chords. Are there many you know?

Three or four would suffice, then you're ready to go.

It is probably best that you ponder a bit,

How to join it all up so your song isn't shit.

You will also need lyrics, and rhymes for the words,

I can fly I'm so high in the sky with the birds.

If you have any class you'll avoid lines like that,

It's been done, it's a cliché, you'll sound like a twat.

All your words should have meaning and mean what they say,

And don't crucify sense putting words the wrong way.

You will need several verses, they can't be the same,

And a chorus that's catchy including the name,

Of your song, but that isn't a rule carved in stone,

And remember the song must be one of your own.

If it sounds just a little like something I know,

I shall burnish my smugness by laying it low.

Now it's time to record. Do you know how that's done?

We'll need mic's and some leads and some software to run.

We'll use buses and plug-in's, auxiliary tracks,

We'll use XLr midi and quarter inch jacks.

I would layer guitars so the sound becomes big,

I will edit and tweak I will nudge and rejig.

Pan the keys to the left and the bass to the right,

Making tiny adjustments, stay up through the night.

When the process has taken up hours and days,

After countless remixing in various ways.

We can master and bounce so the parts become one,

It's the end of the journey, it's finally done.

As my finger is poised to come down on the mouse,

There's a crash as a meteor lands on my house.

Do Monsters Watch?

Do monsters watch the human race?

If so, de we both look the same?

Could there be life in outer space?

Could they have bum cheeks on their face?

And would each have a crazy name?

Do monsters watch the human race?

Would they befriend or just replace?

Imprison us until we're tame?

Could there be life in outer space?

They might turn up and trash the place,

With laser beams that melt and maim.

Do monsters watch the human race?

I think we're searching just in case,

This vast and universal game.

Could there be life in outer space?

I hope they're raised with social grace,

And we are glad the spaceships came.

Do monsters watch the human race?

Could there be life in outer space?

Saucy Books.

I've come now to appreciate,

Erotic bits of books.

The cunning writer reels you in,

With rows of randy hooks.

Strategic lines, suggestive words,

With hints of things to come.

A flash of tanned and shapely legs,

A perfect rounded bum.

The tension builds in paragraphs,

The expectation's such,

I can't stop reading 'til I reach,

That long forbidden touch.

It's sometimes wrong, and sometimes right,

It's fiction either way.

The reason I read saucy books?

I think I might be gay.

Pants.

I put some washing on but all I see,

Are those distinctive pants that call to me.

At cycles end I hang the clean clothes out,

But once again, those pants are all I see.

Whilst wrestling with the dryer all I see,

Are those same pants so clean and dry for me,

I summon other things to think about,

But floating pants is all my mind can see.

I put the clothes away so I can't see,

Those pants that have debilitated me,

I close the drawer whilst clawed by nagging doubt,

But all goes black, I'm blind, I cannot see.

I may have dreamt, I wake but still can't see,

But then there's light and I look down at me,

I get picked up and legs are slid inside,

And now those pants are all that I can be.

An understanding forms and now I see,

There's bum cheeks and a knob inside of me,

My hands reach down and I am opened wide,

The access to the pants that I must be.

The real me will never ever see,

That hypnotising pants have taken me.

The jeans are pulled up trapping me inside,

A daunting glimpse of what my life must be.

It's late, but trousers down at last I see,

It's bed time and the washing bin for me.

I'm still alive but part of me has died,

My life is pants but that's all I can be.

The Fly.

Curse it's constant buzzing sound,

Tiny fly pasts round and round.

Lands then waits 'til you forget,

Back again but he'll regret,

Entering my sacred space,

Waving arms I shout and chase.

Always he avoids my swats,

Really fucking hate him lots.

Taunting me he ducks and dives,

Surely wasting both our lives.

Must stay calm, my hand is strong,

Flies don't really live that long.

Yes he might bounce off my head,

But in a week he should be dead.

The Ballad of Boredom.

I'm starting to get lonely now,

And boredom comes to see.

It's something that I can't allow,

He can't catch up with me.

I've tried to keep his hands at bay,

To occupy myself,

But morning brings another day,

To test my mental health.

I've built creative castle walls,

To halt his next attack,

But patiently he waits and calls,

He wants his best friend back.

At times I want to let him in,

So I'm not on my own,

But comfort's found in his chagrin,

And knowing he's alone.

I won't give in and let him near,

To feel his fetid breath,

So if he tries to come in here,

I'll bore myself to death.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Dirty Bubbles

I wish I had a new machine,

To help me get my  dishes clean.

Instead I'm stuck with washing up,

A sticky spoon and brown stained cup.

I have to lean at ten degrees,

Which kills my back and hurts my knees.

The soapy waves break loose and flee,

To spread their suds all over me.

Whilst growling out my bitter rants,

I stand with soggy jeans and pants.

And now the water's getting cold,

To add more hot, or maybe hold.

I'll push on through, there's not much left,

My back's in pain, my mind's bereft.

The final bowl, the end is near,

My kitchen will be clean and clear.

A glance around, one final check,

Before I rest my aching neck.

But piss and shit inside my grave,

There's more behind the microwave.

Oh crap and bollocks, fucking hell,

There's more there on the hob as well.

I've had enough, I draw the line,

I'll finish that another time.

I head towards the kitchen door,

But slip on soapy kitchen floor.

I lose my feet and bang my head,

I see some stars, and bits of red.

My arms won't move, I'm feeling ill.

Who knew that washing up could kill?

FUCKING BUILDERS

A swarming breed, the building clans,

Consume the streets with their white vans.

To block your drive with lengthy trucks,

Whilst shouting loud with shits and fucks.

A constant noise expelled by them,

It starts again at 8 am,

The next day and then on and on,

It's dark outside before they're gone.

A spread of dirt and stones and dust,

It has to finish soon, it must.

It's "Fuck of Dave", and "Steve you twat",

"His knob's so small", "Her arse is fat".

An engine drones, and sometimes two,

A hammer beats a dull tattoo.

Cement is mixed and bricks are laid,

The wiz of drills the thunk of spade.

The evening comes, and with it peace,

A blessed still, a sweet release.

I'll slide in to my bed at ten,

But 8 am, it starts again.

THE BATTLE OF DOMINO

A shocking vista reaches out where hundreds now lay dead.

The red and blue on one side where the strings of cheese have spread.

The other side an open grave with fallen monks at rest.

The bitter truth of war but still we try to do our best,

To save the world from Domino's and crush their evil plan.

We broke through their protective crust and there the fight began.

The web of cheese was cut away tomato bunkers breached.

Though many monks have lost their lives the HQ has been reached.

We now lay siege to meaty walls and cut off their supply.

This secret war will carry on, yet many more will die.

Peppers Can't Be Real

I looked at a pepper so bright and smooth,

They don't look real, but I can't prove,

That they were forged by outside force,

By alien life, or God of course.

There's something there that won't ring true,

I simply can't believe they grew,

Just popped out of the ground one day,

I think they came another way.

They look like plastic painted bright,

There's something there that's not quite right.

The different colours, perfect skin,

It makes me question, scratch my chin.

Perhaps a seed was planted here,

By distant life which waits and peers,

Down on our world whilst peppers spread,

To take the Earth and leave us dead.

What a man?

Always pay my money to the tax man.

Talk to me like I'm a hippy yeah man.

                                            Can you be an old man and a new man?

                                              Never drop a bomb like Harry Tru man.

Will you come and read my meter gas man?

                                           Like to go in straight lines like a Ro man.

Shopping gets delivered by a van man.

Glad to have it dropped off by a hu man.

Eat so much one day I'll be a fat man.

Dinner, dinner, dinner, dinner Batman.

THE YELLOW QUANDRY

Is butter good, or butter bad?

And what's the best I ever had?

A full fat block that's full of salt?

But then we're told that salt's at fault.

 Unsalted butter looks the same, 

 But is this butter free from blame?

It still has fat and that's bad too,

Good fat, bad fat, I wish I knew,

Which one was best and safe to use,

Is margarine the better news?

I heard a fact regarding that,

Twas made for getting turkeys fat.

It's just like plastic, dead and cold,

Won't interest fly's and won't grow mould.

Dear butter God I'm on my knees,

Until you speak I'll just use cheese.,

The Dramatic Pudding

The custard flows through broken dams 
Destroying cake based wigs and wams

The Isle of jam so hard to find
Cut off where yellow rivers wind
Their way through valleys wrought from sponge
Enclosed by seas of bleeding gunged
The God of spoons comes crashing down
To rip asunder pudding town
The warm inside exposed to air
Is swamped as yellow fills the tare
A floating island then ascends
to where the God of spoons intends
 To dump its burden, come back clean
Returning for the custard Queen
But sponge fights back with molten jam
To burn the tongues of beast and man
Yet men with wisdom rarely frown
Since jam and custard soon cool down.

The Question

Do poems always have to rhyme?

It's safe to say the answer's no.

Hide my egg

Can I cover my egg only using a pen?

If I put iT on top I can still see the egg.
If I took off the lid and then coloured the egg?
It would still be an egg but the colour has changed.
If I wave the pen fast just above of the egg?
I can't go fast enough, I can still see the egg.
If I smashed up the egg with the pen in my hand?
That would do it I think, now the egg's just a mess.