THE FLY.

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.

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

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.

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.

EVERYTHING IS BETTER IN PASTRY.

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.