Posts Tagged ‘poem’

Exit Through the Gift Shop

January 4, 2013

This is a poem about that Banksy film, Exit Through the Gift Shop. I’ve never seen it. Come to mention it, who knows whether it really exists?

Banksy used red paint to create an authentic plum juice effect when creating the artwork for ‘Exit Through the Gift Shop’

Exit Through the Plum Aisle, after William Carlos Williams


The others asked me

If I eat.

Sure, I eat some.

I said.

So they I gave me a plum

To eat

So I ate it some.

It was a streetplum.

That’s what the others told me



The others filmed me

While the squirty sap

Sat on my chin

Where it had dropped from my grin

And then it plummeted

Onto the flat gum

On the pavement

From the fat plum

In my mouth.


Then the police turned up

And said we couldn’t do that there.

I tried to get them to chase me some

But they just waggled their sticks

A bit

And called us scum.

Plum-eating scum.


Pretty soon

My plum-eating

Gained notoriety.

I ate plums all over the world

As a gesture of solidarity

To people and stuff.

But only streetplums

You understand.


Later I looked up ‘streetplum’

On Wikipedia.

It transpires that there’s no such thing

As a streetplum.

It was a hoax.

I ate a hoax plum.

Lots of ’em.

The value of my work plummeted

I became a plumber.

A real plumber

Not a hoax plumber.

I don’t eat plums so much anymore.


Teen Angel

November 19, 2012

When I was a tiny brute, I’m pretty sure there used to be a program on TV called Teen Angel, starring Jason Priestley as a comely corpse on a mission from God. Sounds improbable, I admit. Here’s a little poem about it:


Teen Angel


For I have stood on the yawning chasm

Between midnight and sun-up,

While the witches widdershinned about the arcade

And hexed Pac-Man

Causing his yellow balls to atrophy

And Pac-Girl to run into the spermatazoic sleeves

Of that creep from Bubble Bobble

(What do you think he spun them bubbles outta, bub?).

Now Pac-Man heaves his blighted sack about the mazes of

2-bit lonesomeness

Playing tag with my saggy-sheeted brethren.


I’m a ghost too,


But instead of rocking the damp eiderdown

I got this authentic-looking pleather jacket

And a pompadour.

And instead of chasing yellow balls around mazes,

I do God’s work and pout.

Sometimes the two coincide:

God works in mysterious ways.


You might know me as the Disney James Dean.

Or you might know me as Teen Angel,

The pubic poltergeist.

But you can call me

Spooky Bagthorpe,

I guess.

Spy Kids 4D

September 1, 2011



Hairy Spy Kids are Watching You!

Spy Kids 4D is an espionage thriller for our post-Wikileaks times. Starring the 2-year old Timberlake DuFont as Binky, an old-school (spy code for pre-school) CIA agent, and the 2-and-three-quarters -year old Princess Snortums as Ruthy, his fast-talking, incontinent partner, it offers us a terrifying opportunity to listen in to the baby monitor of modern-day spydom. Here is a little poem about it.

Peppa Pig Colouring Books

(Ah! How I remember delicately

Dragging a stubby pink crayon

 Across the inky borders of

Peppa’s regal concave snout

Back before it all got out of hand),

Donkeys, ice cream,

Hopscotch, dolls

-That shit doesn’t cut it anymore.

These days you ain’t nobody

In the nursery

Unless you can hold your own

In the high-stakes game of

International espionage.

Binky surveilled that fat man

That fat man, you know him,

That fat man with a funny broken mouth

And the dogs and the car

That goes ‘zoooom’

Passing a mysterious piece of paper

To the newsagent.

24 hours later he was being waterboarded

In an unspecified former-Eastern Bloc state.

Watch what you pass to newsagents.

That’s all I’m saying.

The kids are watching.

A poem about one of those Shane Meadows films

April 5, 2011


The cast of This is England

Here’s a poem about one of those Shane Meadows films. I forget which:

Urchins at play


The 80s aren’t like they were in the 80s,

But, nevertheless,

Boggzy, Danno, “Grandma”, Milkmouth,

Kneesy, Weggso, Darren, etc.

Went down to the canal,

Booted, skinned and trim,

Whereupon a ruffian got lairy

And shook an old love

By the duffel coats.

I’ve caught a Thatcher he said

And his mates went wurrrrgh.


One of the skins chucked a muffin

On to the train tracks.

What else are you going to do?


With a hey nonny alright mate,

Watch out mumble mumble.

You can come round to mine for tea

Mam’s making proletarian crumble.


June 27, 2010

Whitaker and bereted colleague as Bird and Diz.

‘Bird’ is a Clint Eastwood film about the jazzy genius Charlie Parker, starring Forest Whitaker as the titular hornsman. Naturally, I haven’t seen it. Here is a poem about it:


Bebop bustard,

With your experimental eggs

And your beak wet with worm-blood

And heroin,


How can I scat with you?

Squeep ber squeep?

How can I keep

Up to the steep beep

Of your deep

Horn? I lie in a heap

Below the birdsong of morn.

My poems are also somewhat childish.


The Man tried to clip your wings

But you blew a hotheaded hoot

Into his ridiculous beakless face

And then, as is the wont of your species,

Did a flying shit on his head.


And now Forest Whitaker

Is playing you.

Some say Forest only got

The job because he is named

After a place where birds live.

But if that were true,

Why didn’t they give the role

To Aviary Brooks (who played

Captain Sisko in Star Trek: Deep Space Nine,

The beakiest of all the Trek franchises.

My favourite episode was when the shape-shifter,

Odo, turned himself into a massive puffin

And killed a huge Romulan kingfisher)?


I give this film

(though I didn’t watch it)

7 quavers

And half a crotchet.

Dirty Dancing

June 15, 2010

Being an OCD sufferer, I have studiously avoided watching the film ‘Dirty Dancing’. I like my choreography germ-free. Here is a poem about Dirty Dancing.

Always use this before dancing


With pirouette dainty and pliet tight

He squelched his way into the ballroom light

His colostomy bag swinging majestically

So pendulous, so pendant, so testicley.

This cumberbund is the same strip of ermine silk

His great-grandfather used to go graverobbing in.

That bow-tie was once digested by a Great Dane.

The bow-tie was salvageable

But sadly the hound

Had to be put down.

His armpits blossom with fungus.

His breath smells of Chernobyl.


Ah! Here comes his enchanting partner.

See how her hair flutters and flickers,

See the discolouration in her knickers,

See the cornflakes in her beard

See the tripe beneath her fingernails

See the grace in her step.


Let’s dance, my love, in unhygienic fashion,

Two mucky pigs in the pigsty of passion.

Henry Fool poem competition – second call for entries

June 13, 2010

Nnnnnggggghhhhhh. Must write poem!

Drop your children! Shoot the dog! There’s a Henry Fool poetry competition going on! In Henry Fool, as I have hitherto reported, a binman becomes famous by writing a poem that blows everyone’s minds away, as if everyone’s minds were nought but discarded grains of sherbet on a fat man’s moobs. And yet the viewer is cruelly denied knowledge of what the poem might be about. So, put on your thinking homburgs and write the poem that you think the binman should have written (in the comments section of this post).

Thus far we’ve had an entry from me on the subject of wicked, beastly babies; one from Banjo Fett on an enchanting wench called Bessie; and one from Old Rope in which the titular Henry Fool gets his face grated off in the name of poetic endeavour. We’ve also had an entry from Simon Armitage, but I disqualified it because he obviously got his mum to help him (note: this is forbidden).

The winner shall receive the Nobel Prize for Literature, a £3 book token (expired) and a piggy-back from Brian Blessed.

Here are a few suggestions for subjects you might want to address:

The Littlest Hobo

Brain Death

Chinese/ Indian Burns

John Coltrane’s Prostate

Potato Salad



Funny Ha Ha

March 7, 2010

Has anyone noticed how no-one is talking about Mumblecore films anymore? You know: Funny Ha Ha, The Puffy Chair, Mutual Appreciation, Hannah Takes The Stairs, Brenda Eats a Pear. Never seen them? Neither have I. Life’s too short. Here’s a poem about the Melancholy King of the Mumblecorers, Andrew Bujalski:


Tiddlywinks and piddly-pants.

In the name of all that is inaudible about

This great nation

I shall play my tiddlywinks

And ply my piddly-pants picture

And I shan’t make eye contact

With any of you guys,


What was that?

No, I didn’t say anything.



Guys, could we um thinkum

About what um my character would

Be saying hereum I meanum

I’m just trying to tell a story

About regular guys

Like you and me, guys.

Y’know. Umrelationshipsum.

Y’know, none of this Valentine’s Day Card


So he kinda likes Mort but Mort’s

Into Bert, y’know.

And it’s about how a breakup can be

Sorta beautiful.



Now dump me like you kind of mean it.