Jokes of the week.

Good Afternoon readers,

This week on the Dead Good Blog we've been looking at jokes, being April 1st and all that.
In the week we've had the benefits system change, politicians protesting their ability to get by on a pittence and the chancellor wading in to a matter that frankly didn't concern him, you could say we've had our fair share of fools.
Speaking of which, I've just returned from a major supermarket petrol station- where I must warn you the thirteenth pump has a twitch. It twitched over the ten pound mark when I first replaced it. I thought, what the hell, I'll make it fifteen. It twitched again, after me checking the bloody thing had definitely stopped. Anyway, I wasn't having it and promptly explained this to the cashier. Apparently, I wouldn't get away with it in the big store- they'd call security. She didn't call security, despite my insistence that they should come and have a go on the pump, but there you go. As a result of their incredible customer satisfaction policy, I've dedicated them a haiku below. There is also one for IDS, Philpott, the puppet from Team America's lad and of course, George.
That about sums the week up, doesn't it?

Please scan your clubcard
Expand customer knowledge
We spy... milk you dry. 


Poor old IDS
Said "Wheels came off the wagon"
History repeats. 

Icarus Philpott
Did you even consider
Light six candles, think. 


Funny little man
Toddler with trigger finger
Perhaps try to talk. 


Chancellor, desist
Spurring on the Daily Mail
Vile product indeed.

Thanks for reading,
Shaun.

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Cape.

Good morning readers.
This morning I had a panic attack. I found myself fluttering around between old watches, new watches, alarm clocks, TV guides and anything else with a display on it. Which was right? Does this one do it automatically? I mean, I did it already, at least I thought I did but, did it do it again? It is an hour out from this one and I thought I'd done this.
The trouble is, I'm losing an hour AND working in the morning. I detest the idea of working Easter Sunday but wasn't quick enough booking the time when the boss decided we were to open so, by the time you're reading this I'll no doubt be in a major grump having been deprived of my sleep. Also, I've been given a revised contract to 'look at'. I'm looking elsewhere.
This week's theme has been superpowers. It would seem I have invisibility issues. A thrown together poem then... Thanks for reading, S.


Cape.

Back when I was six years old I had a magic cape
I carried it in my pocket and used it to punctuate
The days with lots of crazy dreams, places that I could go
It helped me to imagine everything I didn't know.

The cape and I would hide in corners
Under the curtains and behind the couch
We'd really be in Buckingham Palace
Eating whatever was being thrown out.

We'd creep around the garden
Gathering jungle plants
The cape helped make it possible
To escape the killer ants.

I'd wear my cape whenever I could
My accomplice and I, up to no good
Stealing fine diamond necklaces, solid gold bars
Escaping imaginary sleeping guards.

We stowed away inside a rocket
Took a trip to the moon in the shed spaceship
Kept hidden until all the astronauts were sleeping
Then covered them all in invisible felt tip.

We were James Bond evading the gaze of the neighbours
Sneaking over the fence to retrieve a lost ball
We were brave in the face of the onrushing indians
There was no other cowboy could hide in my hall.

They were days to remember, the magic and fun
The sneakyness of never getting caught in the wrong
Looking back at those days, everything was so simple
Anything could be done, you just put the cape on.

So never throw those things away whilst you remember childhood
Keep hold of that invisible cloth you draped over your face
For at some time in the future, you might want it about you
It will be there, just be sure to hold it in a special place.

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Please Sir, can we have some more?

This week on the blog, we've been looking at the road less travelled or, as I call it, the fightback of the British economy. You may be wondering what this has to do with poetry but, as we're stagnant again and it seems the chancellor has absolutely no idea which way is up, I figured it was my chance to vent at him. 
Okay, so that wasn't very subtle but neither was George with his little red briefcase- and at least I've not tried to bugger you this morning. Had I attempted it, there'd be plenty of squealing done as I've torn the ligaments in my foot playing football. Here I am then, playing through the pain and making sure I get a topical boot in. Enjoy (which is probably not the right word). 


Please sir, can we have some more?

Dear George, I'm rather curious
Just what is it you do
It seems that our economy 
Is faltering with you
The only growth is growing old
We're stagnant in our 'spacious' homes
Please tax us, so we feel we own
A stake in this great fightback. 

Without you George, we'd all be stuck
Probably in some deeper rut
Where all the doors are slamming shut
with no chance to escape.
Your fresh idea of bigger cuts
Most excellent, let's stop those scruffs
and reward those who enter Crufts
the foresight is quite staggering. 

Whilst you're on a roll, why not attack
The families with nothing yet put back
Why shouldn't strivers pay extra tax
and be thankful, just for working?
For curiously, we're going backwards
With all these cuts and stealthy taxes
Bedrooms are a privilege for lower classes
Anyone for a second home?

Yes George, we all now live in fear
Despite 4 pence less tax on our pint of beer
Can you still not see that your numbers are queer
Maybe someone can tell you on twitter.
There's no money George and with you, there won't be
Stop your messing with the British economy
We've been downgraded, so hashtag that
Now trending: @george_osborne, twat.



Thanks for reading, 
Shaun. 

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Faith

Good morning readers.

In what has been an exciting week both in and out of the news, I found myself almost falling over potential subjects for today’s blog. Firstly, the astute of you may have noticed I’m posting on a Sunday. I’d like to add my name to the list of people welcoming Colin to his Monday blog spot- I’m sure he’ll enjoy it over the coming months.

On a personal note, I’ve been greatly entertained by the TV news coverage over the last seven days. We’ve had a former government minister in court, the big announcement from the Vatican and the confirmation of Higgs to name just three stories to gee us up in Cheltenham week. And if you didn’t back a winner at the races, don’t worry, all losing steeds will be recycled. I have it on bad local authority that several French horses will take lead roles in school lunch events- mainly the eating ones.

What does this all have to do with bad poetry then? I would say that bad poetry, just like that second placed horse, doesn’t have to leave a bad taste in your mouth. We are all compelled to pick up a pen from time to time. As poets we revisit these, rework them and inevitably leave some on one side but, with enough chewing, there is often some fairly tasty burger to get your teeth into. I believe in bad poetry. I believe without it, we’d not have the good.

Learning from our mistakes, it all comes down to. Sometimes, it is a fair cop and you’ll just have to ride it out, head high and with the knowledge that next time you’ve got the upper hand. You’ll deliver that poem that finally gets recognition against the rude and the crude. You’ll hit that serious line home to someone. You’ll stop having to make jokes to prove yourself…

I’m keeping the faith. Until then, a bad poem.

God bless the higher powers

When we have white smoke

Will they elect a decent bloke

Will he ride a motorbike,

Keep a mohawk, fish for pike

Is he me or is he you

Will he know just what to do?

Will he take a modern name

Will he leave things just the same

Can he understand the truths

These challenges face muslims, jews

Will he be both friend and foe

As a new power, we don't know.

But when we have white smoke

I just hope he can revoke

The damage done, stem the decay

His ancient faith in dissaray

The allegations hanging over

Can this baptist move the boulder?

For there is trouble in the city

Gold and greed seldom feel pity

TV pictures, constant streaming

Naughty nuns on hooch are screaming

Seems seldom time to make a joke

Amidst the hype, there's been a vote.

Yes, we have white smoke

A new looking, Latin Pope

Rides not bikes it seems but buses

Pays his own bills, avoids fusses

Sure, this Pope still chants in Latin,

But he has his turf to flatten

Stepping up to take the mantle

Pray this man leads by example.

Shaun. 

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What Price Loyalty?

Loyalty; a word so prized in every relationship. It is a term we associate with commitment. We give a weight of honour to it. Hell, we go in hook, line and sinker for the bugger. Loyalty, in terms of any relationship, is pretty much the big word.

Soppiness aside, the week following the fourteenth of Feb always holds something of a treat for football fans- a let off for the romantics to get back to the real world. It is part of the magic the FA Cup brings. At the time of writing this, Blackburn are set to dominate the back pages having 'dumped' the mighty Arsenal out of the competition. Appy days? Clucking great.

No secret will be made of the fact Michael Appleton has become the first person to manage three clubs in one year of the cup- and to be honest with you, I'm finding it hard not to find links with what this says of his character. There is obviously nobody else as despicable in the entire sport.

Appleton, like his predecessor Ian Holloway, left my club in the lurch. A lurch we are still in some three weeks (and three months) later. I make no secret of my love for the club and make no secret of my love for the sport, but there are always those niggling things aren't there.

We'll start with one of his own quotes. "Managers don't walk out on players they believe in," was a good one. Written up on the dressing room after Holloway left for big money, Appy became the first Blackpool manager in my lifetime to make it onto the top ten shortest appointments list- Judasing his way down the road for an arguably better offer.

Karl Oyston, the Pool chairman gets his stick. Whether for his famously deep pockets, his tactical shooting trips on transfer deadline day or his refusal to deal with agents, something about him  angers many. One thing that shouldn't be used to beat him with though is this contract business.

Holloway was on a rolling 12 month deal. He was effectively in a job forever, which to me sounds quite secure. Appleton was on a similar deal, and after the media blowout lately on managerial compensation payments, it has become well documented that our release fee stands just under the half a million mark- a pittence for what they could have paid.

Here then, for the sake of all football fans, I call out on the managers, owners and agents alike to stop this business. You are not politicians and for a start, we really do love our clubs. "I've got sky blue blood in my veins," Mark Robins said just five days before walking out on Coventry City for a job at Huddersfield. "I'll never walk out on another club," said Mr Holloway shortly after becoming Pool boss and Appleton, well, a month before going Chicken farming in the hills he was "joining a club with ambition". If you don't mean it, just don't say it.

We love our football clubs. We adore them. When we spend a month fretting about who the board will bring in, we expect that their time will be worthwhile, and that whoever it is that has fought off the other suitors will stick around. Nobody wants to be jilted.

Both myself and my girlfriend spent Valentine's Day this year worrying about who would take the helm at our football clubs. If I was in charge at either of them- I'd have the new gaffer sign a 'no other club' deal- similar to the one holding Adkins from a new job already. If they all did it, there'd be no further place for these scumbags, especially in our hearts on St Valentine's.

The Break Up

The poster comes down from the wall in two pieces
The autograph book is soon missing a note
You've gone- there's a shitstorm of media frenzy
Well the headlines can fade, we're moving on.

This is goodbye to you, Mr Judas Escariat
You are not the messiah here anymore
Be gone. Thanks for selling us into that legacy
You've let yourself down. Don't come back to our door.

Thanks for reading, Shaun

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500. Baubles

Good evening readers,

This week on the Dead Good Blog we'll be looking at Christmas Poems. I'm interested to see where everyone goes with this theme, and as such have opted against picking out my favourites online. Instead, as this is our 500th blog post, I thought it would be nice to write a poem.
Christmas, statistically, is great at breaking couples up. This hasn't happened, I must stress and whilst one of my ill-timed comments (after a dentist trip) wasn't wise, it did provide me with some inspiration. I've passed it by the girlfriend- she knows that whilst fictional it is our tree, our snow stuff and my initial comment, but was happy to see me (love of her life and all that) write something, I'm sure.
Thanks for reading, S.



Baubles

When I said too many baubles, something changed
Her eyes pulled away like slow-fade Christmas lights
The times we had collected, moved to shade
As winter nights drew in, Christmas went shite.

At first the Angels she brought had to go,
So too the tatty relics I'd collected
and made, one of my Mum's and one she found
Soon enough all our memories were ejected.

The tree looked bare without the tat, I'd say
The silver bells on strings looked over tacky
The tinsel barely dressed the plastic spruce
The rags of cotton snow kept the cat happy.

But without baubles, we aren't building forward
This tree will never look like it once did
I'm putting them back on, forget I said it
It's Christmas, we're stressed enough as it is.

Shaun Brookes.

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Lives.

Yesterday was Remembrance Sunday. As anyone who has ever worked in a shop will know, it can be awkward. A customer never fails to arrive at the counter bang on 11, every year.

This time, with that in mind, I had gathered a copy of the Sunday Times 'Culture' magazine, bodged up a sign and gone out front with my poppy on 5 minutes early, just so people got the message. Whilst waiting for the radio to switch over to the Cenotaph, I began to read their piece on Edward Thomas, one of the (perhaps) lesser known of the war poets. The article mentioned his developing love of nature and the outdoors, his love of description and his insistence that poetry should be constructed only from words people actually use. These days, many poets will swear by those approaches, the latter two especially.
Printed within the article was a copy of Thomas's poem Adlestrop. You can read it here: Adlestrop: Poetry Foundation website

I digress though. As a football fan, I have been party to a number of 'silences' this weekend and, so as not to waste them, I found myself thinking down various different avenues. It struck home that many of the men I was stood up for were younger than me when they died. It struck me that many of them had families to leave behind, jobs never to go back to and lives never to actually live. What really struck home though was the TV coverage of the faces.

I saw something in the eyes of the veterans, a sort of blooming around them, much like a poppy. This may happen to all old people, I don't know, and please don't take that out of context and consider it a judgement. To look into them suggests many nights of tears shed, many years of tears held in and a grief I would never wish to understand.

After spending all day (as most of us do every year) remembering those lost and the freedoms I have as a result of their sacrifices, I felt I should persist with my ongoing quest to write a decent war poem. I try it every year and haven't quite managed one yet but, with this week's blog theme being 'Ambitions', here is the result.

Cenotaph

The chat chat chattering of tired machine guns,
echoes in the teeth of the silent man beside.
The cold November mornings stop for no one - 
the ticking clock to remember lost lives. 

Amid the bugler's call my focus wandered
past each stoic cheek and tight-buttoned coat,
long swollen eyes of veterans tell of what went on there.
Poppies grown from tears. Lives touched like asymptotes. 

All these years since those Great Wars have ended
Our nation we're told - divided, long undone -
unites, the graves of soldiers freshly tended.
By this prism, we ensure the light lives on. 


Thanks for reading,
S.

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Dave's Dream

Tomorrow, when the USA finally choose their next president, one man will become the most powerful in the world. It might remain as Obama, it could be Morman Mitt, either way there will be some powerful decisions to make so I urge all Americans that happen upon this blog not to elect a clown.

Here in the UK, we did just that. We’ve somehow come to the decision that a silver spooned, Tory-bred horse was the man for the job- a man named Dave. Now you may or may not have seen the 1988 Oscar nominated documentary about Bikini Atoll. You may or may not be aware that there was an atomic bomb tested there. You may or may not know that islanders were shifted from their villages, families and communities broken up and refused re-admission to their homeland for well over forty years.  You are probably not aware that the plane dropping the bomb had Dave’s Dream written on the back of it, something I thought too good an idea to miss.

This morning then, with the news that Kensington and Chelsea councils have relocated council tenants as far as Manchester as a result of cuts, I figured the poem needed to be written. It seems we’re all a victim of something these days and for lasting devastation, 40 years could be a quick turnaround for some of the mess being made. This week’s theme is inspirational ideas,  one of which you’ll agree, is a man named Dave.

Dave’s Dream

Gather the UN ambassadors

Dave’s dream is up in the skies

We are all to be soon relocated

Shifted on with a tear in our eyes.

Dave’s dream is to move us from comfort

Dave’s dream drives the poor from their homes

Dave’s dream is just all about rich folks

If he could he would send in the drones.

Dave’s dream doesn’t consider carnage

Dave’s dream doesn’t rest in the night

Dave’s dream has us begging for poll booths

Dave’s dream must be stopped, take the fight.

Thanks for reading,
S.

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Pirates: A Cautionary Tale

This week on the blog, we'll be looking at the theme of Pirates. Looting, pillaging, drinking, dancing pirates- and I don't just mean the population of Manchester, which has been crowned illegal download capital of the UK. They know how to party there.

Apologies for the slightly late post: I decided to write a poem, based loosely on an experience from childhood. Those family holidays were well spent, let me tell you. Enjoy.


Pirates!

If you should find yourself ashore
an island divided in the Med
Take heed a Traveller's warning
Beware the one eyed head.

From the street, quick split our group was lifted
Set to sail on crowded deck
A land of golden sunrise promised
Free drinks provided until sunset.

Into a galleon bar we swayed
Our glasses over flowing with brew
The children were rounded around an old baise
Topped with the dullest of jewels.

Then in swooped the man with the motive
The ship's mate with swashbuckling pen
Bright pinbadge, sharp brochure, a real Mr Suave
Peddling his wares there and then.

We began to fear this was an ambush
Our captors it seemed, hearing no end
And the captain who steered home the one final push
Was an eyepatched old seaman called Ken.

These days Ken said he preferred finance
No danger, he said, no loose cannons,
Much rather a veranda with such red evening views
Drinking rum with a view to being hammered.

By sundown conversation had petered
Reluctantly, Ken let us go
Said he'd broken the rules he'd knocked so much off
No such offers in all Limassol.

So stand firm should they ever approach you
Selling timeshares and other such scams
I assure you, you'll lose a full day of your trip
Before taxiing home, head in hand.




Thanks for reading,
S

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Guilty Pleasures

Trevor's Living Doll

An irrational fear of pins became a tool for Trev,

who held Barbie each night of their relationship -

from the night at The Hound on that very first date

held her closer than close, as his God given right.

The mucky white van bearing ‘I wish my wife

was as dirty as this’ traded meat from the car park

with girls for all tastes, best in town for the price.

His eyes, like piss holes in snow reduced options

beer goggles meant choices of Exotic or White

were lost on his cash clutching hands in the car park

it was Barbie this time, Barbie caught the most light.

One night as he threw her about, he discovered

crashing through the lampstand forced a peep from her frame

The squeal of sorts met with delight from her master

as he forced the limp torso to play his cruel game. 

The fear was tweaked almost nightly. Curtain poles were swung,

blades brushed and pins; The smallest of pins could prize fear from her lips-

drunken Trev felt as man-God, drunken God-man did this.

The van in the car park became known to the locals

A popular haunt for 'promiscuous sorts'

the dollies were passed hand to hand, girls like Barbie-

guilty pleasures, made for nothing but mass intercourse.




---------------------------------------------

The theme this week is Guilty Pleasures. I was thinking Shakespeare all day, April 23rd being his recognised birthday and all but, it just wasn't working for me. We all know the thing I like doing the most that I don't tell people straight away is poetry and so what other way to indulge that than to write and share something so new it hasn't even made it off the printer yet. There are various shifts in pace, tone and tense to iron out. There are lines to chop, edit and rewrite entirely. There are also some fairly loose ideas knocking about in the piece that I would like to tighten up. This poem will probably be edited into a piece vastly different to what is written here but, as the evening fast approaches, I needed something to share with you guys. 

Cheers for reading,
Shaun.

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Tragedy or Comedy

If the newspapers are to be believed, today is officially 'Blue Monday', a term coined somewhere deep in the corridors of a Welsh University that seems to have stuck. If the post-Christmas blues are still affecting you and the winter blues are leaving you down, perhaps that is a fair point. My blogger dashboard has stepped in with a bit of hope though- this just happens to be our 200th post. Happy birthday to us then and, despite half of this week's theme being Tragedy, maybe we can all do a little to lift spirits as we look ahead. 


There are always plenty of things going on in the world all around us. Plenty of moments just crying out for a poem to be written and so, as has become my way of late (principally out of laziness and lack of prior blog research), the post this week is yet another new poem. 


On any given day of the year, there is something about Blackpool- if you look hard enough. A diversity, a very stubborn resolve to carry on and the miles of coastline on offer can get you thinking and this poem came as a direct result of that. Well, a rather selfish mixture of these factors anyway. 


The  sticking point was this: don't have any real tragedies in my life. My first thought has not been on estranged family members, global disasters or, as is the case for one blogger- dead chickens (my condolences, Lindsay). The most worrying thing in my life tends to be something me related and so the worry, as I imagine with most relationships, is argument related. 


With Lara quitting smoking and me being as nit-picky as I am, there have been flashpoints but I'll take this opportunity to say just how proud I am of her 16 days and counting. 


So where do you go to get away and think? I tend to find myself on the seafront somewhere- the loudest, quietest, angriest and most tranquil place in the town, in various measures. Oh, and I was picking up Simon Armitage's latest offering (Death of King Arthur) at the apostrophe-free Waterstones and caught the sunset last night- that in itself was reason enough to eek out a poem. 


Hope you enjoy and as always, thanks for reading. 
S. 


Idyll.
Blackpool Sunset, Jan 2012


Through my eyes I see just what I want you to see,
the coming together of the heavy gang,
a dust cloud, blown up over silver sand.


This is the light to live in, my dear
the shimmering water and the blossoming sunset
all a part of the twilight- the familiar dusk.


See there, the gentle promenading couple
Casting shadows together as long as their back story
twice both their growth, to be precise.


And in this evening, with the sun set just where it is
I find the breeze soothing red cheeks, the cloud of starlings
have dispersed and oh, the beauty of it all


wish you were here with me, for this. 

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TV Guide.

Evening all,

I have no real excuse for not posting this writing task earlier, I just forgot about my early start. Sorry about that.

Anyway, this week's theme is Writing Exercises which I think could actually work in favour of my timing after all. I wrote this task for the Hodgsonberry festival event three of us attended at a local high school way back in July. I have actually aimed it to be a start point for some year 8s but I'm sure you can get along without my assistance and write something on your own, after all, there is nothing on TV tonight...

FINDING INSPIRATION: A WRITING WORKSHOP

When looking for something to inspire, it is easy to get lost in your own head, especially with a blank page in front of you. You are not stuck for ideas, you just think you are. Your body and mind have experienced thousands of different words and senses today and you have only just thought about it. With this in mind, before you start writing remember that 5 minutes of jotting is almost always more fruitful than an hour of thinking.

Today, we are looking at Objects. Objects can be great for inspiring you. They have been made, been lived with, been used and, somewhere along the line, probably seen or done something pretty wicked. Remember, there is a story behind everything.

Pick up the object. Turn it over. Ask yourself everything you can think of about it. Here are just a few to get you started

· What is it?

· Who does it belong to?

· Have you seen it before?

· What colour is it?

· Is it smooth?

· Does it smell?

· Does it say anything (i.e. is it religious, does it represent anything else)?

· Where did you pick it up?

· What has it seen?

· What does it do?

· Why does it interest you?

Think about all of these questions. Have a look at the POEMS idea below. Do you have enough ideas to piece together a picture now? Find a PERSPECTIVE you would like to write from and you are just about ready to dazzle with poetry.

	P is for People: Who are the characters in the poem? O is for Objects: What do they symbolise? Find 3 interesting things to say. E is for Emotion: Is the mood sad, happy, reflective, angry...? M is for Message: Is there something you’re trying to say? S is for Setting: Where is the poem set? Why here? What does this add?

Note: Nobody writes amazing poetry on a first draft. Never be afraid to cross out and re-write a line. You will know when a line fits, trust your instincts!

Thanks for reading guys, S.

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The Ritual.

For reasons unknown, the theme this week is Ghost Stories. Well, it is coming up to the end of October- ghouls are a big thing this season and vampires are just so, whatever. Honestly, if I hear another schoolgirl swooning over bloody Cedric Diggory (whom is still dead, by the way... Vampire my arse.) I'll probably lose it.

This being a 'poetry blog' though, I decided to go with my newly refreshed enthusiasm (thanks, Lancaster LitFest) and write something new. Trawling the mind for childhood memories- the ones I feel are always the scariest, the one moment of fear I remember most from those days is quite clear still- waking up to catch children being dragged through a door on TV (I believe, Poltergeist). I was sleeping out, away from home at a friend's house over the way.

I was quite surprised it was a different story that came from within me then. I spent a lot of years in the Scouts as a kid, learnt a lot about myself in the process but, like all the other kids, was only really there for the holidays. A few mates, some tents and several liberated miniature spirit bottles did me for a weekend just nicely, thank you very much. Some of the memories, it seems, weren't quite as jolly. I hope you enjoy the poem.

The Ritual

Trudging with socks sodden from the track

we smelt the air- caught ear of crackling wood over

bleating sheep and rushed towards flickering light.

It was there, with Pendle Hill still fresh in mind

you showed your stripes- pulled rank and asked,

Do you believe in ghost stories.

Our legs trembled below fire flushed faces

as marshmallows bloomed and dripped their mess

into the spitting hearth. You snapped.

On the tops things change- new variables

with every breath of the wind. You must obey.

Do as you are told, pull together.

That was the night he danced.

Took to the pole for tuck shop

twenty-ps he gathered, cap in hand.

And boy, did he dance. Shed his shell

crab like as he scuttled fleshy and nude-

woggle half covering his pubescent penis.

We soon saw his face- caught it in the torch

as you hoisted damp pants up the flagpole.

I'd never seen a ghost before-

and we just sat there, trembling.

Thanks for reading, S.

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