21/12 AKA It's The End Of The World, Man.

21/12 AKA It’s The End Of The World, Man.

It’s the end of the world, man, and I’m not lying.

It’s been prophesised by  the Ancient Mayans.

Kiss your kids goodbye and commence all your crying

Coz on 21/12, you and I will be dying.

It’s the end of the world, man, the stars aligning

For when the sun sets on its very last shining.

Those storm clouds won’t have a silver lining,

And I’ll be drinking trebles, if you’re getting mine in.

It’s the end of the world, man; goodnight, existence.

Been served an order of cease and desist-ance

It would be futile to attempt resistance,

Regretfully, this planet’s run the distance.               

It’s the end of the world, man; farewell, creation.

You’re fucked unless your spaceship’s waiting at the station.

To save us from this deadly situation

We need a hero, a man like Jason Statham.

It’s the end of the world, man; so long, friends and brothers,

I’ll leave you to be with your loved and your lovers

For one final fumble under sweat-sodden covers.

It’s the end of the world, man…be nice to each other.

Look at me, look at me! (A post-modern poem.)

Look at me, look at me!
Marvel at my poetry.
Feed my ego, soothe my id
By telling me how well I did.
Every word comes from the heart,
It's not showing off; it's art.
If you like it, here's a hint;
Tell me that I'm fucking mint.

Look at me, look at me!
On stage where I was born to be.
I don't do subtle or sublime,
I just swear a lot and make it rhyme.
Being a poet wasn't planned
But no fucker wants me in their band.
Can I ask a favour? It's not much -
Just tell your friends I'm double-cush.

Look at me, look at me!
Better than you thought I'd be.
A master of my native tongue,
Wise and witty and well-hung.
Got a huge vocabulary,
I hate racists and constabulary.
Rather watch my daughter lick tramps' bollocks
Than see my son become a polis.

Look at me, look at me!
Are you well-jel? Well, you should be.
Every verse is proper class,
I can pull pretty much any lass.
They'll sing my name when I am gone,
These pearls of wisdom will live on.
Say I'm deluded, out of my tree.
I don't care as long as you look at me.

TRAIN #6

They're in love, just look into their eyes.
It's something special that they can't disguise.
He's grinning miles-wide like he's won first prize,
She's in a daze, amazed and glassy eyed.
First rush of love must be the greatest high,
There's no better buzz that money can buy.
To make it last, I would strongly advise
You don't cheat and you never tell no lies.
I've done those stupid things, they made me wise.
I know well that hearts beat softer when love dies.

FIFTY YEARS HANDCUFFED TO A MANIAC.

Life seemed easier when I was a kid,
Before my dick started running the show.
Girls were just friends but how quickly that ends
Once the beast stirs down below.

But you can't bottle that innocent time,
It leaves once the first pube arrives.
Then we all get tongue-tied and red-faced
And live normal complicated lives.

Enslaved by libido, the ego
And nothing matters more than getting laid.
I half-wish it would finish, shrivel and diminish,
But I know I'll freak out when my sex drive fades.

Feel like I'm handcuffed to a maniac

TRAIN #5

Half-human and half-pissed,
How did it come to this?
Blinded by the vodka mist,
Drinking like a thirsty fish.
Is there a home where you are missed?
Do your kids long for a kiss
Or just think "fuck him and his fists"?
If you had a magic wish
Is this how you would exist?
Because it's a shitty kind of bliss.

PUNK ROCK SAVED MY LIFE.

Punk Rock saved my life
Coz when I was 13,
I quite liked Yes and Genesis
And Tangerine fuckin' Dream.

Punk Rock ruled my life,
Soothed my adolescent stress.
My god's not spelt G.O.D. -
It's R.A.M.O.N.E.S

Punk Rock lit up my life,
It got me stoned and it got me laid.
Became a Punk Rock singer in a Punk Rock band
(Which never got me paid.)

Punk Rock informs my life,
It colours everything I do.
There'll always be a part of me
That says 'Haway, let's sniff some glue!"

Punk Rock fucked up my life,
It's a fact, I can't ignore it.
But just gimme three chords and the truth -
That's Punk Rock...and I adore it.

A Fail of Two Cities.

It's a world of petty grievances,
Rival tribal allegiances.
Adore your team and your football ground,
Hate everyone in the neighbouring town.

You say the people are different there,
You can tell them by the clothes they wear.
They've got no passion, got no heart.
Two cities, fifteen miles apart.

You can't trust them with their shifty eyes
And every word they say is lies.
Kick the bastards when they're down.
Postcode wars in Northern towns.

Macho, pumped-up, tightly wound
Men fight like kids in school playgrounds.
Their idea of weekend ecstasy
Is the pub, the match then A & E.

Spit and fight and hate and maim,
All in the name of the beautiful game.
Will you ever learn the lesson that
It's not where you're from...it's where you're at.

Fifth batch of proper manly poems.

TRAIN #3

She's chatting matters vile,
I'm sitting spitting bile.
I become insanely riled
Every time she hits redial.
Retells her night out on the tiles
For mile after fucking mile.
And aye okay, you've made a pile
But money can't buy class or style.
Can you shut your yap a while?
Get off your bastard mobile.

TRAIN #4

He's shouting at a phone
Like he was all alone.
A collective carriage groan
As he dominates the zone.
There's bother back at home,
His Mrs has a moan.
How I wish that I could roam
Far from him and his ringtone,
Coz my head's completely blown.
Get off the fucking dog and bone.

Fourth batch of proper manly poems.

KNOW YOUR ENEMY WELL.

You can feel the frustration,
Self-righteous indignation.
In double-dodgy backstreet bars,
Arseholes in conversation:

They keep coming over,
They think they're in clover
As soon as they set eyes upon
The white cliffs of Dover.

It's liberals to blame,
With their middle-class shame.
They say 'come to our country
And stick in a claim.'

But we're not gunna take it
While immigrants make it.
They steal our jobs and giros.
They're not needy, they fake it.

We're the voice of white defiance,
We won't suffer in silence.
Why waste time with reason
When you can use violence?

While you're welcome to choose,
Fuck you if you share those views.
You'll end up doing time for race hate crime,
I hope you get your arse abused.

You should know your enemy well,
Don't let them drag you down to hell.
So I say fuck the BNP
And fuck the EDL.

FIVE-AND-TWENTY WINTERS.

We were childhood sweethearts,
Each other's teenage crushes.
Frolicking round the city's parks
And fucking in the bushes.

Mind, I had no concept of true love
Back when I was nineteen,
I just wanted to get my dick wet
And snort amphetamines.

But there was always something nagging
And I never really sussed.
Those strange sensations of elation,
I put down to speed and booze and lust.

And as I drifted through the decades
That came and went so fast,
I'd think about that grey-eyed girl
And the good times that had passed.

Then after five-and-twenty winters
I saw her face again.
She still smiles like a filthy crocodile,
I still melt when she says my name.

I've got no use for money,
Won't make me a better person.
I'm rich beyond my wildest dreams,
In love with Joanne McPherson.

Third batch of proper manly poems.

DEATH AND OTHER HASSLES.

Every few months or so,
(But at least once each year)
I meet with friends from way back when
And we hug and bite back tears.

One of us in a wooden box,
All the others gathered round.
And then we either burn that box
Or we put it underground.

Then we reminisce and take the piss
And raise a glass or two
To the newly dead departed
At their final leaving do.

Celebrate what made 'em great,
Forget they could be a twat.
It's not time for the axe to grind;
We'll rise above all that.

I don't believe in heaven
And I can't conceive a hell.
There's no angels, there's no demons,
Just this brittle human shell.

You can waste your life
Scared of your death
But it won't help you avoid it.
Or you can seize each day,
And, come what may,
You can say that you enjoyed it.

One day, I'll be in that box,
Coz we're all gonna die.
And if you turn up to wave me off,
Wear something smart and cry.


WHAT THE DICKENS?

I used to be out all night, out of my head
And completely unemployable.
Now I stay home and I say things like
"That Dickens documentary was rather enjoyable."

I always thought I would live fast, die young,
Like some rock'n'roll tornado.
Now I'm 46, got a dodgy hip
And a touch of arthritis ( or maybe lumbago).

And though I kid myself that I'm still punk rock,
All wild at heart and reckless,
Did Sid and Nancy worry about fibre, do you think?
Did it screw their day if they missed breakfast?

And while I'm horrified by this expanding girth
Since I gave up them narcotics,
At least I'm not grey, and hey anyway,
These tiny tits are quite erotic.

So if I've learnt one thing from this middle age,
It's that all of us get fatter.
But my brain's alright and I can still still spout shite,
And in the end, man, that's all that's ever mattered.

second batch of proper manly poems.

THINGS I NEVER DONE.

I've never been in a betting shop
And I've never seen a stripper.
Never felt the need to read a book
About the Yorkshire Ripper.
I've never seen inside a jail
(I've never been that bad)
I've never eaten that beetroot shite,
Nor have I ever punched my dad.

I've never mugged a grandmother
And taxed her old age pension,
I've never crucified a cat
To scratch some inner tension.
I've not swallowed shitloads of smack
To smuggle through some borders,
And while I think Blue Monday's good,
I've never liked New Order.

I've never trusted hippies
Or given suckers even breaks,
And as a rule,
I never knock it till I try it.
I've never tried to top myself,
I've not got what it takes.
I've been tempted, though,
But not enough to buy it.

I've never fallen fast
For a fickle femme fatale,
And I've never fancied
Fisting foreplay frolics.
I've never been to Blackpool,
I suspect I never shall,
I've seen pictures
And it looks like total bollocks.


I've never found a God,
(But it's not like I ever looked)
It never seemed like my idea of fun.
But never say never,
You won't be here forever,
Live hard before you write that list
Of things you never done.


NORMAL BLOKES.

Getting all blokey with the blokes,
Crackin' dodgy jokes, dodgin' out for smokes
With the blokes.

We'll talk about football, talk about tits,
Talk about breaking this place into bits.
We'll talk about anything, as long as it's shit.
Talk about...phwooar, fucking hell, she's fit!

We'll talk about clunge, talk about gash,
Shout about pasties that we'd like to smash,
And what we'd do to prostitutes if we had the cash.
We are the blokes and we're on the fucking lash.

We'll talk about war, we'll talk about hate,
About what makes this nation great,
And how it's not a fight just backing up your mates.
We are the blokes, stick it on the fucking slate.

We'll talk about pain and the smell of fear.
Laugh about chewin' on some cunt's ear.
We are the blokes, what you gunna do?
Coming soon to a pub near you.

first batch of proper manly poems.

Hallo, These are some poems I have been writing recently. They need little introduction but I'll introduce them anyway. This first one is about me and my mental brother.

ME AND MY MENTAL BROTHER.

There’s me and my mental brother,

We’ve not got different dads,

And we popped out of the same mother,

It’s just that one of us is mad.

Wor kid’s a schizophrenic,

He’s on some hardcore medication.

He has his moments when he’s manic,

But they supress them with sedation.

Me brother’s not a bad mental,

He don’t want locking up for life.

He’s reflective and he’s gentle,

He’ll not come at you with a knife.

He’s not Ian fucking Brady

With his starey mad cunt eyes.

He won’t get sexy with your baby;

Too busy eating all the pies.

Because my brother loves his tucker,

And I often say to him

“Look at your gut, you big fat… fellow,

Get yersel’ down to the gym!”

I can say that coz I love him;

That’s what brothers do –they take the piss.

And I worry what will become of him,

So can I please just ask you this –

If you see him walking in the distance,

Remember he’s a man, he’s got his pride,

So acknowledge his existence,

Don’t pass by on the other side.

And while I'm sad my brother's mental,

There's no point in wondering why

It's just the way the cards fell, And there

But for the grace of God, go I...

This second one is a true story. Dunno if you've ever heard of a poet called Tony Harrison, but he's quite famous in poetry circles. I'd never heard of him when I was 15, which was when when me and some mates gatecrashed his son's birthday party and then got thrown out. I never gave it a second thought until years later, when I heard his son had developed mental health problems, which somehow made what we did as kids seem much worse...

MAD MAX (Apologies to Tony Harrison)

Slung out of your big house that night

We gatecrashed your son’s birthday.

We were teenage gangster gobshites,

But we were all brought up the right way.

We never meant to trash the gaff;

Things just got a bit lairy.

Scrawled ‘I am a twat’ across a photograph

Of your son (little posh fairy.)

He probably was a decent kid,

But he went to the grammar school.

And he was called Max, the little flid.

So there’s two things that weren’t cool.

And now, three decades on from then,

It’s just one more regret.

Coz I have done about seven hundred and forty three things

That I wish I could forget.

Some of us moved and some died young,

And some became their dads.

But your son got no choices,

Coz poor Max grew up mad.

And even though I say it

In a poem you won’t read,

I’m dead sorry, Tony Harrison,

For our stupid, shitty deeds.

Teenagers can be bastards,

Doing wrongs that they can’t right.

But if I could have my time again,

I’d be a better kid that night.

This third one is a villanelle, which means it's got quite a tight and repetitive structure, in case you thought I couldn't be arsed to think of any more words for it. It's not about me per se, but I tried doing it 'he said/she said' and it just didn't have the same visceral impact as 'I said/you said' does. (I'm doing a creative writing degree at the minute and this is the one I picked to read out to my poetry group. To say that they looked a trifle unnerved would be something of an understatement.)

I SAY ‘MAM’ AND YOU SAY ‘MUM’.

You said I never made you come.

We’re from different worlds,

I say ‘Mam’ and you say ‘Mum.’

Remember our faces? Long and glum.

We were married and buried.

You said I never made you come.

I could see your palace from my slum.

I’m from Fenham, you’re from Jesmond.

I say ‘Mam’ and you say ‘Mum.’

I begged for comfort, I got crumbs.

We went to marriage guidance,

You said I never made you come.

Now I’m uncomfortably numb

And you’re back with your mother.

(I say ‘Mam’ and you say ‘Mum.’)

Dust settled, papers were filed.

As one door closed, another shut.

You said I never made you come.

I say ‘Mam’ and you say ‘Mum.’

Finally, these last two are short observational things. On my course, they told us we should carry writing books and observe stuff around us, so I've started writing about people I see on the train going into the city every day.

TRAIN #1.

Radge fat woman with lovebites,

Curry and spunk stains on her tights.

Half-watching her snot-nosed kids fight,

And you know they're not gonna grow up right,

They'll never reach no dizzy heights.

Marked down at birth for lives of shite,

Giving Daily Mail readers sleepless nights.

God fucking help the poor little mites.

TRAIN #2.

Posh boy student on the train,

Got a booming voice, suspect he's a dick.

He's wearing the same shades as me,

The ones I thought made me look dead slick.

Thanks a lot you student ponce

From the chinless upper classes.

Just by being a bit of a cock,

You made me hate my own sunglasses.