The City’s Song

Hear the calming sound of distant traffic,
The morning yawn of this slumbering town,
There, the early birds fly fast and frantic,
Here, the songbirds strive to rouse the crowds.

Soon voices merge with this morning chorus,
As fledglings fly free from their parent’s nests,
Filled with the thrill of the day before them,
Wild screams and laughter burst out from their breasts.

Continue reading The City’s Song

The Accumulation of Self-Worth

We are all speculators on our own stock markets,
Buying and selling our self-esteem by
Trading shares with each other, and
Raising and lowering our investments in ourselves.
Yet it seems the more our bodies develop,
The less we feel we have gained;
And the more we weigh in pounds,
The less we feel we’re worth.
So perhaps we should speculate more wisely,
By withdrawing our shares of self-worth from
Our ever-fluctuating corporal corporations,
And investing them instead
Into the solvent, substantial bonds
Of our souls.


There once was a young man from Chile
Who was exceedingly silly
One day for a dare
He ran round the town square
With just a pink bow on his willy.


There was a young man from Peru
Who was terribly fond of U2
He wanted to see them
Play Rome’s Coliseum
But the curve of the Earth spoiled his view.

Wow! That’s What I Call Micropoetry! Vol. I

Moses supposes his toes were roses
When Moses takes doses of strong LSD
But Moses he knowses to lay of them doses
‘Cause Moses psychosis is pretty scary.

Building Lego with my boy,
Lost in our constructions,
Brave new worlds born from tiny toys –
Who says you need instructions?

I planned to pen a profound verse,
Unraveling the universe,
But since I’m still finding my feet…
I settled for something short and sweet.

The sweet smell of Spring,
Brings forth tears to my eyes,
Is this a blissful feeling
Or hay fever in disguise?

Let your feet take your mind for a wander,
So your eyes can get a good gander,
At sights they may not have seen,
So when you return to your screen,
Your head will be filled with insight,
And your hands will be itching to write.

Zombie Haikus and Poetry Vol. I

The splatter of brain
Matter over virgin snow
Is how zombies paint.

Rain drops drip from damp
Leaves like rotting flesh falling
From grey fingertips.

Hands up who
Wants to get out
Of their grave?

They come in the night
Soft-shod shuffling from the
Graveyard to my door.

Brains are like porridge
For zombies as they both come
Warm and in a bowl.

Do zombies
In cold climates
Get brain freeze?

Why is it
You never see
Zombie poo?
All those brains
Go somewhere…

Upon spying the beautifully busty babe,
He rose up longingly from his grave,
With lust illuminating his features
Like sunbeams following a nuclear winter.
Yet the newborn zombie’s priorities had changed –
It saw past the girl’s boobs and went straight for her brain.