Poetry Samples

Dolly the run-away sex doll at Perth Poetry Club 03

BARBIE DOESN’T FART

Barbie is a plastic doll
that girls know very well,
designed in 1959
by the big boys
at Mattel.

Nothing much
has changed with her,
bar her colour
and her race.
She’s infested every continent
and soon she’ll be in space!

Come buy new Martian Barbie!
With her one seductive eye.
She comes with a naf,
pink space-ship,
which of course can’t fly.
Coz girly toys are flaccid,
ineffectual and weak.
To keep us girlies placid,
domesticated sheep.

They made her
to show us
how to look
when we grow up.
And if we find this tricky,
we must have
a nip’n’tuck.

Coz Barbie has
no body hair,
no pubes
and no…vagina!
And her face
is only painted on
with a pencil liner.

Although she has no fanny,
she dresses like a tart!
And Barbie has no anus,
so…
she cannot even fart!!
[Flatulent raspberry. ]
…What a useless doll!

At least,
if she could do that,
girls could fill her bum with gas
and let rip on their brothers
and their teachers
to be crass.

But Barbie is so useless
that she cannot even stand!
She cannot even bend,
or hold an object
in her hand.

As a child
I would have loved
to have an action G.I Jane,
who could stand
and toss a hand-grenade
and fly a fighter-plane.

Who was muscular and capable
and drove a Sherman tank.
Who came with high explosives,
so she could rob a bank!

But lame arse bloody Barbie…
With her lame-arse camper van…
And her lame-arse f#%#*ing pony,
That cannot even stand!

Barbie’s not a woman.
She’s just a plastic doll!
and if you want
to look like that,
try taking Nembutal!

Coz Barbie’s not a woman!
She’s not even art!
She’s a silly,
piece of plastic,
that doesn’t even…[Long flatulent raspery]

By Helen Child

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WAR

What is war?

Some say
it’s a human thing.
But biologists know
that ain’t so.

Some say
it’s a male thing.
But school girls know
that’s bullshit!

A warrior fights
the war within.
A soldier fights
the war without.

War is external,
Internal,
one-sided,
mutual,
CORPORATE!

War is expedient,
convenient,
PROFITABLE.

It’s about taking
what we want
and defending
what we have.

War is about possession
and dispossession.

If evil is the absence
of empathy.
Then the need for war
must come
from a powerful fear
that we will miss out,
or lose face.
So we annihilate
that perceived threat.

Lest we forget
and we do…
Over and over…

The war on Terror!
The war on aphids!
The war on filth!
Or on our best mate
When love turns to hate.
Or on ourselves
when we’re afraid
to accept who we are
for fear of loosing
who we’re supposed to be!

Is war a state of insanity?
Do you suffer from war?
Absence of empathy?
Fear of annihilation?
Need for revenge?
Demand for power?
Complete control
at any price?!
NO NEGOTIATION!!!

So I ask you…
What is peace?

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MARLOWE’S GRAVE (short version)

[ Joyful Elizabethan music plays as Kit Marlowe drunkenly swaggers to stage, stabbing audience members as he goes.]

Some wish to find my unmarked grave
in old Deptford’s lonely lot
and dig me up,
for tourist buck
and a fancy memorial plot.

A tomb with gaudy decotáge
and angels blowing horns,
a poncy-looking effigy,
commanding hoots and scorns.

Saying, “Here lies wondrous Marlowe,
Shakespeare’s inspiration,
who died at only 29…
of terminal masturbation.”

Oh, give me not the fanfare
of that haughty, bearded strumpet.
Spare me such a tizzy end
with all thoughs trills and trumpets!

Will Shakespeare’s ‘splendid’ monument
befits his flouncy plays,
whilest my mouldy, dark
and lonely plaque
fits mine in many ways.

Fair Will, was carried to his rest
by cherubs in the sky,
whilest I did meet my maker
with bloody stab in eye!

“Stabd this Marlowe into the eye
in such a sort that his braynes
coming out at the dagger point,
he shortly after… dyed!”

But many think my death a hoax
because I was a spy!

Buried hastily, by Masons
in a lone, unmarkéd grave,
to rise again before the sun,
a resurrected knave!

And off to sunny shores of France,
in dead of night I sailed
and on to intrigues dear and dark,
as my luck prevailed.

Spying for the Queen, they say,
and writing works for Will.
And onward down to hell, perhaps?
when luck had fallen ill.

Oh, Will,… Will’st thou compare me
to a wretched summer’s day?
My bones are old and mouldy
and a-rotting in the clay!

But what if life and all of time
were just a villain’s dream.
Romantic love,
a trick of light
upon a mountain stream.
Where still I dream my shepherd,
with those roses in his locks
and Sir Walter Rarleigh’s black reply….
before he got the chop!

Don’t dig me up for want of coin!
Don’t spoil my mystery.
Leave my secrets to the loam…
It doth besuitest me.

Malfunction Spinbull Turniphead 5

MONKEY BRAINS

I hate monkeys.
Murderous, raping, vicious,
little beasts,
obsessed
with their own popularity.
I’ve got more sympathy
for a cockroach on the street!

As for apes,
they’re just glorified flunkeys.
I hate monkeys!
I hate their
mask-like faces,
close-set, beady eyes,
toothy sneers,
flapping ears,
imposing HOOTS!
and their busy, little hands.

But worse,
is their incessant chatter,
about mindless rubbish
that doesn’t matter!
Man-apes
have invented
sub-woofers!
so they can hoot and howel
with delight,
blasting their babble
as loud as they like…
Like a monkey’s grind organ
from hell!

They’re even blasting it
into outer space as well!
Hoping some poor,
distant race
will find it interesting.

[ Sighs. Then looks pensive]

Sometimes,
when I look in the mirror
I see a monkey
staring back…[ pulls monkey faces]
and that worries me,
because
of what monkeys do.

Today, monkeys are shrieking,
because
the BBC
has made a documentary
about an old man-ape,
choosing to die,
peacefully, in his bed.

The monkeys said,
“Oo! Ooo,Ooo! Aah!
It’s too graphic!
It will cause
viewer distress!”
They said
they would rather
he be shot dead,
or,
blown up in his bed
like the people we see
on the nightly news.

Oh! What a ratings booster
is man!
Oooooooh! [monkey noises]

To ensure
that we never go
back to the trees,
we’re chopping them down
to every degree!
Turning
a once fertile,
breath-taking planet,
of intricately beautiful,
intelligent life,
into a life-less,
waste bump.
Why?
To fuel a technology
that will blast us,
into the vastness
of vacuous space!

And why???
To find
intelligent life of course
and
to mine
the fuck out of everything!

That’s monkey logic for you!
And to forge
a brave, new world,
not half as good
as the one
we’ve just bolloxed!
But, hey,
at least we
will have control
and control
is vital
to the monkey.

According to monkey logic,
the greatest, creative,
controlling force
of the universe…
is in fact,
a giant monkey!
Which makes no
logical sense at all…
except
to monkeys.

The oversized,
monkey brain,
so auspicious,
has one true virtue…
It tastes delicious!

So, if we monkeys
do find
an intelligent race,
in the desolate wilds
of deep outer space…

I hope
it eat us.

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MANGO

Sex! is a mango…
Delicious, curvaceous and ready to tango!
Sex! is an organic, orgasmic mango!
Pesticide free. Ripe as can be!
Sex! is a chomp into succulent flesh.

The “ahhhh!” and the”mmmm”
as our bodies enmesh.
Devouring kisses while juices are streaming.
The flavour explodes and transports us to dreaming.
Warm gush of ecstasy, head to toe.
Nothing will force me to let this fruit go!

And as with my sex life, the fruit is now gone.
Leaving me sated, yet, sadly forlorn.
The flower it brought me is now in the bin,
along with its seed and along with it’s skin.

I want to forget it, but try as I might,
all I can think about
day and night, all that I crave for
is just one more bite!!!

Sex! is an organic, orgasmic mango!
Delicious, curvaceous and ready to tango!
By Helen Child

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METAMORPHOSIS

My Mother would ask,
“When are you going to change, my dear,
into a beautiful butterfly
and sore aloft,
with gilded wings,
into the morning sky?

Your brother has changed.
He looks most debonair,
with his fashionable clothes
and his nicely cut hair.
Your cousins have changed.

Look at them see-
He looks like a man
and she looks like a she.
But what an earth, dear,
are you trying to be?!

The hair on your head
is fuzzy and short.
You spend all your time
playing muscle-bound sport!

You dress like a punk
and your legs are all hairy.
That skull on your t-shirt
looks evil and scary!

You stay up all night
cavorting about.
When I knock
on your door
you’re always out!
And why are your mornings
so filled with sloth?!

Because Mother dearest,
I have changed into
a beautiful, ravishing
Death’s Head moth.

By Helen Child

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THE G WORD

Woman!
Nigger!
Woman!
Nigger!
Girl!
Nigger!
Ya holler like a nigga!
Ya run like a girl!
Stupid girl!
Useless girl!

Ya cry like a girl!!!!!!

So why aren’t they banning
the G word as well?

By Helen Child

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