Debt

Debt swallowed the sun
Debt stole the stars
Debt loaded the gun
And crashed all the cars

Debt packed its punch
Debt pinched your purse
When we laid out the lunch
Debt eat it up first

Debt said “obey me!”
Forced me to lie
Murdered the babies
Then walked on by


And debt is a swindler
Banging our door
And debt is a monster
Hungry for more
And debt is the grist
That grinds the machine
The rich men get pissed
On the sweat of our dreams

Debt made each night
A sleepless endurance
Debt nicked the bike
And claimed the insurance


Debt led us distressed
In its drunken dance
Got us undressed
Pointed and laughed

Debt slept in our bed
Debt took all it wanted
Breathed down your neck
And left my days haunted

And if I didn’t love you
Nor know it was wrong
I could bruise you blue
With the pain of this song
And if you didn’t want me
If our bond wasn’t strong
You could walk to the sea
With one wave and be gone

Debt loved to say yes
It smiled its advice
Then returned with a threat
Til we paid back debt twice

Now all we have left
Is the life left in us
So let’s swear on each breath
That it won’t kill our love
Let’s swear on each breath
That it won’t kill our love

Twooooooooooooo

Joss is three months shy of being two. Two is one of her favourite words. It is pronounced twooooooooooooooo with great excitment. One being something you might expect - one birdy, one lolly, one mummy but twoooooooooooo emphasising surprise, hilarity and general high living.

Lately she has also been categorising things around the flat in to twooooooooo categories, Mummy and Daddy.

Despite my attempts to pull my weight on the domestic front, she still points at the mop and says Mummy, while the skid-marks down the side of the toilet bowl are called "Daddy".

Her vocabulary is expanding quickly at the moment to the tune of three or four new words a day and frankly, will soon be overtaking mine. Luckily I belong to the school of poets who enjoy brevity and simplicity. One of my favourite classroom excercises is the one where you try to create a poem out of only eight words and recently I tried this using the first 8 words/phrases that Joss spoke. These were Mumma, Daddy, uh-oh, thata, doggie, happy, happydays and bye-bye. (When you list them like that they sound like characters from a tele-tubbies spin-off)

Here's the poem...

Thata happy Mumma
Thata happy happy Mumma

Thata happy daddy
Thata happy happy Daddy

Uh-oh bye-bye
Uh-oh bye-bye Daddy

Uh-oh bye-bye
Uh-oh bye-bye Mumma

Uh-oh bye-bye
Uh-oh bye-bye
Uh-oh bye-bye
Daddy-mumma

Thata Doggie!
Thata Doggie!
Doggie! Doggie!Doggie!
Thata happy doggie!

Happy happy happy happy
Happy happy happydays.

Zoo

Last week Joss and Juliet went to the zoo and all I got out of it was this little poem...

What the tortoise taught us
When we saw him in the zoo
Was to take a bit of lettuce
And chew and chew and chew

And chew and chew and chew
And chew and chew and chew

That's what the tortoise taught us
When we saw him in the zoo

The Double Acrostic

An acrostic is a type of poem in which each line starts with the letters that spell out the name of the thing that the poem is all about. Teachers love getting children to write acrostic poems (maybe it's the spelling thing?) but they don't seem to be as popular with poets. Double acrostics are even more ridiculous. Each line has to end with the same letters that they started with, like for instance....G od it's frustratin G...

I'm off to a school in Hastings tomorrow and one of my many mission's was going to involve getting some children to produce a double acrostic about holes that they could later develop into a dance with a professional dancer. And to do it all in twenty minutes. But as it took me so long, far too long, to write the thing below, I think I'll stick to a single acrostic tomorrow...

H ard to get hold of like breath and the trut H
O ften admired for it's art on the pol O
L ook out! or they might kil L
E mptiness is everything they ar E
S pades might've made them. Or maybe spoon S

Do feel free to post your favourite double-acrostics below. x

Daddy Disastar

Juliet has gone to work. We have waved her goodbye from the window. Today is a childcare day, but as Big Cook Little Cook is on Cbeebies (no accounting for taste) I get ten minutes to write.

I am hopelessly behind on my Dads Dictionary project. Between the beginning of December and the end of this month I am supposed to have written thirty new poems on the theme of Dads. But instead Joss had pig flu, we moved house and we had the world and his wife over for Christmas. I think I might have just about have completed one. Still, I'm back on board now and forever hopeful, juggling about about a dozen half-written ones.

Of the poems in progress, "Daddy Disaster" is probably the one that most describes the sort of Dad I am. Hands on but chaotic and in a practical sense, utterly hopeless.....


He lives in a house that’s all lopsided
Where the chores aren’t done and the drawers aren’t tidied
His van is wrecked and his driving's wreckless
His favourite outfit is his breakfast
How did he get to become a father?
Ladies and Gentlemen - Daddy Disaster

The hand he lends is crammed with thumbs
One job to do’s too much at once
Who broke the toilet? Do you have to ask?
Can he fix it? No, he can’t.
If you wanna make a mess then meet the master
Welcome to the world of Daddy Disaster


Who cut himself on a pencil sharpener?
Coloured his face in fluorescent marker?
Sat his bottom down on a wet banana?
Set his hair alight with a harmless sparkler?
Yes, you're right,you've guessed the answer
Ladies and Gentlemen - Daddy Disaster

She Was The Last To Know

Between me, her and her mother, my girlfriend was the last to know she was pregnant. After the result of the second test confirmed it, she fixed me with a hazy stare and called me "a freeky, weiredy witch-man" for knowing all along.

But I have no special powers, only the simple powers of everyday observation. And here's how I knew.

1. Arguments. We tend to argue once, at the same time, every month. No, not at the time of her period, more like at the time of mine which just so happens to coincide with me withdrawing ridiculous amounts of money out of an already overdrawn bank account to pay bills and debts. But what would normally amount to a short burst of heavy shouting followed by a sour hour of sulking, on this ocassion was so relentless and intense that I decided to flee the assault by leaping out of the car at the traffic lights and storming off into the middle of nowhere. At least I wasn't the one driving.

2. Hysteria. A text message from a family member, which under normal circumstances to my usually rational lady would have barely raised an eyebrow and a tut, instead induced half an hour of crazy weeping and a impromptu decision to disown the "bloody lot of them".

3. An exaggerated sense of smell. I farted in bed. This is not unusual. But on this occassion it was met with utter revulsion and condemened as "the worst one I have done...ever", when clearly it wasn't even in the top five. She then immediately turned over and farted herself (No.4, Flatulance)

5. Sex. Despite both of us being continuiously exhausted from our work and having to share a bed with our daughter who has now grown too big for the cot, we had actually managed to have sex the previous month. Now, I'm no scientist but I do believe that the act of full intercourse may make pregnancy a possibilty. In her state of irrational denial (no.6?), Juliet maintained that you had to do it at least twice.

When Juliet finally excused herself to take test, my main emotion, however was fear. Not fear of the new baby and all the ensuing anxiety and expense but fear that I might be wrong and I was now living with a crazy lady and one with terrible and unexplainable wind.

Where I Try To Convince Myself This Is A Good Idea

I've three poetry projects on the go right now, which all somewhat converge around the theme of fatherhood. I'm writing a fictional spoken word theatre show about a teenager who becomes a father, which is interlinked with generic poems about Dads which I'm hoping to amalgamate into some kind of publishable (or more likely self-publishable) manuscript. And I'm also planning to put together some kind of confessional comedy show called "The Unlikely Dads" with friend, fellow poet and new Dad Johnny Fluffypunk for the Brighton Fringe Festival this May.

Amongst the half written rhymes and notebook doggerel, I will inevitably be sharing something of my life with Juliet and our 18 month old daughter, Joss. Juliet is 9 weeks pregnant and expecting our second child this August, so this blog will also serve as some sort of personal record of the drama, farce (and who knows? comedy, tragedy?)that will no doubt unfold over the next seven months or so.

Oh, and I'm going to try and keep the posts short.