Having picked up the poetry bug from my last trip to Jawdance, the open-mic evening of spoken performance that takes place every last Wednesday of the month at London’s Rich Mix Arts Centre in Shoreditch, I was eager to give it another bash. However, having arrived a few minutes after seven, I was 25th in line. Alas, being on the reserve list meant I was due for a disappointment. I and several others had no chance to give oral pleasure – of the recitation kind, that is. Stung by this disappointment – no one would now hear my meditation on the mystery that is DR ROU (rhymes with, well, you know) – I found myself composing something new.
RECRUITMENT DRIVE
Please sir, I’d like to become
A warrior poet
‘Take your place in line,
We’ll get to you shortly’
Please sir, I’d like to whinge
Of solace under moth-like wings
Be an iambic metered cab that sings
Of cyclists, rage and other things
Pray sir, a connection’s what I seek
On tube or bus I sneak a peek
Or leak if I have had an ale
Before I set off to Camber-well
Manic, hispanic, hyper-dynamic
I raise my voice in tones Germanic
What kind of project is solitudinous?
Oh, standing at a bus stop in the nud-ious
The five-two diet prompts a belly roar
I should stop eating football scores
One man sculpts with salty sea foam
Another cries rape with a megaphone
Peaches, Peaches, where is Peaches
Peaches, peaches, the man beseeches
Peaches, Peaches, he’s wearing breeches.
Maybe we’ll find you near some beaches.
JJ, JJ is missing too
It’s time for your slot – three minutes are due
Raymond plugs Russia Today
Happy to admit he isn’t gay
There are films, double features
But this time, no ex-teachers
A strange lady with a Union Jack bag
What do you carry in a Union Jack bag?
Copies of a book, unread, sad
I’d like to teach the world to sing
But only after I learn myself
To record every answer phone greeting
A facsimile of perfect health
Is it possible that the man with gun
Can take a breath before he’s done?
Will Philip Schofield take offence?
Imagined as a six foot tench
Caribbean memories, domestic violence
Boys on long journeys, prayers and hyacinths
A young ‘un with a nest in his desk
McIntyre puts us all to the test
It’s ten o’clock – I haven’t spoken
He doesn’t know, I am heart broken
The MC fares-well, offers Capri Sun
To the soldiers that have been shunned
25 September 2013
