It’s 10 hours to go!

New year!

Woo!

I love new year.

Happy happy happy happy happy happy new year.

All you lovely people. Cheers, and thank you, and happy happy happy new year.

It was very nice.
Still 11 hours to go though, so plenty of time for everything to go really badly wrong.

Dear lady.

Firstly, I would like to know that I am terribly happy for you.
Your very proximity to your boyfriend - as a whole, without even beginning to -*ahem*- enter the specific situation I have written to address, allows myself and everyone else on Oxford street to know that you are very much in love, and have an extremely healthy sex life.

Well done, on that front. Well done you.

I have, many times, seen people walking about with their hands in their partner’s back pockets before.
Many times.
Many many times.

When, I say back pockets, lady, let me be clear, I do not intend it as a euphemism for the human ’sphincter’, or ‘bumhole’.

I meant, y’know, the convenient pieces of material, stitched to the inside or outside of the trouser facility for the purposes of storage. For money and keys and lighters and such.

Lady, I understand this dual usage as hand storage.
It is good for warmth and mild groping.

however, i must question the comfort - for yourself and your dear manmate, of having your hand actually stuffed down the back of his trousers, And Underwear, as you walked along Britain’s busiest shopping street.

Partly because, and believe me, I didn’t *want* to notice, partly because the drips from your communal umbrella were finding safe passage down his bottomcrack, and partly because you hand really really was wedged in there.

Quite a Long Way Down there.

And this, for public consumption, I feel - and do call me a prude - was slightly too far.
And again, I understand the ‘warmth’ benefits of nestling, wrist deep, between…. Well, only you know how deep, but, for the sake of humanity, my mental picture ability and your own dignity, get a pair of gloves.

I’ll pay.

Lady, lady, Too Far Down. That is all.

anna.

and, as a girl, is has been decreeded that I must like

That was brief shit.

The snow is now rain again.

*grunpf*

from my window,
snow, which cannot decide if it wants to be snow or rain,
dancing about
with the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral behind it.

Bob monkhouse is dead, which is a sad, if not unexpected thing.

He was very good at the one line thing. He made me laugh.

“When I said I was going to become a comedian, they all laughed. Well, they’re not laughing now. ”

and to a quiet audience;

“They say that laughter is the best medicine, but you? No, you had to chose valium…”

It is cold and rainy, and someone funny has died.

Happy Christmas if you’re celebrating the birth of christ this year.

Just ‘happy’ if you’re not, as I’m not, and I’m going away fora few days, and I’ll be back on monday the 29th, and go and read the smashing piece of Brand new* content on ‘Tis the season.

*Of course ‘brand new’ is now a week old.
Bottoms.

So.
‘Happy’, then.

I hope you were all judged ‘good’ and not found wanting, and thus given many piles of presents.
Or at least lots of food.
Or perhaps one of those stubby Belgian beers you get in multipacks at safeways.
Or a lump of coal.
Or something.

‘Happy’.
You are?
Good.

To prove that poems don’t have to rhyme. Or scan.
Only, to be quite honest, I think it’s probably safer if mine do one or the other

It’s three days before christmas, and I have a cough.
Outside it’s cold.
I think, perhaps, we should have chilli tonight.
The baby Jesus would want us to.

Sometimes I manage to think of things rational,
Christmas things, rationally
and then I have to start thinking about something else
and then I realise
that Christmas isn’t very rational.
Unless you believe in that kind of thing.

You know, virgin birth and that.
If you believe in Virgin Birth and angles in the sky, and glowing babies and magic stars.
If you believe in these things, then Christmas is, apparently, rational.

Thinking of it again, I’m not sure how believing in virgin birth makes Christmas more rational.

I mean, let us be honest
it is about as far from ‘rational’ as you can get.

As an idea, it left ‘Rational’ on a little donkey several weeks ago,
and will shortly be
crossing the city lines of ‘OhCom’on’

I do not like your talk of angles in the sky neither.

There are no angles in the sky.
The sky is very smooth, and rounded.
I like the sky more than I like Christmas.

Publicitry

If attempts at bad poems is boring you is
Theres much better seasonal stuff over at ‘Tis

Problems with rhyming

Sitting about feeling some bored and some listless
I started to think about the humble satsuma
The satsuma, being a symbol of Christmas
Has nothing that rhymes with it much, ‘part from ‘Puma’

(it is worth noting at this point that of the satsuma and the puma, that only one of these things is edible, if you are allergic to oranges.)

Abandoning the ‘uma’s’ I have come to the orange
Also quite popular this time of year
But this makes me problems in the shape of the ’syringe’
which may rhyme* but tisn’t a symbol of ‘cheer’

(It is worth noting, at this point that of the orange and syringe, both are painful if you are allergic to oranges. Both are also painful if stuck up your bum)

*sort of.

a haiku on the subject of my ability to write haiku

It’s clear that often I
confuse ‘haiku’ with
poor sentence construction.

A haiku on the subject of the other haiku i just wrote

It wasn’t really a haiku:
it was cut short
by urination.

a haiku.

The days will get longer.
I need a wee.