WRITTEN, SPOKENPOETRY

The Camp Cadet and Chums gig went incredibly well! Everybody was a star, including Ruby Basara, the ever-musical Katie Hearsey, Bob and the controversial Chris Dangerfield :all incredible.

Stephen Bailey was indeed The Camp Cadet and a most fantastic host: nearly £400 was raised for the charity DEBRA. Comedy for a good cause. Thumbs up!

So, to share and share alike, here are the poems performed as written previous to and performed on the night. Thank you to everyone who came, I was a bag of nerves but your lovely laughter and true appreciation of the art of lyrical verse (hahahhahaha) swept all those fears away.

It was brilliant. I’ll be swooning for days. Thankyou 🙂

QUALITY STREET

(For Lauren Bouttell)

Quality Street.

Technicolour foil fancies

In a purple box, or a clunky hexagonal tin.

Quality Street,

You sneak up on us each Christmas.

You’re the original celebrations chocolate but you’re around

ALL YEAR

Stood next to the Maltesers.

Ah. No-one notices then

WOAH!

Like the unpopular girl who gets a summer makeover

It’s September, they’re already selling tinsel and

You’re different.

We double-take you in Tesco.

Mmmmmmm.

…Quality.

Actually, no.

I do not think you are quality.

Take this.

The purple one.

You are nameless,

Labelled only by your colour.

You are discriminated against, purple one.

That’s not equality.

Quality Street,

You’re not quality, neither are you street.

You are no happening chocolate.

Quality Street: No.

You lie, chocolate box.

If life were a box of you,

Life would know exactly what it was going to get.

Annoyingly tasteless

Green noisettes.

Green noisettes.

Look at you, Green Noisette!

You are just chocolate filled with soft chocolate.

You think you are truffle when,

You are

A wannabe ferrerro rocher.

But you do not have the nuts.

Quality Street.

Just…no.

We all do things we regret and feel bad about. Sometimes, poetry can make you feel less alone in this respect.

This poem is called

Primark Guilt

(For Luke Walker)

There was a snood for £1.50

I was petrified,

There was a oversized cashemere knit:

Some goat suicide.

I had a choice to walk on by

And get one crew neck shirt, not five

I can’t deny

I want to buy

At Primark!

Better than Greggs pasties

And unfortunately you’re the one stop shop for cheap panties

If I want a knock-off Mulberry bag

Worn every other…thrift spender

Then I will buy

For just a tenner

At Primark

You’ve even got silk linen

And even if they won’t survive the cleanin’

I’m like the angry granny bargin’

At the Next sale in the morning

But that’s not right

Primark’s not alright

Oh no I

I feel guilt,

At purging my wallet there,

At Primark I actually purchased another wallet there

But knowing how those jeans are made

And how the tailors don’t get paid

I feel guilt

It’s Primark Guilt

Now I’m like the mums

Who post on forums during naptime wishing they’d never bought woolly crumbs as an excuse for proper clothing

All the children in Haiti

All the mothers in Hungary

Primark Guilt

It’s Primark Guilt!

Letter to *****.

Dear -.

I never gave this letter to you.

My mother said you are Not. Worth. A. Stroke.

I tried to not think about her phrasing too much,

She must have meant the penstrokes you make when you’re writing.

Anyway.

I figured you would be too busy to read this

Because you are a musician.

-.

I know full well how your time is split,

Commitments to the muses and to the proleteriat grit.

You like to call it

“Drinking”.

All pockets of time are precious when your vision;

Your life = a passage romantic,

Like clockwork, you would say

every Tuesday evening, at about ten pm

How this world is too deprived

Of your romantic vision, so

In keeping with your most romantic life.

O,

How my brain itched and shivered against my skull.

Because romance to you, ex-love

Is hash brownies and South Park (Bigger and Uncut).

So, thankyou, Dave, for the return of my possessions, knickers, photos,

All those remnants of love, longings, moments shared and captured.

You chucked ‘em all in a binbag,

Drove to the door at seven o’clock in the morning,

For the final “hug”.

I nearly forgave you,

But you gave back that slag’s cardigan.

No -, it’s not mine.

Dear *****,

I never gave this letter to you.

Letters are so easily posted into the wrong holes.

Much like your penis.

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2 responses to “WRITTEN, SPOKENPOETRY

  1. The last poem is golden! Planning to do any more spoken poetry in the future?

    • Hello ‘ello. Aw thankyou 😉 felt so good writing it. Hopefully there’ll be more gigs. Just a case of where & when.

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