Where is Jason Oberheim?

Where is Jason Oberheim?
Is he doing overtime?
Was it him that told you why
he wasn't coming home tonight?
"He needs the work - the dough is tight" -
But he's the one that phoned you, right?
You shouldn't make this oversight.
It's heavy stuff. Vital stuff.

Cooking with Chocolate

For the second 'non-poetry' blog post, I attempt to explain why I took out the cooking with chocolate book from Barbican library two days ago.

But I can't. The picture just looks so tasty.

I thought I might try to write a poem that explored man's (some might say woman's) obsession with all thing chocolatey, but in beginning, the only conclusion I came to was that I really wanted some truffle. So a trip to Sainsbury's is in order.



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Now playing: The Airborne Toxic Event - Sometime Around Midnight

via FoxyTunes

Apt

Her apartment appeared
to dangle eight feet above the ground,
resounding like a sodden cloud -
a thunderous clang of bricks,
a scene from one of those epics.
Melting into one messy 'mezcla'
of 'hoorays' and 'hoorahs' -
an architectural masterpiece.

The 'hanging house', they called it.
It would swing in the rain
like a sling on a frame.
Some declared its splendour. Some spat.
'How could you sell crap like that?'
A common occurrence, the feeling arouses
hippocracy from those in glass houses.
But still, for her, it was apt.

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Now playing: Incubus - Admiration
via FoxyTunes

Tube - Have a Night Out

(So I find that I'm getting ideas whilst sitting on the Central line on my way to wherever I'm going, and the trains are smothered with ads for the latest this or that, so I use some of them as inspiration. This short, cheeky and slightly simplistic poem comes from an AMEX ad.)

Have a Night Out

Have a night out.
The lipstick,
the pouting,
the champagne,
those trout things,
the endless discussion,
the headaches,
concussion.
The hot date,
the first round,
the last train,
the underground,
the night bus,
the lip gloss,
the phonecall,
the lost keys,
the kerb-fall,
the knees,
and the crying,
and the crying,
and the weeping.

Trigger III & IV

III

Steadily failing
Realising the drone
A doubtless mechanism
To which we've all become so prone
Sanity trailing
Pushed out the back of our minds
So quick, so refined.

IV

In the clouded sky,
a little replica
of an understated friend.
The classy 'high-pay' customer
- wants all he can buy -
Tea sets with gold plated spoons
(If he could; the moon)

The Rickety Chariot

For a start,
it was being driven
on the wrong side of the road.
The old fart -
can't read,
can't drive.
Co-ordination of a halibut.
Stupid, rickety old chariot.

3 Line Poem

3
Line
Poem