Pam Ayers on crack

 

This poem is like a crumpled tissue.

It’s full of snot, piss and blood.

 

It is an opportunist

It ticks the right boxes

 

It has every letter of the alphabet

 of otherness – even the plus.

 

This poem went to a good school

Carefully, it hedges its bets

 

Note to judges – it has all of

the correct mental health issues

 

Fuck, shit, piss, bollocks.

It even has Tourette’s!

 

It’s the first among unequals.

Strange how, this fucked up mess

 

of drug litter, blood and puss

the tedious road back and its

 

endless narcissistic sequels

pleases, even down at the pub.

 

It must be the new fashion

for over-sharing

 

Pam Ayers on crack

competitive victimhood.

 

This poem is no fool.

It uses its glottal stop like a club.

Winter Olympics

In my opinion, we should penalise perfection.
Instead, we should award the laurel wreath
to those who try too hard 
who fail through an excess of self-belief;

those who ride the air like tumbling doves
and fall off; or who hurtle down sheets of ice 
on flimsy trays, with grace
refusing to accept the laws of gravity

or those who spin out of control
their limbs spread out like snow ploughs
pain etched onto their face 
as if they are puzzled by their catastrophe.