Monkey sex god

Let’s speak of Russell Edward Brand

The owner of a mighty gland

His seminal fecundity

Recalls the rakes of history

His natural proclivity

For rutting shows  supremacy

For with his beads and tousled hair

Russell is Casanova’s heir

Astride his leather trousered tool

A libertine and jesting fool

He breached the walls of film and rock

And beat all comers with his cock

He’s squired hundreds, it is said

Out of doors and in his bed

Against the wall or in his shed

To Katie Perry he was wed

Jemima, Geri and the rest

Put randy Russell to the test

Fresh-faced Kate Moss, he had her too

Asda were doing three for two

An affront to the world of men

He tickled us with with dick and pen

Russell the revolutionary

R0used the mob to apathy

Speaking on the Paxman show

He attacked the status quo

Russell ruled the red top news

And posted on his blog, the trews

With disarming lucidity

Through page and screen and DVD

He showed us what is to be

A sexual celebrity

Not too old to rock and roll

He took a spin in Courtney’s hole

Combining his prolixity

With mystical profundity

A million blogs and Tweets he sired

Then to Henley he retired

Now – shocking news for Essex lad

He’s only going to be a dad!

His trouser monster limp and still

He’ll have a lot of time to fill

Perhaps Russell will learn to cook

Or write another bookie wook

Can he show us that a man’s

More than the measure of his glans?

By withdrawing his manhood

And only screwing those he should?

Will he leave world of glamour

And lay aside his velvet hammer?

Merely rely on punditry

Or trade in stand-up comedy?

Will he take himself in hand?

They’re all as one for Russell Brand –

Satyr, film star and guru

The monkey sex god of the zoo

Sky walkers

 

Spinning like gossamer down the cliff face 
watch them dancing on gravity
They ply their trade lightly –
in their shining world, they are weightless.
They are sky walkers, not artisans.
Only one footprint from calamity
they bring us stories of eternity.
At least they are not charlatans.
In their aerial ballet is artistry.
As they dangle in space and time
polishing their glass walls to brilliance 
their skill lies in their mastery
of the ordinary and the sublime.
Like true artists, they don’t need us.

The understudy

Heir to a Tweeted conspiracy
Imprisoned in luxury
He is the ultimate understudy
His wife – an accessory

Carefully, we itemise her
He smiles weakly, his hair is thin
Each expression is a metaphor
In nature, he would be the hen
There is almost a tragedy
In his carefully folded poise
Function denies identity
In the illusion of ordinariness
For he is supposed to be like us
Son of a murdered princess

The idle prince

Officialphotographs of Prince William and his family skiing fuelled growing criticismin the British press on Tuesday (March 8) of the "workshy" royal,driven by frustration at his perceived reluctance for a life in the public eye.

With the brave heart of a lion

He watches the sky or scratches his behind

An English Sunday: the smell of roasting venison

Wafts across the solarium

His wife is trying on her new hat

She is part clothes horse part fashion plate

Sometimes the strain of expectation

Shows on her perfect face

One day a Tweet will come

The old man will be gone

The garden looks rather unruly

Should he fly the helicopter?

And the next holiday. Barbados or Monserrat

Do not suppose that it is not a huge burden

To pretend to have a job and to embody luxury

While appearing to be ordinary

Someone must feed the peacocks

And programme the fountains
One day, he’ll have to mow the Home Counties

To say that he, William, is work shy

The understudy to an elderly heir

How unfair! It is no mean thing

To wear the Polo shirt of state

Please do not accuse him of indolence!

It’s a tough job being a prince.

His sole purpose is to wait

 

Must try harder

It peered warily through the fence
like a stranger at the fair.
As pale as a slum child
it was too weak to climb the stairs.
It displayed itself reluctantly
when it turned up at all.
It needed prompting constantly
and there was no curtain call.
Like an argument that lacked rigour
it was tentative. It drew back.
In short, there was a want of vigour
there was no strength in its attack.
We need to put the food in the larder.
Next year, the sun must try harder.

My father's clothes (part two)

Why do I dislike so much to dress smartly
Could it be, perhaps, to piss you off?
You barely noticed me anyway
My big days, it seems, were not big enough

Carefully, you avoided the foreground
There was no sense of occasion for you
And yet, often, when I am slopping around
With no shame, splattered with paint and glue

I am touched by our strange similarity
Waiting in the wardrobe, you are still here
I can breathe you in, step into your shadows
Your slowness, the language we did not share

Our arguments have faded into history
You would not have noticed the irony
Of my reluctance to wear smart clothes
You only had one suit, dad. So do I.

I can hear your slow, patient voice
And remember what you showed me
When I am touching a piece of wood
Your clothes and books, boxed up for charity

The Age of the Unpleasnt

What hell is this, from whence came these towers?

Who toppled them? A poisoned land is ours

The neutered Lion prowls his rusty cage

Aroused by blood, the horrors of our Age

A rising tide of pestilence and war

Sniffing blood he makes a muted roar

The puffed up chump displays synthetic hair

The riled Eagle strokes the angry Bear

Defend our Sacred Land, the idiot calls

Draw the shutters down, raise up the walls

Give up your life, for it is Nature’s law

the weak must pay the price; the rich need more

Unleashed the pumped up chump spouts sloganry

Rousing the mob with spray tan tyranny

He'll trade in death, unsheath an iron claw

Who will defend the stateless and the poor?

This tyrant rules a cruel menagerie

His toxic dream, reversing history