"Entschuldigung"

I sit in a flat.


I am not alone.

But I am.

The language fascinates me.

I hear my name.

And the laughter that follows.

Is it At or With?

Entschuldigung! Ich verstehe nicht...


I really don't.

A Mixing Recipe

Start with an equal mixture
of sugar and flour;
To sweeten the deal,
And provide a stable base.

Crack one or two jokes,
To bind together the beginning
With something... Interesting.
Be careful to avoid any shell.

Separate the albumen and yoke,
Whisking the whites until fluffy.
Slowly... very slowly, add sugar to this,
To firm the mixture until it forms a stiff peak.

While this is happening, have a pan,
Not quite boiling,
On the hob.
Melt some rich chocolate using a Pyrex bowl until it becomes slightly sticky.

Insert the spoon.
Keep the chocolate away from the sides,
Mixing steadily now,
With a gentle, yet firm motion.

Put mixture in oven and turn heat up to 300 degrees Celsius.

Bake for nine months.

The Offending Article

Disclaimer: This poem was not written by the poet of this blog. He has standards.

Ode to Rob

Rob, Rob
You are a knob.
And for the purpose of rhymes,
You're also a slob.

I look at you, sat over there,
Oh how I envy you have no hair!

You're playing some shit on your ukulele,
Oh what a shame you'll never lay....
Eggs!

I must end this poem with a final line,
You asked for steak,
But I just dont have the time!

BOOM!

A response to an insult

Dear Miss Cotton,
I'd quite forgotten,
How rotten
you'd gotten.

You wrote me a poem,
While in my home:
Apparently, the insult dome.
Still... when in Rome...

I'll return the favour,
Commenting on your poor behaviour.
To be your saviour,
Before this gets graver.

You really must stop,
With the insults that pop
from your mouth. So chop
and swap
your words. All the way from the very top.

Don't comment on how I'm bald,
Instead, say you're enthralled,
By the poems I have scrawled
And posted on my blog; fully installed.

For you!

Be nice.
Think twice,
Before rolling the dice
When choosing your words...
Christ!

This has gone on too long.

Picking Cotton

We met at the gigis,
By the meat sarnies,
Your dress was down to you knees,
While I needed the breeze
of the wind between the trees.
These are the details I remember with ease.

I recall I won some cash,
So I decided to splash
out on a flash
looking tank with a slash
in its price. Brash?

I thought not, but you thought so,
Filled with woe,
At the waste of my dough,
My seeds thrown without the sow,
No investments I'd only blow.

Now I feel I know you better,
Although the eyes get wetter,
At the mistakes I make,
The risks I take,
Trying to be nice,
Listening to your advice,

On how I can be that happy medium.

I'm Seeing Someone

The term is puzzling.
Illogical.
I see my mother most days,
But I certainly wouldn't.

I'm not... whatsisname.

The Austrian.
With the windows.

No!

Without.

In this modern age,
It is the done thing,
Leaving some at a disadvantage.

Stuck in the past.

A la mode.
QUOI?

Who on Earth thought this offers the same romance as dating?
Going out?
Being in a relationship?

Shakespeare, Byron, Keats.
They are all rolling in their graves,
Like a synchronised deceased dancing team.
Their lessons have not passed on to us, clearly.

'Oh no, I'm seeing someone'.

I can barely bring myself to say it!
My voice fills with scorn when I make the attempt.
A ridiculous name for a ridiculous concept.

I really am stuck in the past.
A past I was never a part of.

How ironic.

Dating and the Third World

The newsflash scrolls across my eyes:
"Drought Hits Africa."

I understand, dear Africa.

I myself am experiencing a drought of sorts,
Of warmth and love and tender flesh.
Of long, enduring glances,

Romantic and clichéd.

The dry season has been too long and I truly think I can empathise.

I do not mean to offend, dear Africa.

It is not life or death, like you.

My children, however, suffer too.

"Starvation in African countries reaches record numbers."

The swollen bellies of the children on the report,

They remind me of the swelling of my...

Desperate for the release from their suffering.

They need a successful date,

Even a one night stand.

Pushing morals aside to do what must be done.

For you, dear Africa, help is easier.

Noone judges your looks in order to give you aid.

You do not have to endure dancing in town,

without alcohol,

A sober penguin on land,

In order to impress.

If only girls used libraries to connect.

Swap digits.

Silence and the written word,

Speaking in volumes.