Peom. That’s right – PEOM

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November 9, 2012 by Lindsay Sharman

I wrote a performance poem about Halloween/Bonfire night/Christmas, and then performed it and realised it wasn’t very funny. So! I’ve slapped it on here instead, because my blog is where I dump the barrel-scrapings of my mind. Rather than euthanise these ideas with dignity, I leave them here to be ignored in public, like the man shouting about Jesus on the bus. Not that I’m suggesting that the mentally unwell should be euthanised. I’m really not. I’d lose a lot of friends if that were the case, and the comedy open mic circuit would be deserted.

This is performance poetry, remember. So when you read this, may I suggest you shout it out loud and do a bit of aggressive pointing. Especially if you’re on the bus.

Here we go……

I went to a Halloween party dressed as a tarty
Because ‘Halloween whore’ is wut you do even when you’re an ancient thirty-two,
And the slutty witch that you’re wearing is what you’re slowly becoming.
“Convincing warts, Lindsay!”
“Thanks. You should see my undercarriage.”

I lie.
No-one invited me to their party.
Don’t know why.
And I’m actually thirty-one, but it didn’t rhyme.

Fireworks night next, to thrill at explosions but from a safe distance.
Move further away guys, that’s right, move further, and further away. Bit further. Back a bit. Back a bit. Back a bit. Back a bit. Back a bit. Back a bit. Back a bit. Back a bit. Back a bit. Back a bit. Back a bit. Back a bit. Back a bit. Back a bit. Back a bitBack a bit. Back a bit. Back a bit. Back a bit. Back a bit. Back a bit. And back a bit.
Back a bit. Back a bit. Back a bit. Back a bit. Back a bit. Back a bit.
Back a bit. Back a bit. Back a bit. Back a bit. Back a bit. Back a bit.
Behind the barricade.
There now, that’s right.
Now no chance of harm, or of fright,
Or of bloody anything, no chance it might be remotely exciting.
Jesus wept!
I’m so sodding far away I can see last year’s Australian bushfires from here.

So again I’ll probably be staying at home,
Just me and my iPad and eight episodes of the exceptional Breaking Bad, season five,
Where the combustions are awesome and only a few will make it alive.
So much more fitting to Guy Fawkes than a sparkler and some twat in a high visibility jacket, and 6 quid for a feckin hotdog??

Oh. The temperature’s dropped, I feel that much colder,
And I feel like there’s something…squatting and shitting right here on my shoulder.
What is it? Why it’s a ghostly little bank manager, in a wee Santa hat.
He’s whispering that ‘Christmas is coming, it’s time to get fat”
But he’s not rubbing his belly, he’s rubbing his wallet.
Why, he’s the ghost of crippling Christmas bills future.

My Christmas is the same as everyone else’s.
A time to eat and drink heavily, to buy and give loads of crap.
With a family that feels more Von Trier than Von Trapp.

Anyway, it’s not here yet, so hey,
Let’s not bitch about tomorrow when we can moan about today.
Although one last thing to bear in mind, when getting me a present this year,
What I need, what I’d really like, is a way to end this fecking poem. That rhymes, preferably. Thanks.




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