Max Scratchmann's Blog, page 9

Teen Vampires

I met a guy in makeup in the brightness of the sun,

I said, you'll be a vampire, then, by name of Pattinson,

He sighed and shrugged his pallid face, alas, my friend, it's true,

I am the Teenage Vampire, but my name is Bob to you.

I have no cape or coffin, it really makes me sick,

And although I have two gleaming fangs I haven't got a dick,

They've made me PG-rated, it's a fate quite worse than death,

I just glamour girls with melting looks, it is a waste of breath.

The camera it does love me, it follows like a pup,

While I drink my bottled blood mix, like cocoa from a cup,

So please review my contract and release me from this Hell,

The money's good but, really, it is career death knell.

The Social Network

This is the story of Alexis D'Bourne,

A girl quite addicted to internet porn,

She cared not for Facebook or My Space or Skype,

Or You Tube, Live Journal or networking hype.

She said to her girlfriends, although you may mock,

I'm a girl quite enamoured with internet cock,

I don't care for email or family schism,

I just want to see blondies all covered in gism.

So send me hunk porn stars from Maine to Niagara,

A shipload of condoms and a case of Viagra,

A room with fast broadband to feed to my habit,

A packet of wet wipes and good rampant rabbit.

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Home Ownership

There are spiders in the oven and beetles in the sink,

There are roaches in the hallway and, I think, the missing link,

There's a bird's nest on the chimney and there are mice in all our beds,

Plus there are mammals in the attic who are messing with our heads.

The gas is disconnected and the water has gone dry,

There are scores of broken roof tiles and we can see the morning sky,

We have no light or heating and a lousy kitchen freezer,

A bed propped up by gravity and cat called Ebenezer.

So come up when e'er you're passing, come stop and have a chat,

You'll always find a welcome in our mortgaged luxury flat,

We pay payments on our payments and have no cash to spare,

But that's the property ladder for home-owners everywhere.

Poem for Mother's Day

My mother's a little woman, she's rather short and fat,

But on Mother's Day, it's quite the thing, that I shouldn't mention that,

She talks in weird non sequiturs, and wears her hat all squint,

But of this odd propensity, I cannot show a hint,

So I buy her flowers and chocolates and other wastes of money,

But I cannot have a laugh with her, 'cause mothers aren't funny.

They are the ones who raised us, dealt with our dirty nappy,

And though we show our gratitude, we can't be glib or snappy,

So a funny Mother's Day card, is something you won't see,

For Mr Hallmark told me, they're simply not to be,

He said keep Mothering Sunday, all saccharine, sweet as honey,

And have no comic nonsense, 'cause mothers aren't funny.

Bag Men

You've seen them at book fairs and in secondhand records stores. The men with the unwashed hair and the big, bulging bags…

Once upon a midday dreary, I was sitting, bored and weary,

Sitting in my record store,

When I heard a furtive scrabbling,

Something muttering, babbling, dabbling,

From a corner of my store,

'Twas a Bagman, that's for sure!

"You there, Bagman, smelly ragman,

Rifling through the LP store.

Are you sifting, raking, drifting,

Fingering all my discs in store?"

Quoth the Bagman, "Nevermore!"

Then from out the racks of vinyl,

Songs deleted, finished, final,

Came the Bagman through the door,

Clutching discs of Jefferson Airplane,

Carl Santana, Erland Berstaine,

Forgotten artists fit to bore,

Bring the Bagman to my store.

Came the Bagman, smoking fag man,

Roundly framed in my shop door,

Clutching manky tapes and vinyl,

Paintings of Duchamp's urinal,

Quoth the Bagman, "Art galore!"

"Bagman, gagman, fucking hagman,

Why did you pick my record store?

Go and eye your bust of Pallis, your Aunt Alice,

But get fuck out of my store!"

So he left complaining, blaming,

Clutching Patti Smith and more,

Past the checkout, past my loud shout,

Running quickly to the door,

Quoth the Bagman, "Pay no more!"

The Love Song of Edgar Allen Poe

Let us go then, you and I,

To the Tomb of Ligeia, bye and bye,

Let us go to the Kingdom by the Sea,

The fish and chip shop of Annabelle Lee.

Let us go to the costal laundrette run by Lenore,

Let us throw open the windows and the door,

Dispel the gloom and evict the black cat,

Make a monkey of the ape asleep upon the mat.

Let us drink a draught of Hemlock a the House of Usher,

Where the décor is like the unquiet tomb, only plusher,

Let us imbibe at the Tell Tale Heart,

Let the parrots sing and the ravens play their part.

Alas, alas, M. Valdemar has come and I am at the door,

And I hear a melancholy chorus of black birds crying Nevermore.

How to Succeed in Publishing

If I had the urge to write,

And was brazen, not contrite,

Then I'd rather be a killer than a writer,

For I'd sooner get a deal,

And a flashy rest'rant meal,

If I'd killed my bairnies three with bloody mitre.

I'd be a cause célèbre,

Not some ordinary pleb,

And I wouldn't write my story in my attic,

For they'd send to me a ghost,

He'd be humble, never boast,

And I'd have my million seller, automatic.

So don't labour with that pen,

In your humble poet's den,

There's a quicker route to cash and fame and glory,

Just kill your cheating wife,

And extinguish out her life,

And then watch the offers flow in for your story.

Guru

Follow me, he firmly said,

I'm the guru, I'll sort your head,

Give me your house, your jewels, your wealth,

I'll sort your fears and fix your health.

But what proof do I have, should I hand you my keys?

Oh foolish young heart, there's no guarantees.

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Signs

Upon my stomach medicine, the sign says, Do Not Freeze,

It's like a pair of slippers that calls out, Not For Knees,

Or microwaveable chicken, saying, Do Not Heat The Eggs,

Or socks from Marks & Spencer's that tell us, Just For Legs.

So would a battery vibrator say, Not For Use On Bums,

Or a jar of Peptobismol say, Only Use For Tums,

A pair of woolly earmuffs, declare, Please, For The Head,

Or a bright and shiny coffin, say, Only For The Dead?

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Edgar Allen Poe at Asda

I walked into a menswear shop to buy myself a suit,

A shirt; some socks; a pullover; a leather belt to boot,

The shopman he did say to me, you're buying clothes, that's good,

But tell me, sir, I'd like to know, just why you're standing nude?

Well, George, I kindly said to him, the sign said t'was his name,

I was out with my own Lenore and we played a dirty game,

We each undressed and held on tight to have some saucy fun,

But just as I was on the brink, she said she had to run.

She grabbed her clothes and grabbed mine too, my shoes; my coat; my wallet,

My briefcase; braces; shirt and tie; my novel by Ken Follet,

And so I sought your humble shop, my pride set to restore,

And if fair maids broach sexy deeds I'll answer, Nevermore.

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