Poetry on the Hoof: Hashtag Poems

In an age of shortening fuses, tempers, and attention spans not many of us have enough time or inclination to read much beyond the first few syllables of a poem, novel or academic treatise. See, I’ve lost you already.

The hashtag poem series acknowledges this poor state of affairs and instead of plying you with complicated verse structures or deep and meaningless syntax, offers you words or phrases which conjure up possibilities and useful generalities. The hashtag allows the reader to get the gist of something without having to work too hard to really get it. It also benefits the writer by allowing them not to have to work too hard at communicating something in a uniquely idiosyncratic way – so everyone’s a #winner.

Here’s a poem I stumbled into earlier. It’s about… well, it’s about whatever you want it to be about. That’s the beauty of the #poem. It’s called: #Backtowork

#Summer-haze
#Holiday-daze
#Where’sthepoolgone?
#Backontrack
#Yawn.

Poetry on the Hoof: Soz.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry,
I’m very, very sorry,
For the delays, the disruption, the chaos, we’ve brought
To your daily routine.

We’re sorry the tram stopped running,
We’re sorry the bus driver forgot to turn up for work,
We’re sorry the road’s been dug up over night,
We’re all sorry, sorry, very very sorry.

Sorry your tickets out of date,
Sorry your life style made you late,
Sorry you look the way you do,
Sorry your dog demanded a poo
On the high street before your very eyes,
Sorry you forgot to clean it up,
Sorry you have to listen to this.
It’s nothing to do with us, sorry.

Sorry for having to apologise.
Sorry we’ve got to listen to this.
Sorry for being sorry.
We apologise. We really do. Soz.

Crazy old Trot! (with thanks to Monty Python)

Jeremy: I wanted to be… a Crazy Old Trot!

Leaping from sect to sect, as they float through the mighty rivers of the British Labour Party… The Giant International Socialist. The SDP. The Far Right! The mighty SNP! The lofty flowering Communists! The plucky little SWP! The limping soft Tory of Aldershot! The Maidenhead Weeping Wets! The flatulent Blairite of Sedgefield! The Quercus Maximus Millibandus Edwardus!

With my best buddy by my side, we’d sing! Sing! Sing!

[singing]
I’m a Crazy Trot, and I’m okay.
I sleep all night and I plot all day.

BLAIRITES:
He’s a Crazy Trot, and he’s okay.
He sleeps all night and he plots all day.

JEREMY:
I cut down Tories. I eat my lunch.
I go to the lavatory.
On Wednesdays I go shoppin’
And have buttered scones for tea.

BLAIRITES:
He cuts down Tories. He eats his lunch.
He goes to the lavatory.
On Wednesdays he goes shopping
And has buttered scones for tea.
He’s a crazy Trot, and he’s okay.
He sleeps all night and he plots all day.

JEREMY:
I cut down Tories. I skip and jump.
I like to press wild flowers.
I put on women’s clothing
And hang around in bars.

BLAIRITES:
He cuts down Tories. He skips and jumps.
He likes to press wild flowers.
He puts on women’s clothing
And hangs around in bars?!
He’s a lumberjack, and he’s okay.
He sleeps all night and he plots all day.

JEREMY:
I cut down Tories. I wear high heels,
Suspendies, and a bra.
I wish I’d been a girlie,
Just like my dear Papa.

MOUNTIES:
He cuts down trees. He wears high heels,
Suspendies, and a bra
He wishes he’d been a girlie
Just like his dear papa.

[singing]
He’s a crazy old Trot, and he’s okay.
He sleeps all night and he plots all day.
He’s a Crazy Old Trot, and he’s okaaaaay.
He sleeps all night and he plots all day.

Poetry on the Hoof: The Policy Police.

The Policy Police.
Monitor late shut downs,
Enumerate melts downs,
Determinate who’s in and out, what where and why.

The Policy Police.
Evaluate who’s right,
Defenestrate who’s wrong,
Celebrate nothing but the lazy well behaved.

The Policy Police.
Legislate the left side,
Navigate the right tide,
Execute state orders to an inch of their lives.

The Policy Police.
Over see poli-see,
Over look poli-do,
Hypocritic blockages to the human race.

Poetry on the Hoof: It Ain’t Over ’till It’s Over.

It ain’t over till it’s over,
It ain’t done till it’s done,
The fat lady ain’t singing yet,
She’s sat inside her tent.

It ain’t over till it’s over
It ain’t done till it’s done,
The carnival ain’t started,
The clown’s not yet farted.

It ain’t over till it’s over,
It ain’t done till it’s done,
This corpse ain’t stopped twitching yet,
Put the funeral back on hold!

So save your tears, save your whoops,
Stop living in the future,
Stop living in the past,
It’s the here and now that matters
And tomorrow’s a world away.
There’s nothing to take for granted,
Nothing to assume,
You can plan and scheme all you like
But.

It ain’t over till it’s over,
It ain’t done till it’s done,
The fat lady ain’t singing yet:
She’s still sat inside her tent.

Poetry on the Hoof: the hot desk and the habits of habituated people

Habituated office workers,
Establish habits.
Inhabit habitats of their own making and
Resist the habits of others.

You’re not from around ‘ere,
They sneer,
Over their cubicle parapets,
Building moats and pulling up drawbridges.

The more they’re habituated,
The more they resist.
Undermining The Others’ habits,
From their habituated offices.

There’s cakes in the kitchen,
Buns in the oven,
Drinks in the fridge,
But don’t think you’re getting any.

The hot desk. The freezing corridors.
Is how the habituated impose habit free zones on the habitless.
The former expect the latter to adopt habits,
Which accentuate their habitlessness.

There’s roast on the fire,
Pigs on the spit,
How come I never saw you
Steal that pizza offa my desk?

Poetry on the Hoof: Resistance is Futile

No No No No No No No.
No No No No No No No.
No No No No No No No.
No No No No No No No.

No No No No No No No.
No No No No No No No.
No No No No No No No.
No No No No No No No.

No No No No No No No.
No No No No No No No.
No No No No No No No.
No No No No No No No.

No No No No No No No.
No No No No No No No.
No No No No No No No.
No No No No No No O..

K, go on then.

Poetry on the Hoof: The Enemy Within. Rejoice!

From the daughter who whispered against her parents,
To the mother who refused to lie on her own unmade bed;
From the son who kicked against the traces,
To the father who artificially heightened his own sperm count;
Rejoice, for you are all the enemy within.

From the milkman who pissed in the orange juice,
To the grocer who dumped his spuds in a skip;
From the teacher who celebrated the kiss,
To the journalist who was reckless with the tippex;
Rejoice, for they are all the enemy within.

From the surgeon whose scalpels rust in peace,
To the soldier who turns his gun on his captain;
From the politician who blinks in the Sun,
To the chemist who splits the infinitive.
Rejoice, for we are all the enemy within.