Mistaken Identity

Hello!
Is it me you're looking for?
They say,
with a big grin
and I have to tell them
I'm not him.

They grope my face
and shriek with glee

I hate to break it to them
I'm not international superstar
Lionel Ritchie

Conga

I need to tell you something.
I have this thing,
well, it's more like a curse.

Men fall in love with me.
Everyday.
Every second.

I'm constantly getting presents
pressed into my palms
and lips
pressed onto my face.

There's a conga line
of aching hearts
following me wherever I go.

It sounds nice,
but it makes everyday life

quite

difficult.

Love poem

I lured you out of my garden and into my life
with fist fulls of lettuce and love

You covered my body in silver soft kisses
You covered my carpet in mud

We planned our futures
and our lives together:
A mortgage for a greenhouse
a place to own forever

I just want to relive that last dinner we had.
You, me, my mum and my dad.

The first course was perfect
a crisp summer salad.
But the main course didn't
suit your sensitive palate

Roast beef is where your life came to an end
my dad didn't realise salt is no slug's friend

Darling

You don't belong here
darling.
You belong out there
darling.
You belong out there on the street with
the dirt and the dust and all
the things covered in flaky rust.
Out there on the ground where things are lost
 and not found, with the bent nails and the snails,
where the moon light fails
to shine.
Darling.

I'm a rebel

I'm a king

I'm a man made 

of things

and thoughts

I can walk

I can crawl

I can stand tall

I went to the school of 

hard knocks

and The University of

Life

I'm not just unemployed

ROMANTIC POEM

As we watch the moon climb over the hill
and shine his big moon face on us
we sit hand in hand and still
while moths tangle themselves in our hair
and mosquitos give us love bites

BEARDS

A faceful of poems by Kirsty Turkington (female, cat lover, me) and Stephen O'Toole (25, clean shaven)

if i could crawl into your beard and make a nest,
i would

if only you'd get rid of the these bloody harvest mice

i wiped some homous off your moustache, gus
gosh you're delicious


i went into the bathroom after you and covered my face in your beard clippings

you looked at me in disgust and told me that you'd trimmed some other part of your body

my goatee entered into an arm wrestle with
cavendish's mutton chops
my goatee was completely overwhelmed. hair everywhere. surrounded.
it could barely hang on.
the chops got it in a clamp, while cavendish sat back in his deckchair,
with a pimms in his crotch, rubbing the blankness around his ears
and blowing kisses at my wife

i have two lesbian mothers. i never really learned how to shave properly. i sported henious facial hair for over a decade.

handlebar moustaches
soul patches
mutton chops
and sideburns that covered my entire face

i wore your beard as my wedding dress.
nice for you to know, i thought, that i'd

married the wrong man.

it's shame you went grey so early
after i'd left you.

I knew a bearded collie who,
after his mother died,
was never the same again.

he shaved off his thick fur
and children refused to pat his
razor nicked, toilet paper daubed
skin

a beard seems inevitable
if i stay in this cave
but then maybe you'd like that?

a week after you left, i started to go deaf

eventually, i went to the doctors.
he stared into my right ear, inserted his tweezers,
and pulled out one of your beard hairs

my eyes welled up as dropped it in
the 'human waste' bin

From afar, your beard looks soft and strokeable

Up close it's wiry, prickly, and leaves rashes on my face

This says a lot about you (i.e. you have a beard)

Things that can't grow a beard:

drawings of beards

a 40th birthday party

a warm trouser press

toffee

you

Things that I love:

All of the above, except you

Slippers

The magazine said these slippers would take the pain away

I wore them doing drunken DIY

I wore them during my root canal procedure

I wore them while Janet Street-Porter told me EXACTLY  what was wrong with my life

I wore them when you left

I wore them when on the phone to a sales assistant while she explained exactly why I wouldn't be eligible for a refund.

All right, mates? 

If you're reading this, then you're probably reading my blog. You've probably just read the word 'blog'. And again now: 'blog'.

In case it isn't clear: this is my blog. 

Now that everyone is totally up to speed, I'll set out my intentions. Best to be clear from the start, so there are no hurt feelings or sore faces later down the line.

What are my intentions?

Good questions.

Think I'll just post some poems and things. 

Yeah. That's it. That'll do.

I'll start now. Here's one. Here's a poem:

sticky hot

end of summer

me and 

you

with our shiny smiling eyes

and our shiny smiling teeth

today would be perfect

if we weren't covered

in wasps