Their ma & pa were Eastenders
Blah blah..don’t remember the Blitz
Brash Cockney pretenders..same flash apparel
Let's get our mitts on a stash of Aperol spritz
Dimwits just going on benders
Bawdy tawdry mockney skits
Gits getting off their t*ts
Twits showing off their bits
Who fits?..Identikit Brits..pout
All about the clout of gaudy glitz
Silhouettes of stiletto dancers & handbags
Riff raff as naff as an 80’s cornetto
Perms & permatans..sl*gs..fancy dans in glad rags
Rhyming slang falsetto twang libretto
Chancers on a stag..s*ag nip & tuck hags
Nags of WAGS made up to the nines
Brag after cocaine lines did blag
One snag..look like a dag in drag
All from the fashion label stable
No restraint.. cannot refrain
Grandstand the brands fable
Diadora diaspora ..Fila Villa
With a Pierre Cardin Jardin
Taint just like they do in Spain
Sex..success…the way you dress
Prosecco fizz...getting in a tizz
Gilded specs and builded pecs
Greed and that need to impress
Avoid don't feed this schadenfreude hell
That is indeed called Costa Del ESSEX
The Day After Christmas
It’s the day after Christmas and all round the gaff
Lay the wrappings from presents, both splendid and naff.
Bottles upended and glasses on stairs,
Stains on the carpet, the curtains, the chairs.
Christmas tree fallen and blocking a door.
Bedrooms resounding to thunderous snores.
The remnants of turkey and all of its trimmings
Where e-coli blooms its unnoticed beginnings.
Upon the detritus, all twinkly and bright,
Shine fairy lights, forgotten, left on overnight.
Booze fumes and *** smoke still hang in the air.
It’s a mess that would make the most pious saint swear.
Under the sink on their cheap plastic tray,
Lurk brushes and sponges, the all-surface spray.
For after the fun, the excess celebration
Comes the down-side, the chore, the clean-up operation.
Sanity must be returned to the house
Where nothing’s displaced, not even a mouse.
Was it worth it for one day of party and cheer?
You bet! And we’ll do the same nonsense next year!
Face like a smacked bum, is profile challenge no 1
Bland of form, tunnel like mind waddling gait, naff behind
Hidden like cancer in worlds health, there is a very malignant self
schwabing decks with filthy mop, disturbing life and this must stop, stop' this gutteral talking being devoid of any love
Or genuine feelings!
October the 8th we said our goodbyes .
Im Still left sat here wondering why.
But today I'll come up to your tree.
And think of all the good memories.
How you kissed it better when I got hurt.
How u juggled bringing me up with work.
Holidays to Butlins or Scarborough 10 times
They were some on the best memories of mine.
The selfless sacrifices you always made.
To keep me safe with a smile on my face.
I never gave you the credit you were due.
I hope u know how much I love you.
I sat at your side n gave your head a kiss.
I cried a little but I made you a promise.
That I'd be strong an that I'd do you proud.
I stumbled at first but I'm doing it now.
I wish I could see you for just a few hours.
For some advice or draw some of your power.
I had 39 mothers days with you by my side.
You'd open my naff presents an smile with pride.
Wee 50p ornaments that still sit in place.
Or daffodils I procured from some place.
This one is the toughest cause I just want to say.
I love you mum an one more happy Mothers day
Little old ladies stooped over trays,
at the garden centre caff,
where they spend their days purchasing
tranklements, considered slightly naff.
Everythings game from gnomes to pomander
that remind them of their mothers,
that are placed upon shelves,with yet more elves
along with all the others.
The lucky ones, with husbands,
still shuffling behind,
attracting envious glances
from the ones with lives less kind.
They sit and eat their cucumber sandwiches
and sip their Earl Grey teas,
twin set and pearls and purple rinsed curls,
and painful, arthritic knees.
Then out to their Motability cars
with their plastic gnomes and honey in jars,
back to suburbia or their lonely flat,
with its chintz drapes and sofa and marmalade cat.
When I write crazy poems I don’t care about the layout,
how can it be crazy if it’s structured throughout.
Sometimes I write for the sake of rhyme,
Sometimes write to make points to peak with climb.
I like variation not repetition, I write some poems for the sake of competitions,
The layout changes I hate repetition, sometimes my writes win competitions.
If my humour’s too dry you should laugh til you cry
and wet the desert behind your eye, I don’t mean to insult I’m trying to be sly.
Sometimes I rhyme in repetition, you should have made that prediction,
It’s well set up for repetition, humour not braved by the competition.
My poems are poems you don’t know where their going,
a grammar mistake that’s they’re for the showing,
A little light comedy naff and mind blowing,
Force it, repeat it, risk it, it’s a Nick Trim poem.
A structured poem, pointless and crazy whilst repeating like mad with repetition but laid out well in it’s layout, it's point is repetition.
Writing regardless of reputation Thank you, thank you, thank you, goodbye and thank you, goodbye, goodnight.
*22/02/2019
Suppose we ran it by a friendly Martian
(I’d say “by Martial”, but he wouldn’t be gentle).
You crave Armani, Hugo Boss, Versacci and
that Hilfiger who’s naff, naff. Are you mental?
This myth of exclusivity’s juvenile
(I’d offer “Juvenal”, but you’d refuse).
They’re mass-produced, ubiquitous, stock-piled,
your Sarah Jessica Parkas, Jimmy Shoes.
The Martian, then. We wrap ourselves in rags
to ward off cold, conceal the family jewels,
but put a brand name on those skirts and bags,
you’ll cough up ten times more. “You bloody fools!”
Apartheid is an evil thing, agreed?
South Africa once practised it. You struck.
You staked out embassies, until the blacks were freed.
Embargoes, sanctions, boycotts – oh, such pluck!
But none of you’s besieging Tel Aviv.
Our Martian’s wondering what the difference is.
Ramallah’s raped without a by-your-leave,
but you’re at Burghley, knocking back bucks fizz.
Perhaps we can’t extinguish all life’s fires.
Perhaps compassion tires, and needs its pauses.
Or is there just a chance that it transpires,
there’s such a thing we’ll call “designer causes”?
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.