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Alex Frankel Poem
The reason why I gamble,
I ought to tell the truth.
Those squalid tales I spun before…
Well, don’t go seeking proof.
The one about the heart op
And my desperate plight for cash -
A pack of lies, I’m fit and well
(Except a little rash).
And then there was the other one
About my mental health
And descent into depression
And the quest for joy through wealth.
And when you saw me on the street
In front of the casino,
I wept and cried ‘I have no friends,
So where else can I go.
I haven’t tasted human warmth
For such a countless while,
At least when dealing out the cards
The croupier gives a smile.’
And when you looked concerned
I said ‘Don’t fret, it’s human weakness.
But I’ve joined a local church
And hope to find a cure through Jesus.’
Then soon as you were out of sight
I dodged into the bookies
And put a tenner on a nag
(You’ll think The Devil took me).
And when this news got back to you
You started that campaign
To ‘Save Our Al’ from brimstone wrath
And flaming pitchfork pain.
And when the cash came rolling in
You gave it to my Mum,
And told her it was for
The welfare of her troubled son.
Now she was pretty mystified
And thought you were deranged.
She used the cash to buy a car
And just gave me the change.
But with all your selfless efforts,
I feel a little mean.
It’s time to set the record straight.
I’m ready to come clean.
You see.
The reason that I gamble,
There’s no tragic tale of sin.
The reason that I gamble:
It’s because I always win.
Copyright © Alex Frankel | Year Posted 2014
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Alex Frankel Poem
There’s rain in my brain,
A pitter patter on the old grey matter,
Cats and dogs in the cerebral cogs,
A shower dampening my mental power.
There’s precipitation in my imagination,
A cloud collision in my vision,
A deluge in my centrifuge,
A tidal surge has overwhelmed my optimistic urge,
A tsunami is rampaging through my spiritual harmony,
A lighting strobe just struck my frontal lobe.
There’s a vortex in my cortex,
An eddy in my heady,
A blizzard in my gizzard,
Hail in my vapour trail,
Sleet on my feet,
Snow on my big toe
Making me feel low.
I’ll pop a pill and rest my head
Upon a bed of feather
And when I wake I’m hoping
For bright eyes and better weather.
Copyright © Alex Frankel | Year Posted 2014
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Alex Frankel Poem
In the coffee shop
A mistimed twist
By the barista
Caused a hissing
Coffee jet to
Ballista towards
My sister and I
Worried it would
Hit her wrist and
Give her a blister,
But fortunately
It missed her.
The manager scolded
The ham-fisted barista,
But since no-one was scalded,
He didn’t dismiss her.
Copyright © Alex Frankel | Year Posted 2014
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Alex Frankel Poem
Stevie was a city boy,
He wore an old school tie,
His life was full of sex and booze
And other things you buy.
He occupied a penthouse
That overlooked the Thames
And plastered it with modern art
To overawe his friends.
But one night in a taxi home
When chatting to the cabby
The latter asked our hero
Whether he was really happy.
Now Stevie wasn't prone to
Letting others take the piss,
So he smashed the cabby's lights
And drove his car into a ditch.
But the violence didn't kill
The mem'ry of the thing he'd said;
"Are you really happy?" was
Still buzzing round his head.
So he popped along to Harley Street
With his philosophic woe,
Slipped a doctor fifty quid
And screamed 'I need to know!'
The doctor nodded kindly and
Reached under the desk,
From where he raised a felling axe
And chopped off Stevie's legs.
While tarring up the stumps the
Doctor said 'You might feel crappy,
But you'll have a clearer mind when
Someone asks you if you're happy.'
Copyright © Alex Frankel | Year Posted 2014
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Alex Frankel Poem
On the edge of my seat,
On the tip of my chair,
Sweating in the Doctor’s Lair,
Waiting for that sympathetic stare
And the news
That my slack heart
Needs a jump start,
Liver fails to deliver,
Blood is clogged
With choleric cholestrol,
Kidneys are more cesspit,
Than filtration device,
Belly fluff is full of lice,
Tonsils are shot
With boasting bacteria
Roller-coasting
Down my gullet
To a soirée
In the small intestine.
Inwardly I scream
And await the death sentence
On my organs.
She’ll tell me that
The years of gorgonzola
Gormandising and
Elevated caffeine intake
Have condemned me
To an early coffin-break.
Oh my aching mind!
I can feel the blinds
Descending and my
DNA un-mending.
The worms are wriggling
Down my spine
When the doctor says
“You’ve got a bit of a cold,
You’ll be fine.”
Copyright © Alex Frankel | Year Posted 2014
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Alex Frankel Poem
My doctor says I’m overweight,
I’m in the orange band,
To make it to the yellow zone
I’ll need a helping hand.
So he’s cancelled Sunday breakfast
And sworn me off scotch eggs,
He’s drained my car of petrol
Chuckling ‘Learn to use your legs!’
But I don’t really buy it.
There’s alternatives to diet.
I used to have a ponytail,
So first I had that chopped.
I filed off my fingernails -
They didn’t do a lot.
I syphoned every orifice,
That’s ears and nostrils too,
Then shaved all up and down the stairs
And blocked my pores with glue.
I bought myself a leotard
All webbed and made of feather
And leaf-thin flip-flops filled with air
(I’m hoping for good weather).
So the morning of the retest came,
I wandered down the road
And got savaged by a pit bull,
Who chewed off all my toes.
And thanks to that good fortune,
When I stepped on the machine,
The doctor said ‘I’ve got good news!
You’re one gram in the green.’
Copyright © Alex Frankel | Year Posted 2014
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Alex Frankel Poem
Oh, Imodium,
Constipator of my colon,
Immobilizer of my bowel;
You make it possible
For me to leave
The house and take
A long walk in the
Countryside, without
Having to remember
To pack
Toilet roll
And a small trowel.
Copyright © Alex Frankel | Year Posted 2014
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Alex Frankel Poem
I took my father
Out into the garden
And banged my head
Against the brick wall
Three times
While he was saying
That the azaleas
Were doing fine.
When I banged my head again,
He told me the grass
Needed cutting
And the fence
Was too low.
When I banged my head once more
My father became concerned
And asked me why
I banged my head so.
And I told him that this
Was a metaphor
For teaching him
How to use a computer,
And he said
That I was just as crap
At gardening as he was
At computers
And that even brick walls
Have feelings.
Copyright © Alex Frankel | Year Posted 2014
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Alex Frankel Poem
We’re watching Saturday
Morning cookery
On TV; wide-eyed
Amateurs impressing
Mock-military judges
With parcels and fools
And baskets and coulis
And ganaches and jus.
My wife likes a recipe
And asks me to record
It for posterity and for dinner.
But I couldn’t care less
About eggs julienne
Because it’s coming up
To half past ten
And my head is screaming
“Run for the muffin!
Run for the muffin!”
Copyright © Alex Frankel | Year Posted 2014
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Alex Frankel Poem
Billy had a friend
Called Donald with
A face like a donkey
And teeth like a duck.
They used to run amuck
In school playgrounds
And forests where they'd
Hide in trees and launch
Frozen peas at old people
Squatting under home-spun
Canopies.
But aged twelve, Billy shelved affection
For his friend with the distorted face.
He changed his name to Will and started
Having sex and carrying a briefcase.
When Will avoided him at school,
Donald took to ducking classes
And covering his facial anomalies
With sticking plasters.
But Will was not impressed
And left his former side-kick
Alone in his world of lop-sided features
That seemed to have been
Inherited from several different
Alien creatures.
Donald sat vainly in their childhood tree
Where his face grew long and green
With pre-pubescent jilted lover's weeping.
He cried for one week, then fell asleep,
Dreaming mournful cess,
Mouth gaping doomed distress.
It was winter. The peas froze
And slid icily from the leaves
Above, filling mouth and nose
Absorbing breath, choking grief.
He fell without a cinematic thud.
Jagged frame sank lifeless in the mud.
Forty six years later Will
Tried to find Donald
For a school reunion.
Copyright © Alex Frankel | Year Posted 2014
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