Andrew Chapman Poetry

The Ignoble Poet

IgNobelLogo

It occurs to the Ignoble Poet that all things are shit

We are many; us word beating priests of piss.

Cracking verse on a smoke ridden page

Death to all flower poems, and words about birds

 

Deftly we abandon the traditional iambic

The pentameter of ten can crash and burn

Structure will not decry our view

Of a world in need of absolute horror

 

We are many, as we have said. Poets

Against structure. Sadness has needs

Get drunk dear reader, or give up now

We care not for your worthy goals

 

Life is the same for every man, eventually

We die. Nobody will remember rhyme or verse

It must be clear by now that the rules are gone

In the new form of bollocks and honesty.

 

We give a fuck enough to be sincere.

Andrew Chapman Poetry

Dystopian Insects. (The Emerald Society)

Emerald Society Pic

There is a wasp that stings a cockroach in the head

It picks its place carefully, like an emerald surgeon

The only attractive wasp, the worst of all its ilk

 

The innocent bug with its reputation for surviving

Fails wholeheartedly at upholding stereotypes

Obediently it is led toward the jewel’s nest

 

The bug fucks the cockroach, not copulate, it screws it

It gives birth inside it. Those babies, my god those babies,

What an introduction to the world.

 

There was a human woman. She was dressed in sequins.

She enthralled a cow and laid her foetus inside it

The living beef shed no tears. Mesmerised by the woman.

 

The bovine feedbag lived until each organ was devoured

The baby gnawed at each part, but kept it alive until

Finally the kid could crawl from its dead carcass

 

And the baby grew fast, and found another cow, to fuck

To keep alive. Its kids will repeat the whole ghastly thing

The natural world is a bewildering pit of shit

 

Apulex Compressa, if human was wasp, society

Would be a perfect metaphor for modern tragedy

But why be so blunt when we have reality

 

Unvailing, with no further introduction; modern life

The conservatives are here to fuck you in the ear

And give birth to a cockroach-cattle herd

 

Accept death. Or don’t. You don’t have to choose

Those conservatives in suits sure look nice don’t they?

Be the cockroach, be the wasp, or watch and cry

The best you can do is hates both sides.

Andrew Chapman Poetry

Poems are for Drunks and Romantics.

angry-writer-cat

I am a man of words. A novelist. I never expected, nor had any desire, to be a poet. Poetry clashes with my literal stoic mind. But here we are, cynical ugly poems started riffing out of my fingertips. But only after an inhuman amount of whisky. I can’t do it while sober. Limericks and comic verse comes out instead. Like this one –

 

Urgency

A low rumble moves my bowel

I start to run with hurried howl

Doubled over and buttocks tight

I reach the door and pull the light

I struggle and try to remove my jeans

With a gasp the button does release

I pull my pants down past my knees

And sit down fast with great relief

I then let out a massive parp

Alas, ’twas just a fart

 

And this one –

 

New Brew

No milk or sugar or coffee too

No money or friends to get some juice

I checked the fridge and in the loo

To try to make an alternative brew

Marmite, Lemon and even Glue

Detergent, soap and juice from a shoe

Stir in a pot and heat it through

To make a drink I may need to chew

The drink is ready, it smells like poo

I took a swig and soon I knew

This gross concoction will make you spew

And even go blind and death and shrew

My body went limp and I sat on a pew

My god! I thought, I love this brew

It’s better than coffee and tea and soup

It’s better than music and even booze

The best thing is the following news:

I made a batch just for you!

 

Childish really. But the mad weird poems, they come while I’m half crazy with booze. I barely remember writing them. But they are mounting up so I figured I’d share a few, even if it is at odds with my normal stance as a humour writer.

Andrew Chapman An Authors Life, Poetry, The Other Stuff

The Vainglorious Abyss

The Hipsters are here. There’s no stopping them.

They are throw backs to beat poets who hate them.

The copycat brethren of false intelligence.

Hoodlums dressed like nerdy impersonate.

 

They stroll the poor towns they decorate with old art.

50s pin ups and 60s haircuts, they are the false smart.

“I am a canvas,” they say, “My life is poetry.”

Leave it to the useless to approve their own credulity.

 

Cult and fashion are not the flag of individuality,

You are confusing social grouping with vague sincerity.

Like mice convinced they own the maze of unique,

You are the Dumb that brow beats the meek.

 

You will not find wisdom in stylized polaroids.

Hipsters exist in a narcissists void.