They hate me, I know they hate me

Those pohts at the Tate Modern, they’re so different to me. Either my pohtry takes the piss or it is simply dreadful. Unfortunately, the latest pohm falls into the latter category. I wince to share it – because although I pretend I’m all secret and hidden, hell, everyone knows who I am.

This pohm is for my Dad. No, mother, I shall not save it for his birthday. He’ll get a new one for his damn birthday. Anyway, the background: we had to write a pohm based on the concept of clothing made out of something not clothing clothes. Metaphorical and stuff. With not just sight but sound and smell.

Interesting. Inspiring. Most were tempted by the hand of greatness. I was tempted by the hand of crapness.

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A masterpiece in grey

My father winces as he sits at his desk, rubbing his temples.
His secretary would have you believe that it is probate, troubling him again,
And, in a way, it is.
For he has shrugged off his coat of music
In favour of his suit of death.

In precisely two hours and fourteen minutes, he will shed his silent shroud of sympathy
And take up the worn and leathery cloak of wrinkled sound.
We smell it now, together: that familiar smell of beer and smoke and public house
And hear the violins and beating drums and raucous tunes
All implicit in the coat of noise and hubbub
So far removed
So far detached
– In fact –
Two hours, thirteen minutes, and twenty seconds away.

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CUE SILENCE

“…Hmmm, yes, promising. Now you can take that away and work on it.”

As I said, hand of crapness.

Anyway, in response to the unspoken (and probably well-administered) damning criticism of my pohm, and thus my inbuilt traditional values, and thus of my father who installed them into me, here is a second pohm.

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Crumbs

I feel the crumbs beneath my toes
In my coat of many biscuits
Jammy Dodgers unleash their thick and fruitful juices
Onto the wafer thins beneath.

Oh, admire me in my coat of biscuits
Running through the biscuit tin of life
Merging and mingling with the Boasters
And shying away from the inferior Hobnobs
Oh
Oh chocolate crusts become me
Oh
Oh bourbon creams’ve undone me

Oh crunchiness, that stuff of life
I love your sweet and… (That’s enough. You’re fired. -ED)

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BTW: how did I get lessons at the Tate? I handed over £120 online. Simple as that. As in, “I must be really simple to hand over £120 in a well-meaning but completely ineffectual attempt to improve my crappy pohtry.” They try very hard to improve me. But I just can’t be improved. There is, frankly, nothing to improve upon. Bless their little hearts.