the dog has eaten jesus

The dog has eaten Jesus
Oh Lord, what a sin!
The one true Christ, our saviour,
The dog has eaten Him

She pulled him from the manger
in his swaddling cloth
And there, beneath the Christmas tree,
she bit his head right off

The dog has eaten Jesus
Such heathen mongrel tricks!
Oh, heretic blasphemer
greyhound-lurcher mix

She’s gone and swallowed Jesus
The Lord is in her now
Everything that bad dog does
will be holier than thou.



a poem in which I get seriously upstaged

bird – a poem (c)

Copy and paste this link to share:


didn’t i used to be young?

A washed-up snivelling wallow disguised as a poem. Sometimes the moment gets what it deserves…

didn’t i used to be young — a poem (c)


small talk

He is talking again.

“We are just waves,”
he says,
“Rising and falling in the dark.
“Swell, on a godless ocean.”

She indulges him
with her eyes.

“Our memories are nothing,”
he says,
“Just the moonlight
on the cresting water.”

“We rise, we fall,”
she says.

“We break,”
he says,
“Over and over.
“We always break.”

“But there are tides,”
she says,
“And currents.
“They are deep, surely.”

The urgency in her voice
makes them both laugh.

Their feet touch beneath the table and
they lean in and join hands. He can smell her hair.
A waiter brings more drinks.

They talk about something else.

‐——- (c) inkyjim ——–



Good morning, Mr Magpie
One – two – three
Please don’t make
bad luck for me

I live at number thirteen
I’ve stepped on lots of cracks
My mirror’s broken and black cats
have run across my tracks

I sneezed three times
as I walked under a ladder
So please, Mr Magpie
don’t make me any sadder

I’ve got a four-leaved clover
And I’ve spat and spun around
I’ve kissed a rabbit’s foot
And picked up a penny I found

I’ve wished upon a star
crossed my fingers
knocked on wood
So please, Mr Magpie
let my luck be good.

—- (c) inkyjim —-


i took my grief to see a poet

I took my grief to see a poet

I told her death hurt

And that I was going to die

And my children were going to die

And their childen were going to die

And so was she

And love could not save us

The world would shrug

And forget

The poet said grief was not poetry

I should keep it in a drawer

I took my grief to see a wise woman

She told me death hurts

And that I am going to die

And my children are going to die

And their childen are going to die

And so is she

And the world will shrug at us

And forget

She told me to buy a notebook

I keep it in a drawer


rapunzel updated

If Rapunzel had been a girl with shorter hair
The prince might just have left her there.
Or, if she’d gone completely bald,
Stood beneath the tower and called: 

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, I’ll restore your beauty
I am your prince, it is my duty.
The royal budget’s very big
We’ll get a blonde and glossy wig.”

Rapunzel in the magic tower
Would summon all of her girl power
And shout down from a high window
To the royal jerk below:

“I guess it’s sweet that you’re impassioned
But, dude, your views are so old fashioned
I’m more than hair or eyes or teeth
You’d be surprised what lies beneath

And my life’s my responsibility
I don’t need you to rescue me
I’m not some trinket on a shelf
I handle witches by myself
I won’t dress up for your male gaze
Or swoon at sexist power plays
You say you want me for a wife?
Sorry, no. I love my life

Please, pop your sword back in its sheath
Un-grin those shining royal teeth
We’re working hard here Witch and me
To overthrow the patriarchy
We’re printing flyers – see my blisters –
For distribution to the sisters
You’d better warn them in the town
This monarchy is coming down.

And when it’s done, when we are equal,
Come on back, we’ll try a sequel
But let me say this plain and clear:
You will not find a wifey here.
When we hook up it’s just for sex
You’ve got nice eyes – and awesome pecs.”

———- (c) inkyjim ———– 



My legs are long and useful things
I’ve two of them you know
I swing them forward one by one
to get where I would go

They stretch from thighs right down to toes
with knees set halfway there
They’re also good for standing up
I’m glad I’ve got a pair

——- (c) inkyjim ——


my daughter is a highwayman

My daughter is a highwayman
She rides a black toy horse
She fills our house with lusty cries
and threats of deadly force
She gallops round the living room
atop her rocking steed
and dreams up lots of lethal plots
with violence and greed

This morning as I wandered
from the kitchen down the hall
I felt a dagger in my ribs
and heard her frightening call
‘It’s pocket money day!’ she cried
I felt my blood run cold
‘I’m Catherine the highwayman
so pay me lots of gold’

I fumbled in my pocket
for a pound and 50p
‘Here’, I blubbed, ‘that’s all I’ve got
Work hasn’t yet paid me’
She snarled into her neckerchief
and spat a vile curse
She said, ‘You bring me more next week
or things will get much worse’

My daughter is a highwayman
It’s money or my life
I get no help from friends, the police
or even from my wife
They believe her when she tells them
that it’s just a bit of fun
They will not take her plastic sword
or confiscate her gun

My daughter is a highwayman
My wife says I’m too meek
but I’m afraid of what she’ll do
if I can’t pay next week

——-(c) inkyjim ——-


love’s enemy

Poison drops of curséd moonlight
Infernal orbs by Satan cussed
Charméd pearls that kill a swoon-like
Kisser’s ardour.
Looters of love’s sacred trust
Evil bulbs repulsing lovers
Drowning hearts in acid must

Once you were a source of pleasure
Now you are a cause of pain
I ate you and then kissed my treasure
Orlanda won’t kiss me again
Now I steep in her displeasure
Silverskins of cold disdain.

—— (c) inkyjim ——


mike’s bike

My friend Mike
likes riding on his bike
He rides it all over the town
Mike says, “I like
to ride upon my bike
It’s like walking,
but also sitting down.”

—- (c) inkyjim —-


La Barista Sans Merci

(This poem was an experiment that just got out of hand. It is nuts and also kind of an outrage. John Keats, I’m really, really sorry. I post it here because it’s so over the top that it’s kind of fun. )

La Barista Sans Merci – a poem (and abomination) — (c) inkyjim


Bedtime – a poem

Daddy, does God wear underpants?

Do they have carrots in Spain?

Who puts that skin on the custard?

And do clouds get dry in the rain?

When will I be a grown up?

Why’s there a stone in my peach?

You know cats have nine lives,

Is their birthday the same date for each?

Why does Gran keep her teeth in that jar?

Why do fat people want to be thinner?

What’s the orange traffic light for?

Can we have biscuits for dinner?

Why are you smiling Dad?

Is it for something I said?

It’s just that I love you, my darling.

Now hush up and get into bed.

————— © inkyjim ————-


Thomas’s Mummy

 Thomas’s mummy is awfully keen

On keeping little Thomas clean.

Each night before he goes to bed

She scrubs him from his toes to head.

Next morning (this is quite a pain)

She wraps him up in Cellophane.

She says that this is good hygiene

But Thomas really isn’t keen.

—– ©inkyjim ——-


The UKIP Tourist Board – a poem © inkyjim