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Brian Bilston
@brian_bilston
Ceci n'est pas un poème. Represented by
@jounwin
Also on Mastodon at @[email protected]
I live locally.uk.bookshop.org/shop/brianbils…Joined August 2013
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Brian Bilston
@brian_bilston
Here’s a poem called ‘An Incomplete List of Things More Capable of Running the Country than the new Prime Minister’.
An Incomplete List of Things More Capable of Running the Country than the new Prime Minister   A bollard. A thimble. A beef gravy granule. A bilge pump. A plectrum. A Pokemon annual. A doorknob. A chaffinch. A half-eaten carrot. A footbath. A clothes peg. A wine stain. John Parrot. A ceramic spoon holder. A fruit polo mint. A discarded tissue. A puddle. Some lint. A used toner cartridge. Some musical socks. A build up of silt. A stuffed startled fox. A plimsoll. A wingnut. A set of false teeth. A novelty wall clock with the face of Prue Leith. A beetle. A drumlin. A short piece of string. A packet of Wotsits. A plant pot. Most things.
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Brian Bilston
@brian_bilston
GATHERINGS All gatherings of six or more shall now be against the law with NO exceptions to these rules (apart, that is, from work and schools) We need to act NOW or the future’s bleak. This comes into effect some time next week.
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Brian Bilston
@brian_bilston
Mnemonic Thirty days has September, April, June and November. Unless a leap year is its fate, February has twenty-eight. All the rest have three days more, excepting January, which has six thousand, one hundred and eighty-four.
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Brian Bilston
@brian_bilston
ON TODAY’S WORDLE SOLUTION Americans, I have news to report. I have done the "math" And you're one letter short. That extra letter Gives it colour and flavour. Yours, with candour, An affectionate neighbour.
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Brian Bilston
@brian_bilston
Today’s poem is called ‘An Incomplete List of Things More Capable of Running the Country than the Current Government (reprise)’.
An Incomplete List of Things More Capable of Running the Country than the Current Government   A bollard. A thimble. A beef gravy granule. A bilge pump. A plectrum. A Pokemon annual. A doorknob. A chaffinch. An old rusty kettle. A footbath. A clothes peg. A wine stain. A pebble. A ceramic spoon holder. A fruit polo mint. A discarded tissue. A puddle. Some lint. A used toner cartridge. Some musical socks. A build up of silt. A stuffed startled fox. A plimsoll. A wingnut. A set of false teeth. A novelty wall clock with the face of Prue Leith. A beetle. A drumlin. A short piece of string. A packet of Wotsits. A plant pot. Most things.   Brian Bilston
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Brian Bilston
@brian_bilston
I wrote a poem in a tweet but then each line grew to the word sum of the previous two until I began to worry about all these words coming with such frequency because as you can see, it can be easy to run out of space when a poem gets all Fibonacci sequency #280characters
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Brian Bilston
@brian_bilston
Last Christmas, your mum came to ours and the very next day, we saw uncle Ray. This year, we’re in the third tier, so we’re not doing anything special (special).
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Brian Bilston
@brian_bilston
GCSE students are sitting their English Literature paper this week, in which they have to analyse an ‘unseen’ poem. Here’s a poem about the horror of it all. It’s called ‘Unseen Poem’.
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Brian Bilston
@brian_bilston
Today’s poem is about going on a first date with someone and discovering, to your delight, that you have so much in common. It’s called ‘First Date’.
First Date    We’d so much in common, that was clear from the start:  a marriage of souls, like de Beauvoir and Sartre.  The connection was instant, almost irrational:  simply simpatico, fully compatible.    You confessed you loved winter, north Yorkshire, and cats.  ‘Me, too!’ I responded. ‘How amazing is that?’   You were wild about Wharton: you loved Ethan Frome.  ‘His best,’ I said, thinking I’d read him when home.     You praised a revival of Pinter’s Dumb Waiter.  I nodded along. I should google that later.  The discussion then turned to things that you hated:  Pulp Fiction, you thought, was quite over-rated.    ‘You make some good points,’ I eventually said.  I could always hide that poster under my bed.   You spoke of a loathing of poetry that rhymed  and I said yes,  that stuff’s awful.
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Brian Bilston
@brian_bilston
There once was a poet on Twitter who grew increasingly bitter. He couldn't surmount the strict character count and so his poems got even shi
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Brian Bilston
@brian_bilston
It’s not easy to get down to work these days, particularly with everything that’s going on in the world and you’re trying to work from home. The best approach is to create a To Do List of small tasks which are achievable and realistic, such as the one which forms today’s poem.
To Do List    • delay • defer • equivocate  • make some tea • procrastinate  • look at Facebook • stroke the cat  • readjust the thermostat  • dawdle • dither • hem and haw  • fill the kettle • chew my jaw  • write nine words • spin on chair  • play six games of solitaire  • observe the merry, dappled light     dancing on the page of white  • review my words • paper scrunch  • stroke the cat • break for lunch    • prioritise new tasks to shirk  • ponder changing world of work  • look at Facebook • spin on chair  • make a brew • loiter • stare  • reorganise the kitchen drawer  • attempt the crossword • eat coleslaw  • write nine words • cross six out  • stroke the cat • stoke self-doubt  • make tea • stroke cat • Facebook • stare  • coleslaw • chair-spin • solitaire   • stroke tea • make cat • chair-slaw • wallow  write To Do list for tomorrow
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Brian Bilston
@brian_bilston
VIEW FROM A BILLIONAIRE’S SPACESHIP WINDOW there, amongst the stars which held him in thrall, the most incredible sight of them all: the planet Earth, as it turned on its axis, and all those people paying taxes
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Brian Bilston
@brian_bilston
TRIGGER HAPPY And they cried, it’s not the guns that kill people, it’s the people, as the bodies piled up, through each shameful sequel. And each defender of the gun laws, with the death count getting bigger, may as well have had their own finger on the trigger.
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Brian Bilston
@brian_bilston
Today’s poem is dedicated to all the students taking their GCSEs this year and having to contend with the horror of the ‘unseen poem’ in their English exam. It’s called ‘Unseen Poem’.
Unseen Poem    OK. Turn the page. Right, here goes …  The first line’s straightforward, I suppose.  At least I know what the words all mean.  It has an AA BB rhyming scheme.    What’s that French word for when one line   runs into the next? Jambon? Never mind.  Susan Jenkins is smiling, I bet she knows.  Oh great! Now the rhymes have disappeared    and the language is getting more caliginous  by the stanza. The voice keeps changing.   At first, it was confident. But now it’s confused  uncertain (?) and … hesitant?    and as for this bit   what was the poet even thinking?    (I can only think   they must have been drinking)    Susan Jenkins needs more paper.   I hate her. There are ten minutes left.  What’s this poem all about anyway?   No idea. I shall just have to guess.    I’ll say it’s a metaphor for death.
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Brian Bilston
@brian_bilston
Today’s poem is about the bringing back of imperial measurements; or at least it would be, if they had ever gone away in the first place. It’s called ‘The Empire’s Old Clothes’.
The Empire’s Old Clothes    ‘A return to imperial measurements is long overdue,’ the Prime Minister declared with a shout. ‘Anyone with 28.349 g of common sense can see that –  you don’t need to be a genius to 1.829 m that out.’ ‘The EU have controlled us for far too long,’ he added. ‘Thank goodness we can now go it alone. If you give them 2.54 cm, they’ll take 1.60934 km.   It was like getting blood out of 6.35 kg.   Poking around in our own back 0.914 m like that – it’s enough to make you green around the 2 x 142 ml. But now the boot is on the other 0.305 m. and the future’s the blue remembered hills.’   ‘0.454 kg for 0.454 kg, our system is better. World-beating. So,’ the Prkme Minister concluded, ‘it is my pleasure to ask you to raise your 568 ml glass in a toast … desperate times call for desperate measures!’
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