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Sampler Copy Me:

“Please, please, please can you read my book?

Because I’ve worked so hard,

At least take a look.”

You:

“Poetry....? Well...I’m not sure I like it.”

Me:

“Well, if you have a soul, then this will ignite it.”

You:

“Maybe then....Tell me, what’s it all about?”

Me:

“That’s hard to say

You: Me:

You should just check it out” “But I’m a little bit skint What should I do?” “Go to the library, you can get it there too!”

Jason M. Temple

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Dearest Publisher.. In November 2010 I went through this huge thing. I know...Doesn’t everybody.. Huh? Huh? Well...I’ll let you into a little secret. This was a bit different. I kinda, sorta, woke up. To myself. To what I could do. And I discovered that what I was doing, I wasn’t doing consciously. It felt like I had no control and these poems and this book made themselves and just used me as some kind of bitch poem slave to make it all come out...Whilst very much losing the plot at the time. Luckily, I found a whole bunch more than what I lost and this book was suddenly presented to me, by myself, and then I read it and cried nearly as much as when I wrote it. So I did what all sensible writers do when they have just written their life’s ultimate work , all in a month, edited and compiled and designed and set..In A MONTH I tell you... I couldn’t face reading it...I tried and failed a few times. It came from the deepest, rawest of places within me. And it was still hurting me as there remained elements of the boy that I was in my adult head. Crazy days..I read it a year later and I started to think it was rather good. Just don’t tell anyone that I didn’t write it. This book is the reflection of that period. Everything is in here. The beginnings of a new life and a brand new person who came alive by having to die. The full version is online and can be viewed on this private page here: http://issuu.com/magicboy/docs/poemspicturesfull I think, inadvertently I may have actually written 3 or 4 books in one. Not sure.. I was just going to.......Hello? Hello? Where did they go? Hello Mr or Mrs Publisher........... Hello... Helloooooooo.... Is anybody there ?

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Brand New Me

e! M e on e t S s n * Brand New oh J s Mr

Brand new paper, Brand new pen, Ideas will come, Just don’t know when.

Reader: Artist:

”A mistake on the first poem Not a good start!” ”Soz!”

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Reader: ”Nice t urn Isn’t on out. ef than th oot bigger e other? Artist: ” ”You ju st HAD to that ou t didn’t point you?”

pirate oes that ” d y h ”W s? Reader: ndy leg ? have ba urvy no...Sc ould have n u D ” Artist: ? He sh Rickets e oranges!” or eaten m

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A Monkey! Just A Boy

A monkey looks like a monkey, A car looks just like a car. An orange looks like an orange, This scar still looks like a scar. But YOU, you look like an angel, Take me with you the day that you fly. Me? I’m not sure what I look like, Probably.........Just a boy.

g ritin to w u e yo HAVE e s you e to over : Nic y, but g all r poet doodlin rk! o stop homew your ston n h o J Mrs

Editor: “You really must sort out this title problem”

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I Think I Found God

Soooooo......… I think.........I found God. He’s a funny old sod And odder than odd, He says he’s called Rod. He works in the office, With Dave, Tim and Lee. And his milk in the fridge Is marked with a ‘G’. He’s a clever bloke though, Of that there’s no doubt. He could tell you for sure, What life’s all about. He’s so flipping clever, The truth he unfurled...... But we should leave him, He’s busy, Running the world.

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Watch The Time

I found a way to travel in time. You just open up the back of your mind, Let the workings all unwind, Then spend your days seeing what’s inside. One lucid day the alarm will chime And if you can get the gears to grind And twist your loose wires into twine, Look up, then make your homeward climb. When you’ve reached the top, it’s then you’ll find, When you can look back down the line And re-live the lives you’ve left behind, That time and space have intertwined.

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The Girl Who Disappeared Way way back, Way back in time, And just a bit further At the back of my mind. There once was a girl, With eyes so blue. I think that I knew her, I think that’s what’s true. She ONCE was a girl, But then she was not, Rushed into the night, I think.........I forgot. He took her away To a tower in the sea, “Why won’t you come back And take away me ?”

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I tried to find her, A mission of sorts. But the truth of it is, I was lost in my thoughts. The girl slowly vanished And I carried on. Sometimes I heard her, But only in songs. I thought that I lost her, But I got it all wrong. She’d been stuck in a box, In my head all along.

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Shopping List

Cabbage Sugar Tomatoes Sweets Onions Ketchup Potatoes Treats Mushrooms Biscuits Steak Milkshake Liver Pizza Pasta bake Cake

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Tony

My friend’s friend Tony Is all long, thin and moaney, Just like a tromboney. And his stare is all stony. He watches Chachi and Joanie, Wears phony cologney, He always wanted a pony And he says: “Si Baroni.” He lives in Sierra Leone (It’s all tropical zoney) And he wants to come homey Because he lives all aloney. That’s all I’ve ever knowny About my friend’s friend Tony

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A Poem From One Of My Ancestors I can’t wait till the day finally comes. When we evolve opposable thumbs. And we say to ourselves, When we’ve crawled onto land: “How on earth did we cope without thumbs on our hands?” And think of all we could achieve, If we could clench our fists and really believe. That day will arrive, maybe this March, When we can reach out and grab that faraway branch. Just think of the day we hold pens. To think of it now, the prospects don’t end. We could make and draw, scribble and paint And write and invent, we’d have no complaint. Then one day we’ll play sport. And we’d catch that ball without a thought. We’d build houses and cities, cathedrals and towns. Give Fonzy thumbs ups (Ayyyyyy.) And then turn them down. (Boooooo.) I’d have thumbnails I could bite. Then I’d finally pull the brakes on my bike And walk to a sofa, then stop walking right there, Pick up a remote and exist in my chair. P.T.O 17


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I could instant message to people that day, But my thumbs would be sore, I have so much to say. I’d twiddle my thumbs, when I’m at my wits’ end, Play X-box online and never talk to my friends. I wouldn’t have to get up and change over the telly. My arse would expand, along with my belly. My legs would detract and have no use again. And my brain would stop working, Oh my Rod...What then?

(Rod: “Not sure.” Artist: “That’s not very ‘All Knowing’ is it?”)

I’ve thought now in depth about thumbs. And I’ve been working quite hard on the sums. I think you’ll say to yourself, when you look back in time. “What the hell was I doing ? I wasted my life.”

Reader: ”Seems as though the gene for mind numbing, tedious poetry has been passed down through the generations” Artist: ”Now that’s just rude.” Reader: ”Chill, it was a joke. Where did Fonzy pop up from?” Artist: ”Milwaukee...Same as Chachi and Joanie. You’re lucky. I edited out the line referencing Glenn Hoddle and his mullet and tiny shorts, circa 1984” Reader: ”Yes...I am lucky.” Artist: ”Sorted.” Editor: ”Er...Not sure you can edit your own work...I think that’s my job. I’ll get back to you”

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Random Thoughts...(But

nothing is random)

With all this writing I’ve been doing recently; I’m no longer feeling penned in. Reader: “Weak”

No one likes a smart arse, but they prefer one to a dumbarse. Reader: “Also Weak”

Reader: “Why does that smartarse have eyes ?” Copyright Lawyer: “Not sure, but it looks a lot like Penfold from Dangermouse.” Tony: “Si Baroni.”

When I’ve remembered everything I’ll write down every letter. Then move them round Until I’ve found A way to make me better. My leg elbow

Spongebob Swearpants

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And Now...A Moments’ Reflection

Reader: Sister Sophie:

”Oooh...That’s a bit clever.” ”Hmmmm”

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An Estate Of Mind

People are built differently No one’s made the same. Some of us are built with bricks, Some of us with hay. Some have side bits made of wood And insides smoothed with plaster Some of us look great outside, But behind the door, Under the floor, Absolute disaster. Some of us got wired up right, Some of us by plebs. Some of us got extra wires From our hearts up to our heads.

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Some of us have great big windows To see inside our rooms. Some of us have curtains closed, It helps seal in the gloom. Some of us are becoming tatty, Some of us restored. Some of us have been lovingly kept, Some of us ignored. Some of us have been demolished, Some, just left to rot. Some of us have been repaired, Some of us have not.

Reader: ”Oh Look. Not only have you personified the houses in the poem, you have also personified the houses in the pictures.” Artist: ”Or have I ‘houseonified’ the people?”

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Am I Old Enough? Am I Too Old?

e on is m o C k les! our wor y. t i T : n. Y scruff o s a J very ton l l i st ohns J s Mr

Am I too old call my mum; Mummy? It definitely feels like I am. I don’t think any of my mates do. So from now on I’ll call her Mum.

Am I too old to be scared of monsters? Coz I can’t get this one out my head. It climbs back inside, When I close my eyes, There’s no point in going to bed.

Reader: ”Blimey, that’s scary, I’m staying over this side of the page.” The Artist is nowhere to be seen. He has scarpered.

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A Telephone Exchange “Ello there old mate, I know that it’s you.” Er, hello, mate, how are you? And you are.....Who?” “Do you remember that girl From light years ago? The one that you fell for, The blonde one, you know?” “Er...Nope, not really.” “Well, you’re in for a shock.” “Can you just hold the line, I’ll be back in a tock.” “Stop.... Don’t you mean tick?” “What?” “Because you just now said tock..” “Yes, something’s not right here, What was that knock?” “What knock?” “That knock, That knock on my door.” “I think that I heard it.” “I’ve heard it before. 28


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Now who’s come a calling And at this time of life? Before you go...Remind me To switch off that light. And what if I answer? And it’s her?” “Who?” “That girl. And what if she’s different?” “To you?” “No, my world.” “But what if she isn’t?” “Isn’t what?” “What you think.” “I do think.” “A lot.” “Yeah I know, there’s a link.” “Twixt what?” “Now I’m hungry.” “Would you stick to the theme?” “I’m stuck to the floor, It’s just like a dream. Now, what was I doing?” “Getting that door.” “That door that was knocking?” “That door from before. P.T.O 29


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Now what are you doing?” “I’m having a thought.” “About what?” “I’m not sure.... About someone I sought.” “Who?” “That girl?” “The one with the hair?” “But what if she isn’t?” “Isn’t what?” “There.” “You still haven’t answered.” “About the girl or the door?” Both of them.” “I know, But we’ve been here before.” “You should really go answer.” “But I’m on the phone. Now I’m all of a muddle And she’s out there alone.” “Just answer the door!” “I’m going, I’ve gone.” About time as well. I’ll just hang on.” 30


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“I’m back now....Hello! Are you still on the line?” “Yep, who was it?” “A traveller from time.” “Ohhhh.kaaayy..... Are you sure?” “Yep, for sure, there’s no doubt. Because she was making this poem While I wrote it out. And she showed me my life, From when I was a child. And then she showed me her phone And a number she dialled.” “What number?” “This number.” “Well that’s just cuckoo.” “Well, stranger than that, I think she was you.”

Artist: ”Well that says it all.” Reader: ”No it doesn’t. It doesn’t say anything. It’s nonsense” Artist: ”Or is it?.” Reader: ”Don’t start that again...”

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An Even Badder Here Day

I want to get up on my feet, Then you won’t be alone. But there seems to be no internet And...What’s a mobile phone? I’ll get up on my feet, Then you won’t be alone. But I haven’t learnt to drive yet, I’m not allowed out on my own. Look, I’ve got up on my feet. Now you won’t be alone. I knocked on every single door, But no one’s ever known. Now my feet are aching And my eyes and brain are sore. I have to let you go now, Or I’ll cry forever more.

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Reader:

”Sorry to take up a whole page over here...But that, over there is not technically a poem.” Artist: ”Well, no one actually said it was. I’ll look it up on Wikipedia...” Reader: (Scoffs) Artist: ”OK...The Oxford English then: “A piece of writing, in which the expression of feelings and ideas is given intensity by particular attention to diction (sometimes involving rhyme), rhythm and imagery.” Copyright: ”Not sure we can use a direct quote from Lawyer another book.” Artist: ”It’s a DICTIONARY. That’s the point!” C.Lawyer: ”I’ll look into it.” Reader: ”So....It’s not a poem?” Artist: ”Well it’s in a poem book innit? And it’s got a title don’t it?” Reader: ”I’m flummoxed” Artist: ”Nice word.” Reader: ”Thanks” Artist: ”So...Is John Cage’s 4m33 a piece of music..? University students, please discuss and get back to us with an answer.”

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A Moment’s Silence Please.

Reader: ”Can we talk yet? Artist: ”Shhhhh...”

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Random Thoughts...(But

nothing is random)

“Before you go looking for yourself, first check that you are lost.” Fruit Shoot

“Sometimes, when you think you are shouting at the whole world, you will probably find you are just talking to yourself.” Thought for the day: I wouldn’t recommend it. .

World Wide Web i i e c t s k c t e h d

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Rod (Who Is God) Speaks “Has anyone in here seen Lee? I’ve got a problem with Windows you see. I can’t get it to work, I’m going berserk, And where is Tim with my tea?” Rod seems quite grumpy today. And you can tell from down there coz it’s started to rain. But when you see lightning, You’ll know the office is frightening And Rod’s flown off the handle again. “Look, I know I’m being a jerk, But this bloody PC refuses to work. I think I’ll go back To using a Mac. Now what’s this about Google Earth?” Rod’s getting worried, I swear. Because we can now see what he sees from up there. And the talk of the town, Says the e-mail is down, It’s been years since he opened a prayer.

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The Wistful Tale Of The Pebble Boy The saddest thing about The Pebble Boy Is that he didn’t have a home And he never had a family, At least one he’d ever known. But The Pebble Boy never realised this, And this life is all he’d had. He didn’t own a single penny, He was a lonely lad. One day, home was a car park. The next day, on the sand. The sea would often suck him up, Then spit him back on land. This was fine for The Pebble Boy, You’d never hear him moan. At least it was existence, Just life, for a small stone. But The Pebble Boy was a thinker He thought most of the while. One day the thought occurred to him; He’d never had a smile. P.T.O 39


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He tried and tried to fix himself, Searched deep inside his soul And came back with an answer, He’d never had a goal. So he thought some more about it, How could he turn his life around? And in a flash it came to him; “I’m always on the ground!” Now, The Pebble Boy, he had no wings And no reason as to why. So he closed his eyes and wished so hard That someday he would fly. And then to his amazement, Almost like it was planned, He felt something lift him upwards, He was clutched in a young child’s hand. He thought, the child, an angel And thought she would give him wings. Then with all her weight behind her, She threw him through wind. When he opened up his eyes, His wish, it seemed, came true. Because the world that he saw, rushing by, Was not the world he knew. 41

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The ground beneath was blurring Into the trees and grass and sky. The whole world now was spinning, But tears came to his eyes. Because he knew he wasn’t smiling And his wish it hadn’t worked. And now his flight was ending, He was coming back down to earth. The ground was getting closer, Then, thwump, a soggy thud. And that was that for The Pebble Boy, He’d been chucked in the mud. And in that soft ground he settled, For another 100 years. He never saw the wide world again, He cried a million tears. And then one day, he heard a sound, A bell rang in his mind, It was the sound of children playing, Like that day he tried to fly. The children, they got closer And louder as they neared. They were throwing things at each other, Stones as it appeared. 43

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The Pebble Boy, just closed his eyes, It seemed another flight was bound. But just then, he heard a soggy thud, Close beside him on the ground. Slowly, very slowly, He opened up one eye. Although he’d lived for such a long, long time, He was still so very shy. What he saw left him astounded And his heart began to swell And all the stars collided… He had found The Pebble Girl. She looked at him, he looked at her, They stayed like that a while. Then, as gently as the breeze, she said; “You have the most beautiful smile.”

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Tim Burton

Reader: Tim Burton: Reader: Copyright Lawyer: Tim Burton: Copyright Lawyer: Artist: Tim Burton: Artist: Tim: Artist: Tim 1: Tim 2: Artist: Tim 2: Artist:

“That Pebble Boy poem..........Tim Burton much?” “Oi......That’s reminiscent of one of the titles of one of my poem books” “See.” “No it’s not!” “Yes it is”. “I’ll look into it” “So, How are you Tim?” “Do I know you? And, whatd’ya say?” “Nope. And how are you?” “Schizophrenic”. “Oh sorry. How are you both?” “Fine thanks” ”I’m not. I’m sad.” “So which one of you works in the office?” “Me, of course. He gets to write the books and make the films and write the poems and all that stuff and I have to make tea for Rod.” “Tough break, Tim 2, tough break.”

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Tim Burton: Artist: Tim Burton: Artist: Tim Burton: Tim 1: Tim 2: Artist:

“Excuse me, but I’m not Schizoid, I’m bipolar, or autistic, the internet isn’t clear on these things.” “That’s how I made the Schizo mistake in the first place.....I know......You be you and I’ll be me and any other us’ that pop up, we’ll just push em down, out the way.” “Nah man, face it, embrace it, use it!” “You’re a poet, and you probably know it......Or at least one of you does. Goodbye Tims.” “Goodbye.” ”Yes, goodbye, have a lovely day.” “It’s always goodbye...Never hello.” “Try and cheer up Tim 2, and if you can’t, do some art or some other waste of time thing like that. Anyway, I’m off for a Burton.”

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The Interview I had been sitting in this waiting room For what felt like at least an hour. And to get there was a mission too I had to climb this 2 mile tower. And walk through endless corridors With walls that looked the same. It would have been enough to make another man Feel like he’s gone insane. (Not Me). Finally, when I got there (I’d walked past 100 doors; Even travelled on the lift For the final 20 floors). The secretary popped up from her desk, Looked up and said to me; “Sit down here, he won’t be long, Would you like a cup of tea?” “Thank you...Yes...I will please.. That was something of a climb!” “Milk and sugar is it?” “Er..Just the milk in mine.” “Absolutely, won’t be long”. Then she turned and flicked her hair. It had been so long since she did that, I wondered if she was even ever there.

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So, as I was just telling you... I’d been there for hours and hours. And I came here filled with super strength, But this room has sapped my powers. When I arrived here at this building, I knew what I came here for. With my manuscript glued to my hand, My conviction held so sure. But as the minutes dragged on by I was shrinking in this room. And just like Alice in Wonderland, The room just grew and grew. Till I was cowering in the corner, Then, slowly, creeping to the door. So to give me strength I felt for my book. (I’d used this trick before). I opened the front cover It was worse than I ever feared, I couldn’t find a single poem, All the words had disappeared. I looked out of the window, As I crawled along the floor. It took a lifetime to get there, But I finally reached the door. P.T.O 53


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I stretched out for the handle, Shaking, Panicking. Then I heard a voice behind me; “Mr...Er...Temple, come on in.” “Oh no!” Said me to myself: “Pull yourself together. This may be your only chance To become something better.” “Mr Temple......! That is you?” Said the voice with some disdain. “MR TEMPLE!” He said, louder, The he bellowed it again. “Oh...Sorry...So very sorry... I was...Er...Heading for the loo.....” “Well, really! You could have timed it better... Go....Do what you’ve got to do.” “This isn’t going very well.” I was still speaking to myself! “This could be your only chance To climb down off the shelf........” I came back to the waiting room, But I had no words to say. Even though, up till then, I’d speak a million words a day.

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“Ah....Mr Temple, take a seat here... Come on! I’m short on time.” “Well, that’s rich.” I thought, as I spied his watch; “You’ve wasted most of mine.” “Soooo... You want to be a poet do you? A writer, it says here.” As he flapped my application form I sent to him last year. “Well....It’s not something I meant to do, It kind of just found me. It happened when I banged my head, When I fell out of that tree. I woke up one day after months of thinking And a pen was in my hand, With a piece of paper under it. I didn’t really understand.” “Whatever. I presume you have all the requirements, To become a writing man? Did you study at University?” I just looked down at my hands. “Yes....I did go to University, But I studied Music and Art.” And then the worst thing ever happened; I let go the loudest fart. P.T.O 55


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“Er...I presume you played the trumpet?” He said, proud now with his quip. I just wanted to get out of that place. “Agghhh...Flippety, Floppety, Flip.” “Oooh..Nice alliteration, You may have something there.” I said: “Alliterwhatnow?” Then he 360’d in his chair. “You don’t know alliteration? Well, I hope this doesn’t last. I’m sure you know about rhythm and tempo From your parping music class. And there’s more here to consider, Like how to suggest a theme. And plan out the whole thing out before you start, Then some type of rhyming scheme. We must see some progression, From the beginning to the end. Try to have a commanding voice, But please don’t condescend.” “Hah.” Me thought to myself; “The pot calls the kettle black.” “You can use such a hackneyed phrase, as that, But you’re way off the beaten track.” 56


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“How does he keep hearing All these thoughts up here in my head? I’ll have to keep them quiet now And make my brain go dead.” “It’s a bit too late for that son, I hear everything you think. And I see you’ve also written it down. That’ll save you seeing a shrink. So then, Mr Temple, That’s it........ Out of time. You can find your own way out of here, I’m sure that you’ll be fine.” “Er.....Thanks then. Mr....?” “Stephens” “Yes...Er....Did I get the job?” “You’ll have to let us think on it, See what space we’ve got.” “But Mr Stephens? ....Can I just Say?” “Yes...Come on now.......Be quick.” “How long will the process take, Because I’m really very skint?” With that, he smiled a teacher’s smile To a child who misunderstood. Then he wafted me out of the doorway, And slammed the hole tight full with wood. 57

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So I just stood there, feeling helpless, With no one to help but me. When up she popped from under the desk; “Oh....Here’s your cup of tea! There’s really not much point though now Because I think that it’s gone cold.” “Well, thanks for making it anyway... Um...Could I be so bold ?” “Ok.” “Would you mind letting me know how long this will take?” And I smiled my sweetest grin. She smiled back very differently; “How long is a piece of string ?” So I made my way out of the office And out into the tower. All I wanted was to get back home And get into the shower. As I walked back down those corridors, Those ones that looked the same, I was thinking one thing to myself; “Man...You can be so lame. You’ve screwed it up, you’ve bored them now. This poem’s gone on too long.” So I apologised to my readers: “Sorry guys, I got this wrong.” 58


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But, at least it was sort of funny, and we had a bit of a laugh. I couldn’t leave you with the shower bit, You deserve, at least, a bath. Oh...but then you’ll see me without clothes on And then you’ll know the naked truth. I really am a woman. I’m proud to be called Ruth. No....No...I’m only kidding, I am a man I must insist. But I’m so sorry I screwed up that interview, Because now you don’t exist!

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This Title Does Not Exist

It may read as page 60. But these things are rarely fixdy

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Existentialist Thought

Sometimes I get caught In existentialist thought. And I find the answers I sought On the ceiling.

Reader: ”I think you’ll find that is closer to Surrealist thought.” ReaderA: ”Yes, but that last word could be anything, like “In a fish”. And that would make it more Dadaism.” Artist: ”Oooooh, get you with your fancy knowledge of art’s isms. Well, I’ve got one for you...It was Philosophy...Er...Ism....So there!”

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Stupid Everything I don’t want to wear those Stupid Clothes. Don’t want to blow my Stupid nose. I don’t want to go to Stupid school. I don’t want to follow your Stupid rules.

Stupid Stupid Stupid Stupid Stupid Stupid Stupid Stupid Stupid

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And Now A Special Tweet For You.. www.twitter.com/justamgicboy

justamagicboy MAGICbOY Follow me and I’ll follow you. Except that song is by Genesis And that really won’t do.

MAGICbOY

justamagicboy MAGICbOY Am spending the day in the company of Jeff Buckley, Joni Mitchell and Leonard Cohen... It’s been nice, but Jeff refuses to eat his dinner justamagicboy MAGICbOY Tweet me like a fool. Tweet me mean and cruel.

justamagicboy MAGICbOY I can not say what I want to say with characters under one forty Which is a shame because what I have to say is really rather naughty Oh f justamagicboy MAGICbOY This tweet is so neat,It’ll make others obsolete. It’s so sweet you could eat it, Now, go friends, re-tweet it. justamagicboy MAGICbOY I need to ask a question, To you before you leave. Does The Magic Boy really exist? Or is he just make believe? justamagicboy MAGICbOY I’m off to that other place Should be gone a week. Hoping to find some solace there And maybe, too, some peace justamagicboy MAGICbOY For someone with so much to say... I have nothing to say... But at least I’ve said it now. And in less than 140 characters.

Reader:“Who said that?” Artist: ”Hello. Is anybody there?” 63


Poems Vs Pictures

Another Stupid Poem

Another stupid poem With the same old rhythm and pace. With the same old four line format, You can do better than that Jase. (That’s Me OK then, that’s fine, By adding this line And four end words that rhyme I have changed it this time.

)

Yes, but you may not have yet grasped That this is seriously bad for your health, And I think you are cracking up mate, Because you are talking to yourself. Again.

Artist: ”But I thought that first voice was the readers’” Reader: ”I’m sorry to break it to you, but there are no readers. It’s just you.” Artist: ”I’ve run out of room.” This page does not exist


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Sneaky Surrealist Self Referencing Situationlist Poem About It Being The End Of The Book That The Reader Didn’t Expect, Even If They Did Expect It On That Last Page. I tried to write a letter, Then I tried to write a word. I made up the first sentence. I created the first verse.. (Ed: “Stanza) I tried to start the second, And knitted in a theme, What it was I was trying to say; And then moved on to verse three. (Ed: “Stanza!) Now, with the meaning all sewn up You can start to pick it apart. Read it till the final verse (Ed: “STANZA!) Then go back to the start I tried to write a letter, Tried to reach you one last time, But it turned into this poetry book And this is the last line.

This page does not exist


Poems Vs Pictures

Poems Vs Pictures The book is finished. Go away now.

(But please feel free to pick it up any time and have a nice little read. :-) Or....come and see me down there. Between England).

This page does not exist WWW.MAGICbOY.CO.UK

Poems Vs Pictures  

The short (er) version of my first book...

Poems Vs Pictures  

The short (er) version of my first book...

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