luke-innes
English
Born and bred in London, Luke Innes had lived a life dogged by a lack of total creative outlet. That was, until he discovered he could write pretty damn good performance poetry at the age of 15. After three years honing the craft, he began performing at open mic nights around London to an always rapturous response. After being longlisted for the Christopher Tower Poetry Prize, his first self-published pamphlet quickly went out of print, shortly before his move to Southampton to study a Record Production degree at Southampton Solent University (his other passion). / / Currently living, working, studying, writing and drinking in Southampton, Luke spends most of his time listening to music, sending away millions of (rejected) submissions and getting frustrated trying to write biographies in the third person.
My iguana girlfriend
Cold-blooded with a warm heart
I think about her freezing skin
Whenever we're apart
She rubs her feet up and down my legs
To warm them in the night
It tickles a bit, but I don't care
In fact it's quite alright
'Cause if it helps to warm her up
I'll let her carry on
I'd rather let her rub cold feet on me
Than wonder where she's gone
My iguana girlfriend
She's certainly no snake
Everything she says is real
There ain't no room for fake
She's definitely not a crocodile
She don't cry no fake tears
If water ever leaves her eyes
You know she needs you near
She's certainly no chameleon
Her colour stays the same
She doesn't hide, she's never snide
And honesty is her game
My iguana girlfriend
I love her one hundred bazillion
And even though she's an iguana
She's in no way at all reptilian
There's nothing that could change my mind
Your means wouldn't be justified by your ends
There's nothing at all on earth that could separate
Me and my iguana girlfriend
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
Things are getting better
Look at all the weight I’ve lost
The pounds are falling off of me
But I’m asking, at what cost?
I haven’t left my bed in days
I can’t be ****** to cook
I can’t be ****** to do my work
Or read a poxy book
Things are getting better
I’m relaxing more and more
I feel less and less anxiety
Knocking on my door
But I’ve got deadlines I need to beat
I’m falling well behind
The backlog of things I need to do
Is playing on my mind
Things are getting better
The pills are staying down
They keep me on an even keel
Upon a safer ground
I don’t get too emotional
Over petty ****
Or feel too much elation
Once I’ve had my little hit
Things are getting better
I went to have a blood test
They wanna see if there’s a medical reason
Why I’m feeling so depressed
But I wonder if my blood can show
What’s going through my head
Or can give a rational explanation
For why I can’t get out of bed?
Things are getting better
I’m less and less inclined
To listen to the ********
That passes through my mind
And I wonder, if things keep on changing
Where are they gonna go?
‘Cause if this is getting better
Then I really don’t wanna know.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 9:57 PM UTC
We’re always taught in English lessons
That in language, less is more
So why say ‘lady of the night’
When you can just say *****
Why on earth say ********
When you can just say ****
And why on earth say ‘faecal matter’
When you can just say ****
Why say ‘gluteus maximus’
When you can just say ****
Saying ***** instead of ****
Is a total ******* farce
Saying ****** ***********
Instead of saying ****
Is a bit like saying ‘waterborne bird’
Instead of saying ‘duck’
Why would you say ‘I didn’t enjoy it’
Instead of ‘it was crap’?
And why say ‘could you please be quiet for a moment?’
Instead of ‘shut your ******* trap’?
That last one’s a bad example
It appears forceful and rude
I suppose the point I was trying to make
Is that swearing ain’t always crude
If you think a lack of necessity
Is a reason not to swear
Then prepare to ****** all unnecessary things
From out your tender care
Chuck away your scatter cushions
And candles you’ll never burn
If you don’t throw away your cookie jar
This debate will be adjourned
For a lack of true necessity
Doesn’t make something offensive
Cursing has too many critics
That’s why I’ve come to defend it
And if you disagree with me
Prepare to bare the brunt
You may think I’m ******
But I think you’re a ****
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 8:03 PM UTC
I hate the way you run around
Telling everyone I’m a ****
I hate the way your apologies sound
In fact, they make me sick
I hate your lack of confidence
In everything you do
I hate your rejection of the compliments
I showered over you
I hate how you ended things
And that you were so blunt
I hate how I never told you
That I think you are a ****
I hate that I showed you devotion
Every single day
I hate that I invested emotion
In every single way
I hate your ******* dad
He did a ****** job
I hate your upbringing being bad
Because it made you a ******* ****
I hate your ******* petulance
It drives me up the wall
I hate you pretending to be delicate
When you’ve got no heart at all
I hate the way that you pretend
You don’t want to get hurt
I hate the way you talk to your friends
Like I’m a piece of dirt
I hate that your attention span
Is like a ******* fish
I hate that I’d never have been your man
If I had just one wish
I hate that you’re so beautiful
And that that fact is true
I hate that my soul is so full
Of love and dreams of you
But most of all:
I hate that there was a time
When I made you feel good
I hate that I tried
In any way I could
I hate that I was short-sighted
Enough to fall for you
I hate being reminded
You haven’t got a clue
I hate that I adored you
Even when you took the ****
I hate that I never ignored you
When you moved in for our first kiss
I hate all your awful qualities
Even the ones you can’t see
But most of all, I hate the fact
That you, blame me.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
There’s an Indian restaurant down the road,
And the owners have a beautiful daughter,
But she’s the apple of her daddy’s eye,
So I really don’t think I oughta.
There was a Chinese takeaway next door,
That did the best fried-rice,
But the authorities came and shut ‘em down,
For infestation of rats and lice.
There’s a newsagents further along,
But it doesn’t do much to dazzle,
Unless you want overpriced cigarettes,
And back issues of Razzle.
The Arab café across the road,
Does the best cappuccinos around,
The sound of Algerian pensioners laughing
Is such a beautiful sound.
There’s a Working Men’s around the corner,
Where the Guinness is dirt cheap,
And in it I’ve had drunken nights,
And memories I’d fight to keep.
There’s a chicken shop on the way back home,
Which I must say is pretty useful,
When I’m staggering home, ****** as a ****
The chicken burgers taste ******* beautiful.
There’s also a chippy down the way,
That does an excellent saveloy,
It got burnt down, and I can’t help but suspect,
It was a sneaky insurance ploy.
There’s an Irish pub next door to that,
Full of drunken, singing Micks,
The Dubliners on the jukebox,
It’s where I get my fix.
But I’m always drawn to the Indian restaurant,
Where the owners have a beautiful daughter,
She’s witty, glamourous, the same age as me,
And I really think that I oughta.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 12:27 AM UTC
I’m hanging up my dungarees,
And doing so for good,
The video game cover art doesn’t
Acknowledge me like it should,
My brother gets his name in lights,
While I do half the work,
All the sibling rivalry,
Is driving me berserk,
I can beat the Koopa Troopas
And stomp on Bowser too,
But I only see the light of day
If there’s a player two,
And they’re rarely ever any good,
I never reach the bosses,
It’s always game over screens
And endless 1-up losses,
So I’m hanging up my dungarees,
For the final time,
I won’t go saving Peach tomorrow,
I’ll start towing my own line,
There’s no Goombas and Koopas,
Out there that I’m needed to startle
And for some reason, it’s always your princess,
Not mine, who’s in another castle.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
I’ll never be a king, so you’ll never be my queen,
We’ll never be two cogs in the same big machine,
We’ll never be a cliché, but I tell you something, doll,
I can be a gangster, and you can be my moll.
Walking through the means streets, my hand in yours,
And a Tommy gun in the other, between my sweaty claws,
As my seniors die, I’ll climb to the top of the pole,
I can be a gangster, and you can be my moll.
There’s a certain premonition floating in the air,
That I’m a hardened criminal, far beyond repair,
But I’m just doing what my upbringing makes me know,
Because I can be a gangster, and you can be my moll.
And you can have me forever or ‘till I’m locked up in jail,
And we run out of money, and the mansion goes up for sale,
But even if we’re broke and poor, my love will never lull,
I’ll always be a gangster, and you’ll always be my moll.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 12:20 AM UTC