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May 2015 · 605
Matthew Randell May 2015
When describing Iliad I was told
That a poem 26 books long
Could no longer be referred to
As a poem
It was a story a
novel I was told
That a poem is not a poem
That a poem is dependent on length

But this is not true
May 2015 · 1.9k
But don't be a c*nt
Matthew Randell May 2015
Prejudice helps us
make snap-decisions
Labels help us
know what things are
Gender roles are convenient

Use them if you must
But don't be a c*nt.
May 2015 · 8.7k
Adjective as a Writer
Matthew Randell May 2015
Radical as Shakespeare
Cool as Frost
Spooky as Poe
Cyclic as Lee
Rounded as Austen
Abundant as Brontë

Earnest as Hemmingway
May 2015 · 7.3k
Camp Boy
Matthew Randell May 2015
Tentpole, stature tall and strong and
Firmly placed between the thin sheets
Members of the boy scouts, boy clan
Flames extinguished, his body heats

At dawn it rises, makes me wake
******* for the fire he gathers
Morning wood, embers of the stakes
Soon home; disapproving Fathers

Morning **** calls, but we're busy
Pack our bags, get all the work done
Juice of life makes me quite dizzy
Mem'ries of our weekend of fun

I'll be dish and spoon to your spoon
Spend nights together o'er the moon
May 2015 · 1.7k
Matthew Randell May 2015
He's quiet in class,

Sits at the back,

Never put's his hand up,

Friends he does lack,

On his way to lessons,

And before school,

He's beaten to a pulp,

He spits blood and drool,

Every day he runs,

Faster and faster,

Trying to escape,

His self-proclaimed master,

Scared to roam the playground,

Scared of having fun,

Hopes it will get better,

But they've only just begun,

Eveything is better now,

He's laughing, playing games,

No more bullies in the school,

To tease him, call him names,

He decided to tell a teacher,

And then he told his dad,

Went to the head,

Said it made him really sad,

The school rang the police,

And had the bully arrested,

They took him away in handcuffs,

The one who had molested,

His gang disappeared,

Without a trace,

For they had no leader,

They had no ace,

Everybody cheers,

Fans of the Victim,

Some guy has hit a teacher,

Now in one foul swoop he's knicked 'em,
May 2015 · 1.6k
Praise Song for My Sister
Matthew Randell May 2015
You are

water to me

fun and bold and caring

You are

sky's cloud to me

fast and strange and trying

You are

sunrise to me

bliss and sass and smiley

You are

the Hello Kitty biscuits to me

the apples, pears, and grapes to me

the potato smiles / the pancake smell

remembering remembering

Take this to school today, you said.
Inspired by Praise Song for My Mother by Grace Nichols.
May 2015 · 2.0k
Day of the Disappeared
Matthew Randell May 2015
Runaways hiding in the abandoned warehouse,

Teenagers stolen, unwitting  spouse,

Gangs and violence all around,

People disappearing without a sound,

Blood and drugs and stolen girlfriends,

Turf wars and kidknappings, is there no end?,

People vanish and are never found,

People hunt them down, like bloodhounds,

A world with knives at every turn,

People who live to watch things burn,

They never think about the consequences of their actions,

Just watch the news for the family's reactions,

Shoot old friends in the head because of a debt,

Slit a strangers throat because you don't like their pet,

Lock ememies in your bathroom; release them for money,

Beat them inch away from death; 'till they're crying for their mummy,

Tie a stranger to a raft and watch them drift out to sea,

When are these people going to wake up and see,

It's time gang members had an epiphany,

You can't lock people up and cover them in wee,

Karma says that bad things happen to bad people like them,

Every mean thing they've done, to them we will condemn,

Relentless bullying towards your colleagues and your peers,

You've had your brutal fun; it's the Day of the Disappeared.
A poem I wrote for the British Red Cross' Day of the Disappeared (August 30).
May 2015 · 469
Matthew Randell May 2015
L itter strewn streets and rusted vehicle chassis

O pen doors, streets paved with the gold of city life

N egative thoughts clouding people's minds

D ays turn to nights, the beautiful full moon

O paque sky, clouded with smog

N ever ending
May 2015 · 624
Matthew Randell May 2015
Home of the navy, big and strong,

Think that's it? You are most wrong,

Home of Dickens, and Isambard Brunel,

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle stayed a while as well,

Singers like Same Difference born so very close to home,

Gunwharf Quays, Action Stations and even a PlayZone,

An Aquarium, lots of shops, amusement parks and more,

Theatres, museums, the Isle of White; it's fun from shore to shore,

Portsmouth is a brilliant place, to live and work and play,

People who live or visit here shouldn't ever move away!
Written as entry to be Portsmouth's first Young Poet Laureate. I was short-listed.
May 2015 · 5.0k
Life with Oil - 2051
Matthew Randell May 2015
The oil is gone, gone is the oil,

There is no oil for us to boil,

To power our cars,

To package our bars,

We need oil, oil, precious oil,

How we miss our material plastic,

We made everything out of it, it was fantastic!

Car batteries and glue,

Computers, shampoo,

All made out of precious oil,

Alas, it’s shuffled off its mortal coil,

Goodbye, goodbye to our fair oil,

Without our plastic,

Things are quite drastic,

All our cars are beyond repair,

There’s no more shampoo for our hair,

And on what do you think we do a poo,

Plastic toilet seats you cry,

it tell you, that’s not true!

You don’t even know how I’m typing this,

Computers are gone now – don’t dis!

Life really ***** without oil,

In 2011, it must have been royal,

A word of wisdom to those with oil about,

Look after it dearly, don’t let it run out!
May 2015 · 744
The Apple
Matthew Randell May 2015
As big as a tennis ball

But red as a rose

Wait for it to fall

From the tree where it grows.
May 2015 · 2.4k
Matthew Randell May 2015
The creature landed,

And folded it's wings,

Snuggled into it's nest,

Jewelled fit for a king,

Gem-encrusted hide,

With a soft under-belly,

An intelligent beast,

Who could be on the telly,

Tucked away in a cave,

With treasures galore,

Devouring it's meal,

Then hunting for more,

This majestic being,

The last of it's kind,

Will stay hidden away,

Until it's old and blind,

Hunted almost to extinction,

By the Earth's dominent race,

A thing of myths and legends,

Dragon's exist, I rest my case,
May 2015 · 9.3k
Matthew Randell May 2015
Potatoes, potatoes! They grow in the ground,

When you dig them up they're muddy, brown and round,

Potatoes, potatoes! Delicious mashed,

But they don't taste so good if they've been bashed,

Potatoes, potatoes! Steamy in their jacket,

Potatoes, potatoes! Fresh in their packet,

Potatoes, potatoes! Can be made into chips,

Potatoes, potatoes! Are best when they're crisps!
A poem about my favourite tuber the potato. I wrote this near the begining of Junior school.

— The End —