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Ben Jones Nov 2017
Are you the one I promised
When I didn't keep my word?
Are you the voice inside my head
That no one else has heard?
When the sun has slowly risen
And I look into the past
Were you the man on fire
Or the shadow that he cast?

Was I the dragon sleeping
Or the gold on which he slumbered?
Was I the one and only one
Or was I merely numbered?
Is every second precious
When the day was never mine?
Was I ever really real
Or a flaw in your design?
Ben Jones Feb 2013
Peter built a paper boat
Which he could float about the sea
To hidden spots of lonely coast
Where not a ghost or man would be
He painted words along her bough
That soon would plough and skip and trot
Between the waves that rose and falled
The boat was called 'Forget Me Not'

He bid his wife a fond goodbye
The tide was high when he embarked
He drifted from his tiny cove
While weather drove and seagulls larked
He set his course horizon bound
For solid ground of ****** shore
As darkness came he made a bed
To keep his head above the floor

The voyage took him straight and true
Across the blue, toward the sun
But soon a tongue of lightening spat
And thunder rattled like a gun
The waves encircled hungrily
And angrily about their prey
The tempest heaved with no regret
It blew Forget Me Not away

He found himself all caked in sand
And on a strand of desert beach
Forget Me Not had run aground
But safe and sound from tidal reach
He folded down his paper yacht
And found a spot to build a home
But saved the sail and rudder strings
To forge some wings and daily roam

He glided high and long and wide
Past mountainside and shore to shore
And through the night he forged a blade
And with it made a lumber saw
He felled the trunk and snared the beast
And cooked a feast to celebrate
The rain it sought to disagree
But quick was he to remonstrate

The moonlight waxed and waned apart
And on his heart a longing formed
For home and his beloved bride
For fireside and there be warmed
And so he took the house he'd made
From humid shade of seldom oak
He set the island to his aft
And cried and laughed the words he spoke

They matched the words he'd lately hewn
Beneath the moon in shady spot
He carved into that seldom tree
'Remember me, forget me not'
Ben Jones Nov 2015
My poem has a number!
My dreams have come to be
For enumerated poetry
Is a wondrous thing to see
I’ve earned that single digit
For the poem that I penned
The only one I’ve written
With a number on the end

**
Ben Jones Jun 2015
Be sure to shut the curtains
And careful not to peep
Best prop a chair against the door
Before you go to sleep
I’ve heard there’s been a breakout
At the local Poet’s Ward
He absconded with a biro
Which he wielded like a sword

He punctuated seven guards
A capital offence
Then walked out simultaneously
In the past and present tense
He’s liable to strike at will
And evil to the core
Beware of ***** limericks
Pushed underneath your door
Ben Jones Jun 2016
I see the flowers watching me
In the corner of my eye
And I know they turn to follow me
As I warily pass them by
They seem to pop up everywhere
I’m in fear for my life
There’s a crocus in my garden
I suspect it has a knife

The tulips mug pedestrians
While the daisies hold them down
The orchids throng their sordid beds
In parks of ill renown
Daffodils are widely known
To traffic drugs for money
The roses mock the handicapped
And think that AIDS is funny

Forget-me-nots are racist
They’re a monochrome bouquet
You should never trust a marigold
For they quickly go astray
Foxglove can be terminal
And belladonna too
So I’m going to watch the summertime
Through a sheet of glass or two
Ben Jones Aug 2017
Polly arose from the from the gaze of her foes
On a regular digital beam
She rebounded through life in a bubble of smoke
Cos she thought that she lived in a dream

Polly applied to the opposite side
Of a battle which nobody fought
While seated quite still, she retreated at will
For she knew that she couldn't be caught

Polly retired on the wealth she'd acquired
With a tangible air of the throne
There was little to say when she faded away
But they made something up for the stone
Ben Jones Apr 2013
With a wide demographic of *******
There's average, massive or missing
There are ******* to nibble and tweak at
And cleavages perfect for kissing
But I'm of a practical nature
And with just a little persistence
I'll give you a host of good reasons
To justify ******* existence

They're perfect for warming your hands up
When the gas meter's run out of gas
And there's little that's better to look at
When there's no chance of seeing an ***
Elasticity makes them ideal
For displays and arrangements of flowers
And if you find yourself short of your bus fare
Then they radiate magical powers

You can use then for counting in binary
Or a pillow with mild central heating
And they're perfect for holding a bottle
To keep safe while you're busily eating
As a pair of provocative earmuffs
You'll be envied by all of your friends
Just be sure to take optional tassels
In case one of the ******* offends

You can hollow one out for an ashtray
Or a skullcap for cutting edge Jews
You can throw them about like a Frisbee
There are just so many options to choose
But they're useful right where they're located
And not just to tickle and tease
Just give them a couple of decades
And you'll find them protecting your knees

MWAH! x
Ben Jones Feb 2013
One day
Woke up feeling randy
No one else was handy
What's to do?
Get dressed
Satisfy the horn
With badly acted ****
On pay per view
Hopes sink
Cable's on the blink
But twitter lends a helping hand
Bang, bang, come and have a *******
Gain entrance on demand

Have a *******
Come and have a *******
It's a *******
Come and have a *******

Went out
Followed the directions
Battling erections
All the while
Red cheeks
Granny at the bus stop
Let her vision drop
Then cracked a smile
Half four
Knocking at the door
It opens and a voice proclaims
"Bang, bang, come and have a *******
We've far too many dames"

The host was a sight to see
Not far over seventy
And wrapped in a silk dressing gown
I thought I would walk away
But saw that the sky was grey
And it star-
-ted *******
It down

Stepped in
Blinded by a deep gloom
Ushered to a dark room
Curtains shut
Deep breath
Air is old and musty
Carpet feeling crusty
Underfoot
Sprawled there
Women lying bare
And fellas with their organs free
Bang, bang, cover up your ****, ****
Regain your decency

Pretty *******
Pretty ****** *******
****** *******
Pretty ****** *******

Look round
Writhing on the ground
With squishy little sounds
But something's odd
Fat lass
Itching at her *** crack
Isn't that a *******?
Oh my god!
Jaw drops
Granny from the bus stop
Wearing nothing but a grin
Bang, bang, pretty ****** *******
What ******* let her in?

She's nothing but skin and bone
With ribs like a xylophone
At least several decades too old
To use the vernacular
It's like bumming Dracula
She's wiry
She's wizened
She's cold

Oh (pretty) no (******)
Rasping on my ****
With fingers like a sock
Filled up with ice
No (scary) chance (hairy)
Giving her the slip
My todger's in a grip
Just like a vice
It (saggy) seems (baggy)
Like she's in a dream
While scraping with her ancient hand
Bang, bang, ****** ****** *******
My sore and swollen gland

Granny bang bang
Granny granny *******
Granny *******
Granny ***** *******

Knock, knock
Coppers at the door
Go crawling on the floor
And off at speed
What fun
Looking at the punters
Myriad of munters
As they flee'd
Cold, wet
Drowning in regret
With trousers round my knees I stand
Bang bang ****** ****** *******
Next time I'll use my hand
Bang bang ****** ****** *******
Next time I'll use my haaaaaaaaaaaaaaand!
Ben Jones May 2014
The Knackers-Yard nursing home, rotted and bleak
Where the occupants dribble and seldomly speak
And the medicine is strong while the coffee too weak
Where there's never a care a fuss
There's a trip to the bingo on regular days
And they visit the beaches, the rivers and bays
For the brick-a-brack stalls and the knitting displays
In a rusty mobility bus

Prunella, the wagon of elderly types
With a blanket for every lap
She's a trusty machine of a hideous green
And she's Queen of the Watford Gap

One morning in May when the weather was grim
Miss Margaret Maywither went on a whim
To converse with the orderly, Terrible Tim
And they sat there and shot at the breeze
They nattered and gabbed a selection paces
And tried to put names to familiar faces
But Maggie with plans to discover new places
Relieved the young man of his keys

Prunella, the stolen mobility bus
Where the wings of bingo flap
With a window down and a dressing gown
She's Queen of the Watford Gap

She took to the road with a skeleton crew
Some heart-attack red or a worrying blue
And frequently stopping when tablets were due
They made for a hasty escape
With a foot to the floor and a screaching of tyres
A stopping of traffic and starting of fires
Such fun can be had when a lady retires
In a bus held together with tape

Prunella, the choice of the senior crowd
Each wrinkled lass or chap
There's a lift for the crips and titanium hips
And she's Queen of the Watford Gap

The police gave a chase at a sensible speed
As the Prunella and Margaret rapidly flee'd
When escape is impossible, each one agreed
They would rather be dead than be caught
With a tug of the wheel and a rattle of teeth
With a serpent of tyre smoke writhing beneath
It was probably too late to order a wreath
And the chance of survival was nought

Prunella, on fire and twisted apart
A smouldering pile of scrap
With the wreckage and grease of a dozen police
She's Queen of the Watford Gap
Ben Jones Feb 2015
Finding something on the road
And serving it for dinner
Buying dresses far too small
And thinking you look thinner
Solar powered submarines
Broken ribs or ruptured spleens
Driving cars and drinking beers
Lightbulb licking, bad ideas

Knowing where you shouldn't be
And being there despite
Going out in thunderstorms
To fly your iron kite
Sharing needles with a shark
Going to Mansfield after dark
Setting fire to someone's ears
Telemarketing, bad ideas

Not deploying gaffer-tape
When doing D.I.Y.
Believing the implausible
While branding truth a lie
Replying to Nigerian Princes
**** bleach and ******* rinses
Tabloid papers touting fears
Voting UKIP, bad ideas

Impersonating ******
Before nineteen forty-five
Catching a train on Sunday
And assuming you'll arrive
Turning lights on with your nose
Eating food that moves or glows
Listening to Britney Spears
Marmite Pringles, bad ideas

**
Ben Jones Jun 2013
Spend some time in retrospect
The sky was vivid blue
The air smelled of nostalgia
And in hindsight I knew you

Walk amongst my memories
And pick which ones are true
For hindsight fought with retrospect
And left them all askew

Meet with me in retrospect
A rosy tinted view
For back then life was beautiful
And in hindsight, so were you
Ben Jones Sep 2017
If you were me and I was you
I'd look at me the way you do
But never view what you could see
When you were you and I was me

**
Ben Jones Jul 2013
Plentiful the shadows lay
Abundant so they grew
Pooling in forgotten nooks
That daytime never knew
Gathering behind the trees
Concealed from the light
Until the sky with a blazing eye
Should send them all to flight

Somewhat coy the sunrise
She blushes on the blue
Cautious fall the sparrow calls
Insipidly the dew
As from the trees a host of bees
About the blossom strives
Pouring sweet ambrosia
Into honey coated hives

Playfully the gentle breeze
A cooling kiss to share
Writhing phantom fingertips
That tangle in my hair
Pressing its intentions
On my senses and my soul
Mending what was broken
Destroying what was whole
Ben Jones Apr 2017
A caution to gardeners, be on your guard
There's a felon at work that'll lurk in your yard
He'll feast on your giblets and guzzle the juice
The serial cannibal: Robert the Spruce

He'll slyly survey his oblivious prey
Until one sorry night, as your drifting away
There's a bang and a rustle, you bustle outside
A hushed expectation inhibits your stride

Alarm bells are ringing, just seconds too late
As you stop and examine your tiny estate
Could that rustle have really been leaves on the breeze?
And since when did my garden have so many tr....
Ben Jones Dec 2015
She pours a nervous tingle
Onto all that she perceives
The room is slightly darker
From the moment that she leaves
Regrettable, the whole affair
Breakfast and denial
Sarah May, have a care
Not her style

She saunters past decisions
With indifference to spare
She’s free with her opinion
But has nothing to declare
Teetering about the brink
Precarious, her dance
Sarah May, stop and think
Not a chance

But she’s got no recollection
Of the sharp end of the clock
The consequences streak her face
And crumple up her frock

So she breaks away the borders
And she tears the frame apart
With glitter on her fingernails
An armour plated heart
Tempting as a chocolate cake
As subtle as a brick
Sarah May, run away
Not too quick
Ben Jones Mar 2015
Bathe yourself in shades of night
Remove the light of day
Comb the worry from your hair
And feel it fall away
Find a thing of which you’re sure
Then turn it on its side
Bring it to me by the edge of the sea
At the cusp of the morning tide

Blink away the filaments
Illusion has you blind
And a cobweb of confusion
Is enveloping your mind
Take solace in an empty jar
And ***** the lid on tight
Bring it to me by the sycamore tree
In the middle of yesterday night

Clothe your form in alchemy
With just a twist of lime
Smash the face of every clock
To save yourself some time
Take a single weary breath
And wrap it up in twine
Bring it to me by the duty free
In exchange for a bottle of wine
Ben Jones Aug 2016
At the back of the stage in a gloomy wee room
Where the cockroaches eat what the rats don’t consume
There’s a table enveloped in paper and grime
On a carpet now lost to a happier time
With a cast iron typewriter, rusted with age
In the gloomy wee room at the back of the stage

And under a lampshade of nicotine brown
Sits a comical legend of zero renown
How he plugs at the keys of his rattling beast
The years of persistence have left him decreased
Now he’s stuck in the shade of his hovering doom
At the back of the stage in a gloomy wee room

His words are for others and too, the applause
Though a standing ovation might cause him to pause
He hasn’t the courage to speak them aloud
For he’s lacking the bottle and shy of a crowd
So he captures the laughter in lines on his page
In a gloomy wee room at the back of the stage
Ben Jones Jun 2013
Sadie was a doubtful one
Her mind was tightly shut
When faced with the fantastical
She’d fold her arms and tut
She pranced around her garden
With an playful evil aura
And dealt a merry flattening
To all that passed before her
Their bodies lay around her
And an imp of mischief found her

She loved to trap and poison
And wished she’d been a spider
When a fizzing overtook her
When a rumble grew inside her
When a shrinking and a shrivelling
Across her form did tickle
And soon did Sadie realise
That wishes can be fickle
Her legs and arms divided
Her eyeballs multiply did

So sorry Sadie scuttled
Alternating creep and crawl
She tippy-toe’d across the grass
And past her victims all
And sadness was upon her
And with mourning in her eyes
Her grief compounded hunger
And an appetite for flies
Her lengthy limbs belied her
Sorry Sadie was a spider

She loped along a lily
And her sorrow turned to guilt
Her carapace was aching
For the blood which she had spilt
She wept a web of anguish
With her sticky little tears
She wound a downward spiral
Like the falling of the years
Her malice had been stunted
Her fangs were dull and blunted

Sadie gained existence
On a web of worldly woes
She fed her tiny tummy
Where the buzz and flutter goes
And she learned the price of living
So she killed just what she ate
And she knew why killing needlessly
Was such an ugly trait
And with a human soul inside her
She chose to be a spider
Ben Jones May 2014
Adrift on her very first voyage
With the sea coursing in through her bow
Lay the cruise ship, the S.S. Lumbago
There was scarcely a chance for her now
But Ahoy! On the western horizon
In a flurry of yellow and green
That ender of blight and a damsel’s delight
And he’s always on cue for his scene

It’s Sir Patrick Stewart!
And his Luxury Budgerigar!
It’s got seating for seventy people
And the service is well above par
There’s an adequate medical unit
And a modest but elegant bar
What more could a man ever dream of
In a Luxury Budgerigar?
Well…

The forests of England were burning
So the foxes escaped to the city
The badgers had taken to looting
And the squirrels had formed a committee
But who should arise from a manhole
With a confident gleam in his eye?
That destroyer of woes with a spring in his toes
And he’s quick with a witty reply…

Sir Patrick Stewart!
And his Luxury Budgerigar!
With adjustable hose pipe attachment
It’s got wheels like a feathery car
The forests were dowsed and the fauna re-housed
With a three day retreat at a spa
It’s a thing to admire and surely acquire
The Luxury Budgerigar!
But…

Susan was stricken with sorrow
Twas her darkest, most fearful hour
A spider had wrestled her out of her bath
And set up his home in the shower
But who should jump out of the wardrobe
With an innocent look on his face?
That singer of shanties, remover of *******
And first in an obstacle race

Sir Patrick Stewart!
And his Luxury Budgerigar
With a sucker for spiders and beetles
That deposits them into a jar
There’s a tiny wee restaurant to feed them
It was given a Michelin star
A remarkable thing with retractable wings
Is a Luxury Budgerigar

So if you should be in a pet shop
And you see just the critter for you
Please heed this advice: make a note of the price
Then proceed to the back of the queue
When you ask for your preference of creature
Should it whistle, slither or waddle
Do as Sir Patrick Stewart did
And opt for the Luxury model
Ben Jones Sep 2015
As sleep subdued my fractious mind
And soothed my weary eyes
An inspiration intervened
It caught me by surprise
So, though I needed nothing more
Than unimpeded slumber
A poem formed inside my head
A catchy little number
The verses, short and elegant
Insightful yet sublime
And perfectly the meter ran
On an endless fount of rhyme
I fell asleep repeating it
Recalled from start to end
Excited for the morning
When the poem could be penned
Yet all I can remember now
As the dawn peeps through the trees
Is a dodgy flower metaphor
And something about bees
Ben Jones Feb 2018
On a rain battered hillside that looks out to sea
Clings an edifice, sullen and damp
The vacuum of night seems to suckle the light
From a singular, sickly lamp
The sign at the gate is of sun splintered oak
And the letters erased by the rain
‘The Slowcombe Asylum ’ they’d long ago spelt
‘For the Brainsick, Disturbed and Insane’

The cold of the air tangles up in your hair
Like a lingering tendril of panic
And the door to your skin as you venture within
Is unnervingly warm and organic
There’s a hole in the window that lets in the rain
And it’s rotted the carpet beneath
The rattle of wind through the weather-worn blinds
Hides the sound of your chattering teeth

There’s a whisper that nibbles the edge of your ear
And a shudder that skips up your sleeves
But the cry that had clung to the tip of your tongue
Is accosted before it can leave
There are pools of neglect where the shadows collect
‘Til the sunlight has faded from view
The security door is of iron and steel
But it’s broken and hanging askew..
Ben Jones Apr 2019
The sock is not merely regalia
Or podiatry paraphernalia
For a well knitted toe
To the fork of your foe
Can mean victory rather than failure

**
Ben Jones Mar 2018
Spring has sprung
Or so I’m told
The sun is low
My breakfast cold
Timid flowers
Hide their heads
Beneath the earth
In frozen beds

Spring is here
With frosted lips
And pollen coated
Fingertips
With just a hint
Of distant warm
Or rattling
Of thunder storm

Spring abounds
On wary feet
With breath of mist
And sudden sleet
To chap at cheeks
And nibble noses
Cold as clay
Red as roses

Happy Easter to all those celebrating this weekend. I shall sacrifice a chocolate egg to my craven gods in your honour ;)

**
Ben Jones Dec 2013
Along a winding meadow way
Circuitous and pebble strewn
Towards a brook and down a *****
As morning sun outshines the moon
An expectation clogs the air
And all about the flowers turn
To face a wave of tidal light
To catch ablaze but not to burn

A dusky fragrance lingers still
And gathers calm as mercury
In solemn spots beneath the boughs
It lies in perpetuity
The weaving breeze is powerless
And banished by the canopy
Abiding there a myriad
Of all of natures panoply

Drift along now deeper still
A clearing basks amid the shade
An isolated paradise
A lonely little woodland glade
Where early spring regains the lead
And ferns uncurl a welcome hand
The nettles bare their jagged teeth
And offer up a reprimand

A dragonfly takes up my path
And leads me into humid heat
She weaves amid the reaching grass
And safely guides my straying feet
Between the rocks and rabbit holes
That litter my vicinity
The creatures in my path retreat
All sensing my proximity

A fallen trunk now blocks my course
Like driftwood on the shoreline, beached
Its peeling bark is spiraling
And pale in the sunlight, bleached
Enfolded in its limbs I am
As if they shaped themselves to me
As though a plan of ages hatched
And formed a place for me to be

**
Ben Jones Apr 2018
His name brings to mind
A besuited baboon
And a **** poor excuse
For a business tycoon

Famous for firing
Much more than he hires
High-heels and boxes
He often requires

Cack handed on twitter
As in real life
If he could, he’d have taken
Himself for a wife

And it seems you can slander
Whomever you choose
When your name is an anagram
Of “**** Ragus”

And if I were the tabloids
I’d land a low blow
He’s Polish and Russian
By descent, don’t you know?

But that would be nasty
So I’ll leave it at that
It’s not clever to smear
You arrogant ****

CS
Ben Jones Feb 2019
There's a sizzling giant that skips through the sky
While she nods at the people below
Now, a nod and a wink would be kinder, you'd think
But a nod is as far as she'll go

As she prances and bounds over sun-smothered grounds
She's the cause of a squall and a bluster
But no smile for the sodden, most recently trodden
A nod is the best she can muster

No weapon she fears, not the muskets or spears
Nor the arrow set loose by the archer
She dances her dance, an unyielding advance
Then a nod and a lazy departure
Ben Jones Sep 2019
When common sense prevails
And Whitehall gets demolished
Once politics has died a death
When voting is abolished
The world can then recover
From an era of attrition
But mindful of the wandering
Redundant politician

For safeguarding the public
And ensuring that our nation
Is free from slimy bureaucrats
With dodgy legislation
Is vital for survival
So we’d better reemploy them
And here are some suggestions
As to how we might enjoy them

They could bungee jump volcanoes
For the National Geographic
Or lie down in a busy road
To calm the morning traffic
We could shave their glossy hair off
And turn it into wigs
Then pulverise the rest of them
For feeding to the pigs

If you’ve just made a coffee
And spilt a little drop
Then grab one by the ankles
And Presto! It’s a mop
Just roll one over nettles
If ever you’re impeded
And stand them on the riverbed
If stepping stones are needed

They’re great for hanging coats on
And extinguishing cigars
They’re useful safety dummies
For testing foreign cars
If hollowed out and quilted
They make a fetching scarf
And quite the conversation piece
If pickled, cut in half

The list is almost endless
And I’ve mentioned fairly few
There’s a myriad of ****** jobs
To find for them to do
But first they should be rounded up
A vessel must be chartered
To send them to the front line
Of the wars they ****** started
Ben Jones Jun 2013
Cascade along the midnight street
Allow your feet to lead the way
Past shuttered shops and lowered blinds
And let your mind be led astray
Although some time meandering
And wandering bereft of cares
You find you've stopped and there you stand
Beneath a strand of marble stairs
 
You brush your hand along the rail
As you assail the stony flight
There, at the top a door of brass
And crystal glass reflects the night
A counter cut of fretted oak
Unique, bespoke and petrified
Encroaches on the lobby floor
With doorways on its either side
 
Within them dwells an ailing stage
All worn with age and polished black
And facing this are rows of seats
With velvet pleats and to the back
Resides a heavy curtained box
With silver locks and tapestry
Scenes of the earth and all above
Of love and whimsicality
 
Inside the hall, the lights are out
Yet all about an echo bounds
Of lost applause and orchestras
And raucous, energetic sounds
It's here and now, upon the boards
The darkness hoards a pool of light
Where mingling in motes of dust
And arm is ****** from out of site
 
A quiet amid the hush befalls
Along the stalls, a faceless glare
As set in shades of darkest dim
She glimmers like a solitaire
Her dance describes a careful tone
Each every bone at her command
Her feet tattoo a silent beat
The rhythm meets her open hand
 
Her features null and desolate
Her lips yet to convey a smile
She draws a story with her grace
With shapeless face and all the while
She skips across the empty floor
A dead score from an vacant pit
And through a haze of burning lime
From distant times her dance is lit
 
A swan song of a life cut short
A fable wrought in liquid gloom
Lamenting talent never proved
A bud removed before it's bloom
Its loss a crime against the world
A shadow hurled towards the sun
For such a life slip the hands
As dry sands through the fingers run
 
And now she stands at center stage
A gilded cage she'll never slip
A single tear is seen to leak
about her cheek, across her lip
She stoops a solitary bow
And dips her brow to those unseen
A cacophony of aphony
For her, the girl who's never been
 
A ghostly veil wavers free
As slowly she dissolves in light
Her sparkle spreads and dissipates
Evaporates from empty sight
She never takes a curtain call
No flowers fall about her toes
But still she dances for the dark
A tiny spark of spirit froze


**reposted because I'd forgotten all about it
Ben Jones Oct 2019
Make a line upon the sand
And pick a side on which to stand
Opposing those who disagree
Who think their sand the place to be
Extend the line and dig it deep
Have one eye open while you sleep
Division grows and hopes decline
When foolish people make a line

#BrexitShambles
Ben Jones Apr 2017
When the funding is cut
So the hospitals shut
That’s a Tory
When the poverty bites
And you lose human rights
That’s a Tory
Such excess
Better reassess
Better repossess
Better get yourself private healthcare
Overtaxed if you work
Unemployed? Then you're scrounging on welfare

When there’s bigoted views
Blatant lies on the news
That’s a Tory
When the biggest and best
Are too rich to arrest
That’s a Tory
But they’re lax
Covering the cracks
Never paying tax
Claiming everything on expenses
They can steal with a smile
While they peddle their flimsy defences

When they're guilty of fraud
And they're banking abroad
That's a Tory
If they're selling your school
When 'austere' means 'cruel'
That's a Tory
Too much spin
Slogan and a grin
Wearing pretty thin
Bussing people in to applaud them
Any law can be bought
If you're well off enough to afford them

That's all folks and remember, you can't spell Theresa May without heresy

**
Ben Jones Nov 2013
In a tiny allotment right next to the zoo
A miniature jungle was planted and grew
The flora was dense and the air became hot
But confined to a tidy rectangular plot
An unthinkable  duo of creatures converged
And it's said that a spanking new species emerged
For a curious beast was reportedly seen
Roaming and munching on anything green

Make haste! Away! It's the Buffagorilla!
A shredder of lettuce and cereal killer
With hooves at the front and hands at the rear
The Buffagorilla is near!

It shambles about at the darkest of hours
On hedges it crunches and bunches of flowers
On daffolil bulbs and petunia petals
With hearty aplomb on a cluster of nettles
Covertly perusing with maximum hush
It can wander through gardens disguised as a bush
No carrot or parsnip is safe in its bed
And the marrows are quaking in vegetable dread

Depart! Retreat! It's the Buffagorilla!
The broccoli butcher and vegetable killer
With ape like features and horns of a steer
The Buffagorilla is near!

So if you hear a mention of butternut theft
Or notice a garden, all bare and bereft
Insure your potatoes for damage and loss
Give the salad a purely precautionary toss
For a creature is roaming the byway and track
With its legs at the front and its arms at the back
And it might be your gooseberries or chervil he spies
So I beg you take heed as I once more advise

Be gone! Take flight! It's the Buffagorilla!
The strawberry napper and cucumber killer
Just hide in your cellar and steer well clear
The Buffagorilla is near!
Ben Jones Dec 2020
A legendary sweet tooth, had Lady Felicity Barratt
So swift towards the sugar bowl, so wary of the carrot
She dined on only trifle from a honey coated spoon
But tooth decay accosted her and left her in a swoon

By the time she turned just twenty, her two front teeth were gone
By thirty she was running short and on her final one
When that fell out, she sought a dentist, promptly one arrived
She opened up her grizzly mouth and in the fella dived

He took a cast and took his leave with dentures to be hewn
With satisfaction guaranteed by Friday afternoon
And never did the lady have a reason to suspect
The secret intervention of an evil dental sect

By bribing several bakeries and sweetie shops and stalls
A dossier had been compiled within their sacred halls
For crimes against good dentistry were nothing short of sin
Their retribution must be swift or people might join in

They cast her teeth from coffin nails beneath a devil's moon
With Jack the Ripper's upper set, extracted from his tomb
Then polished with the handkerchief of ******'s former cleaner
Stored in Machiavelli's purse, to make them all the meaner

Upon that self same Friday, at the very cusp of noon
One Doctor Bingo Rogers and his burly hired goon
Came knocking at her premises with dental kit and drills
With a mission to sedate her and to exercise their skills

They knocked her out with ethanol and chloroform and air
And strapped her to a hastily erected dentist's chair
The evil teeth were lodged in place and ******* into her gums
The bill was quite extortionate, for monumental sums

The shamanic orthodontist, with his henchman in his wake
A martyr to the vegetable and nemesis of cake
Was keen to see his handiwork and kept a watchful eye
For curious occurrences, as days went slowly by

By Christmas there was nothing, until on New Year's Eve
Her teeth got uncooperative and forced the girl to leave
They dragged her by her dainty face and led her to the shops
She stood and munched on sugar canes and giant lollipops

They stuffed her face with chocolates, still nestled in their packets
And then a rack of nylon shirts and seven leather jackets
On every size of shoe, she munched; from sixes up to twelves
She nibbled through the party food and gnawed upon the shelves

Then off she sped, into the street, to pursue a passing horse
Dragged along by wicked teeth and supernatural force
But dentures lack in vision, and especially at pace
So when she caught it by the foot she caught it in the face

She skidded to a grizzly halt with arms and legs all twisted
And next to her, a note with all her dental errors listed
So beware the wrath of dentists and obey when they command
And sleep with one eye open and a carrot close to hand

For though our poor Felicity was buried good and hard
Despite floral cupcake with the Dental Cult's regard
And though her body, to this day, lies safely in the ground
The horse escaped that evening and the teeth were never found...
Ben Jones May 2019
A legendary sweet tooth, had Lady Felicity Barratt
So swift towards the sugar bowl, so wary of the carrot
She dined on only trifle from a honey coated spoon
But tooth decay accosted her and left her in a swoon

By the time she turned just twenty, her two front teeth were gone
By thirty she was running short and on her final one
When that fell out, she sought a dentist, promptly one arrived
She opened up her grizzly mouth and in the fella dived

He took a cast and took his leave with dentures to be hewn
With satisfaction guaranteed by Friday afternoon
And never did the lady have a reason to suspect
The secret intervention of an evil dental sect

By bribing several bakeries and sweetie shops and stalls
A dossier had been compiled within their sacred halls
For crimes against good dentistry were nothing short of sin
Their retribution must be swift or people might join in

They cast her teeth from coffin nails beneath a devil's moon
With Jack the Ripper's upper set, extracted from his tomb
Then polished with the handkerchief of ******'s former cleaner
Stored in Machiavelli's purse, to make them all the meaner

Upon that self same Friday, at the very cusp of noon
One Doctor Bingo Rogers and his burly hired goon
Came knocking at her premises with dental kit and drills
With a mission to sedate her and to exercise their skills

They knocked her out with ethanol and chloroform and air
And strapped her to a hastily erected dentist's chair
The evil teeth were lodged in place and ******* into her gums
The bill was quite extortionate, for monumental sums

The shamanic orthodontist, with his henchman in his wake
A martyr to the vegetable and nemesis of cake
Was keen to see his handiwork and kept a watchful eye
For curious occurrences, as days went slowly by

By Christmas there was nothing, until on New Year's Eve
Her teeth got uncooperative and forced the girl to leave
They dragged her by her dainty face and led her to the shops
She stood and munched on sugar canes and giant lollipops

They stuffed her face with chocolates, still nestled in their packets
And then a rack of nylon shirts and seven leather jackets
On every size of shoe, she munched; from sixes up to twelves
She nibbled through the party food and gnawed upon the shelves

Then off she sped, into the street, to pursue a passing horse
Dragged along by wicked teeth and supernatural force
But dentures lack in vision, and especially at pace
So when she caught it by the foot she caught it in the face

She skidded to a grizzly halt with arms and legs all twisted
And next to her, a note with all her dental errors listed
So beware the wrath of dentists and obey when they command
And sleep with one eye open and a carrot close to hand

For though our poor Felicity was buried good and hard
Despite floral cupcake with the Dental Cult's regard
And though her body, to this day, lies safely in the ground
The horse escaped that evening and the teeth were never found...
Ben Jones Nov 2013
A legendary sweet tooth, had Lady Felicity Barratt
So swift towards the sugar bowl, so wary of the carrot
She dined on only trifle from a honey coated spoon
But tooth decay accosted her and left her in a swoon

By the time she turned just twenty, her two front teeth were gone
By thirty she was running short and on her final one
When that fell out, she sought a dentist, promptly one arrived
She opened up her grizzly mouth and in the fella dived

He took a cast and took his leave with dentures to be hewn
With satisfaction guaranteed by Friday afternoon
And never did the lady have a reason to suspect
The secret intervention of an evil dental sect

By bribing several bakeries and sweetie shops and stalls
A dossier had been compiled within their sacred halls
For crimes against good dentistry were nothing short of sin
Their retribution must be swift or people might join in

Upon that self same Friday, at the very cusp of noon
One Doctor Bingo Rogers and his burly hired goon
Came knocking at her premises with dental kit and drills
With a mission to sedate her and to exercise their skills

They knocked her out with ethanol and chloroform and air
And strapped her to a hastily erected dentist's chair
The evil teeth were lodged in place and ******* into her gums
The bill was quite extortionate, for monumental sums

The shamanic orthodontist, with his henchman in his wake
A martyr to the vegetable and nemesis of cake
Was keen to see his handiwork and kept a watchful eye
For curious occurrences as days went quickly by

By Christmas there was nothing, until on New Year's Eve
Her teeth got uncooperative and forced the girl to leave
They dragged her by her dainty face and led her to the shops
She stood and munched on sugar canes and giant lollipops

They stuffed her face with chocolates, still nestled in their packets
And then a rack of nylon shirts and seven leather jackets
On every size of shoe, she munched; from sixes up to twelves
She nibbled through the party food and gnawed upon the shelves

Then off she sped, into the street, to pursue a passing horse
Dragged along by wicked teeth and supernatural force
But dentures lack in vision, and especially at pace
So when she caught it by the foot she caught it in the face

She skidded to a grizzly halt with arms and legs all twisted
And next to her, a note with all her dental errors listed
So beware the wrath of dentists and obey when they command
And sleep with one eye open and a carrot close to hand

For though our poor Felicity was buried good and hard
Despite floral cupcake with the Dental Cult's regard
And though her body, to this day, lies safely in the ground
The horse escaped that evening and the teeth were never found...
Ben Jones Apr 2013
Plucked out from between the blooms
And blown to tell the hour
Each seed that flees the summer breeze
Was born to make a flower

Amongst them, flirting roguishly
Each gust which he might flee on
There deftly danced a propagule
By the name of Dandy Leon

He saw his chance and seized it firm
With filaments of fuzz
And spun upon an eddy
Like a balerina does

It lifted him above the street
And clear of all his kin
He caught a cheeky quick-step
But the air was growing thin

So he threw a saucy limbo
And he dived over the town
He conga'd with a butterfly
And fluttered ever down

But as in every ballroom
When there's no more will to rhumba
The weather took a breather
And it blew a slower number

So Leon drifted dreamily
A waltz of heavy eyes
And landed with finality
Beneath the sunny skies

For today he was a dancer
And he flew above the land
But tomorrow he'd be growing
And next spring he'd be the band
Ben Jones Feb 2013
The clouds were torn asunder
And a multitude of faces raised
And frozen still, the masses gazed
Unblinking eyes were wide and glazed
Legs were weak and wills were lame
And all upon the day they came

The glowing Discs held station
And cars collided in the street
As thousands took to fleeing feet
In terror of the silent fleet
The rich and poor were just the same
And all upon the day they came

The crowds were quickly scattered
Yet signals grew and camps were made
And opportunists plied their trade
As shadows moved, possessions strayed
Looted shops gave way to flame
And all upon the day they came

The tension slowly rising
Anxiety and trepidation
Causing many consternation
Fear fuelling confrontation
Paranoia played its game
And all upon the day they game

The firelights cascaded
The cities blanketed in grey
With human nature on display
As violence had won the day
With no one but ourselves to blame
And all upon the day they came

They watched us with ill humour
With minds as calm as silicone
They saw each wound and broken bone
Each fire lit and bottle thrown
And horrified at human shame
They left upon the day they came
Ben Jones Feb 2018
My beautiful love, how I missed you
Though only a day since you died
My life was bereft of all meaning
There was emptiness yawning inside

I knew it was you that could fill it
So I put you, my darling, on ice
And I heated the oven and skillet
And the wok for the 'special' fried rice

First I loved you with boiled potatoes
And a medley of seasonal veg
There was gravy and roasters and stuffing
But I cleared my plate to the edge

I discovered how much I adore you
Marinated in honey and spices
Then stir-fried with noodles and peppers
Once carved into sensual slices

I savoured a sandwich of passion
I was hungry for seconds and thirds
And I marvelled at your generosity
As I fed some of you to the birds

You were soft, you were warm, you were tender
Slow-cooked on a moderate heat
And I'd frozen a chilli-con-carne
For if ever I fancy a treat

But my hunger for you had abated
And each burp was a loving reminder
So I gathered your beautiful carcass
And bundled it into a grinder

For a couple of weeks there was sausage
I was ever so heavily fed
But I wish that I hadn't have killed you
And had battery farmed you instead

***
Ben Jones Jul 2016
The distant shadows flicker
There’s a glow above the trees
A bitter taste of searing bark
Is borne upon the breeze
My anger is the fire
How she dances as she burns
Twisting into darkness
The helix turns

The gates are locked and bolted
But the bars are wearing thin
The walls are getting shorter
And the world is spilling in
My fear is the panic room
Concealing my concerns
From the vortex of reality
The helix turns

The wind has dropped to nothing
So sails are hanging slack
Delirium has hold of me
The sun pours down my back
My madness is a spiral
Of diminishing returns
We tumble ever onward
The helix turns
Ben Jones Jul 2016
The light seems *****, second hand
Yet scores his eye with a purple brand
With no more ears to fall upon
Unheard is the voice of the hopeless one

Certainty replaced by doubt
His words are vacant, hollowed out
And cynical his lexicon
With a tarnished soul, the hopeless one

Hemoglobin understaffed
The blood bank in its overdraft
Prescription fed automaton
A neutral mask for the hopeless one
Ben Jones Feb 2018
We suffer the misconception
That we nestle on top of the tree
So burning, the need to acquire
That we seldom remember to Be
It’s a fallacy built on foundations
That were laid with the purest of heart
Now we stand in the ruins of greatness
Whilst tearing each other apart

We admire the beauty of shadows
And forget where the shadows abide
We proclaim the virtues of unity
But we’re suckers for picking a side
Our history will be forgotten
A demise of our careful design
For we walk in the footsteps of giants
Yet our stride is in steady decline
Ben Jones Jun 2013
Exploring may be frivolous
But not without its charm
A sturdy stick and native guide
Should keep you far from harm
But if about your wanderings
A desert you should find
Commit these words to memory
And bear them well in mind

If ever you encounter
Whilst off amid the dunes
A creature with an orange face
With ears like wooden spoons
Its eyes revolving rapidly
As pin-wheels in the breeze
Beware the mighty Knobblethump
Aloft on bony knees

Its tongue can stretch for meters
With a coat of sticky glue
Its talons quite formidable
And a gorgeous shade of blue
It suffers not from hunters
As it bounds across the sands
If they try to track its footprints
Then it walks upon its hands

Its tail is rather notably
Of curious construction
With purple hair, an extra nose
And tentacles for suction
It dines upon its victims
With efficiency and lust
For dessert it’s baked Sahara
With a tasty sandy crust

So heed my words of counsel
And avoid the desert sun
Keep near to mind, this salty tail
Keep close to hand your gun
Sleep with one eye at a time
And never trust a Jew
Bravely, you… what?

Oh… It appears that will be all from Ben’s Bedtime Stories for tonight and indeed forever. Sleep tight **
Ben Jones Apr 2019
I feel I might be missing
There’s a shadow in my place
I’m told he looks a bit like me
But hollow where his heart should be
Just seek him out, it’s plain to see
He’s mainly empty space

I fear I may be falling
As I’ve failed to find the ground
We parted ways, a bitter feud
And nothing further soon ensued
I gained a lot of altitude
In just a single bound

I feel as though I’m wearing out
Reserves are running low
Each passing hour I lament
The waste of every second spent
They tumble by without relent
I’m caught up in the flow
Ben Jones Apr 2013
Jesus was looking impatient
It was already quarter past nine
He was sure he'd sent out invitations
And he'd turned all the water to wine

He'd promised a memorable banquet
As tomorrow he'd surely be dead
But the shops had been short of a few things
So he'd just had to settle for bread

When a knock at the door made him flutter
He adjusted his dress and his hair
He opened and bid all assembled
"Wipe your feet and then sit over there"

They shuffled and took to their places
But they looked slightly I'll at their ease
They could see all the wine and the bread rolls
But what of the ham and the cheese?

Jesus said grace in his fashion
"Cheers Dad" with his thumb held up high
"But be careful, this bread is my body"
"Now who wants a nice bit of thigh?"

They tucked in with nervous expressions
He'd been guzzling since they had arrived
He explained "It's my blood in these bottles"
"And without it I'd not have survived"

The apostles were forming conclusions
Their boss had been ****** all these years
But the wine washed away their objections
And the music drowned out all their fears

So they partied and danced on the table
They played twister and tidily-winks
Then stumbled off out to a nightclub
Because Judas was buying the drinks

They caroused and they conga'd till morning
Till their stomachs and bladders had failed
And that's how young Jesus got hammered
And the very next day he got nailed
Ben Jones May 2019
The angels gathered all about
The hour of his birth
They mocked and howled in harmony
With heavy handed mirth
Upon his cheek they set the sign
Of all that shouldn't be
And cast a light of cautioning
For all the world to see
His cord was cut asunder
By a blade of malcontent
And free into the living world
The Leveller was sent

His childhood was immaculate
About him drew a chill
He spoke in calm and measurement
To those who served his will
His eyes were simply windows
And beneath them shone the void
His hair was curled chaotically
As with the wind it toyed
He suffered no companion
Save the presence of his mother
She viewed him with adoring eyes
A way she saw no other

He never knew his father
And no mention ever made
His mind was ever sharpened
His attention never strayed
With pockets filled with avarice
His cup grew never shallow
And places that he visited
Grew desolate and fallow
Meticulous and thoroughly
He studied and he learned
Yet deep within a timer ticked
A candle slowly burned

The years were quick to tumble by
They ran away like sand
A child became an adult
And his purpose was at hand
The sunset billowed evilly
Like blood does in the water
And fire bloomed within his soul
And hunger for the slaughter
He eyed his doting mother
And extinguished her with thought
If only for the solitude
And pleasure that it brought

She fell and marked his wakening
With love still in her eyes
He raised his hand in arrogance
And smote the living skies
The silence broke near placidly
With softly falling birds
He ate the souls of onlookers
And stole away their words
The tide drew up the shoreline
It gleefully advanced
Quickly and deceptively
As through the streets it danced

Atop each crest of rancid foam
Was evidence of death
The air was thick and vacuous
And clotted every breath
The brave and foolish stood their ground
They mounted their defences
But ghostly fingers smothered them
And choked away their senses
The masses fled in unison
To make for higher ground
And those too weak to run away
Forsaken, slowly drowned

The Leveller continued
And he rode each hellish wave
No sympathy was traded
And the earth became a grave
The fire in him cackled
It beguiled the population
Humanity was cowering
And begged for their salvation
But he silenced them most savagely
And as the last fell down
He took his victims finger bones
To make himself a crown

So that was how the human race
Was banished from the world
And demon spawn reclaimed it
Their unholy wings unfurled
The ground was scorched and fruitless
And the riverbeds were bare
The smell of death and pestilence
Had stained the very air
And on a throne of fire
With a sceptre wrought of spines
With ****** crown upon his brow
The Leveller reclines
Ben Jones May 2014
It used to be a guessing game
The bluffing and the lies
Uneasy is the fall of foot
When blindness grips the eyes
With shade as your protection
It was tough to disagree
But the lights are on
And now I see

The shadows danced about you
And wove your words like lace
But now they lie behind you
And the light shines in your face
A rabbit in the headlights
With no where else to be
But the lights are on
And now I see
Ben Jones Apr 2018
I wouldn’t pinch
Not **** or slap
No sucker punch or idle tap
No tipping cows
No booing geese
Or folding frogs until they crease
No splatting bugs
Or spraying flies
No salting slugs into demise
But mess with my dog and I’ll tear your ******* arms off

**
Ben Jones Feb 2015
Dorothy Gale, all freckled and pale
Was asleep in her gingham print nighty
When a ****** great twister enveloped the vista
And blew like the good lord almighty
It ripped up the grass and it took out the glass
As it lifted the house from position
And a blow to the head from the post of her bed
Put young Dorothy out of commission

She awoke with a fright as she fell from a height
Landing squarely on somebody's gran
She emerged from indoors to a round of applause
And her journey had surely began
The people of Aus (because that's where she was)
Gave her hazy but helpful directions
She should hastily wander the road over yonder
To reach Tony before the elections

So she took to the road from her former abode
In her quest to get back to her folk
She aquired some mates, all in similar straits
Or the **** of a practical joke
A man made of straw was quite hard to ignore
With a lion quite lacking in guts
And a fella whose skin was constructed from tin
Held together with rivets and nuts

Such adventures they had, though I think you'll be glad
That I've cut to the crux of the rhyme
Where a meeting was set, their request would be met
To meet Tony in ten minutes time
They arrived and were greeted, quite comfortably seated
It was then Mr Abbott appeared
He regretted to say, to their growing dismay
That their wishes had not all been cleared

"As I haven't a heart" he was heard to impart
"then the tin man is leaving with jack"
"And I'm gutless as well" he was careful to tell
"So the lion can hurry on back"
"And I've also no brain, so it's no once again"
"But young lady, your problems are sorted"
"You'll be locked up off shore for a month, maybe four
"And by christmas, we'll have you deported"

By Ben the Poet
Ben Jones Feb 2018
A smithy, name of Ronnie Gun
Created an invention
To rapidly distribute lead
Within the third dimension
He buffed away and polished it
Displayed upon his shelf
He loved that thing so very much
He named it for himself

So he used it in the local bar
To order up some beer
But the landlord wasn’t happy
Having rapid lead just here
He said “If you’ll be drinking here
On more than one occasion,
I’ll need a fancy shooting stick
Of the hole-making persuasion

Ronnie hastened off to home
To build another gun
A scientific exercise
He’d do it just for fun
And if perchance he happened by
The local bar tonight
He’d leave it there for safety
With his friendly barman: Dwight

But Dwight was quite a careless man
He waved his gun around
It puzzled him why everyone
Was lying on the ground
By evening a line had formed
Of angry solid angry local
Demanding Guns for everyone
And getting rather vocal

So all week long he toiled away
and though his gun was fine
He took a little liberty
Improving the design
He charged them quite a penny
Growing richer by the day
While his remained to gather dust
Still standing on display

Policemen came that afternoon
With news of great concern
The ****** rate was soaring
And it’s no surprise to learn
The leading cause of death we’ve found
Is holes from rapid lead
We’re going to have to close you down
There’s one too many dead

‘Twas then that inspiration
Hit like lead propelled at speed
Ronnie stood and thus proclaimed
“I know just what you need!
I’ll happily sell you weapons
With reduction to my fee
And just to prove my honesty
I’ll give you yours for free

And soon another queue had formed
Around his little shop
Of people sick of ducking
At the first sign of a cop
It came to pass that everyone
Had bought a gun to hold
So Ronnie made a bigger gun
And counted up his gold
Ben Jones Jan 2017
Never stop and stay a night
At the Mermaid's Foot Hotel
For they say at the back of the cleaners room
There's a gateway in to hell
The drifts of dust with a dash of rust
Hide the prints of long dead feet
What once was plush now hangs decayed
The curtains torn and beds unmade
The worst of humankind had stayed
At the Mermaid's Foot Hotel

Walk away, should you ever stray
To the Mermaid's Foot Hotel
For its told an evil lingers there
No priest or witch can quell
The walls are strewn with satanic runes
There are evil clowns en suite
The bathroom tiles, black with mold
And tap heads dull with tarnished gold
But still the blood runs hot and cold
At the Mermaid's Foot Hotel

Not a soul survives the night
At the Mermaid's Foot Hotel
No single sign is left behind
Save a musty burning smell
The spiders leer, jauntily
And the mice all carry knives
There's scraping sounds amid the gloom
An Idol from an ancient tomb
With a poltergeist in every room
At the Mermaid's Foot Hotel

**
Ben Jones Nov 2014
Swaddle me in paperwork
To cover up the cracks
Evaluate my worthiness
To calculate my tax
Privatise the atmosphere
And charge me by the breath
Bind me into servitude
Employ me half to death
See I'm put to pasture
When I'm unfit for the herd
Then reduce me to a metaphor
And sell me by the word

**
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