Poetry about Poetry ... original or previously published poetry, December 2000
The Poetry Police
There was a knock at the door.
Open up, it's the Police!
Shit!
Flustered, I swallowed my stash,
flushed my deep-pan pizza down the pan
and let them in.
Ello. Ello, Ello,
I thought here was a terrible echo
in my lobby, but no: there were three Plods
limbering up for a bit of synchronised gubbing.
We have reason to believe that you're a poet.
Guilty, m'lud, I replied,
do you want to come to my launch?
We'll do all the launching around here, sunshine.
Oh, can I make you three a cup of tea?
Did you rhyme then, sonny?
Er... let me see... three.. tea
I suppose I did. It's a gift, you see...
I replied, pleased as Punch
as a punch hit me.
Then a truncheon made luncheon meat of my face.
You're a disgrace! one cried, as he poked my eyes.
Then another one rounded on me.
Oy! You a poofter, boy?
Gis a kiss and I'll tell yer!
I remember nothing after that.
When I came round, the flat
was bare of verse, blank as prose.
I tried to nurse my broken nose.
My sonnets were gone. My couplets filched.
My villanelles vanished. Pinched by the filth.
A chalk mark was drawn round my body of work
Then I noticed a sign through the blood and the murk:
Your putrid poetics were taken away
by Poetry Police (c/o Rhymewatch UK)