Distance lends enchantment, or so the poets say.
But I just feel quite miserable, when you are far away.

I miss seeing you plod through, the house in just your pants.
There’s no one to kill spiders or water all the plants.

I don’t do as much washing; the bathroom is obscene.
When you’re not here to boss me, I can’t be arsed to clean.

The bed seems so much bigger with the duvet all for me
I start to feel quite bored when there’s nothing on TV.

Since you did all the cooking I’m becoming a bit slimmer.
Eating only crisps or cheese for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

My toothbrush stands up stoic, in the holder, all alone.
The dog spends his time sleeping, no interest in his bone.

I’m not a fan of distance, I really want you back.
‘Cos when you’re not here with me, my life’s all out of whack.

So next time that you bugger off; if it’s all right by you.
Please make it only one week or possibly two.


I can think of nothing sadder than a goldfish in a bowl.

Swimming in tight circles, such a lonely fishy soul.

With your tiny bulbous eyes, that pine to see the sea.

Longing for a little lover, to share your dull eternity.

All you have for company is a silly plastic weed.

Nothing to look forward to, except tomorrow’s feed.

Some pathetic grubby pebbles form your universe’s base.

I see nothing but depression written on your orange face.

Is your memory so short that this all seems brand new?

Or is that 18-second thing entirely untrue?

Do you ever go to sleep in the darkness of the night?

And dream of evolution, growing wings and taking flight?

Such iridescent beauty, you’re the bauble of the sea.

And if you were my finned captive, I’d be sure to set you free.


Fat duck snoozing,

in the sunshine,

by the shore.

Breathing ducky breaths,

with a gentle ducky snore.

Fat duck snoozing,

with your head bent in

so tight.

If you sleep during the daytime,

What do you do at night?

Fat duck snoozing,

While your wife duck,

watches you.

Occasionally waddling off

to do a ducky poo.

Fat duck snoozing,

so comfy,

and so warm.

I hope that you are happy

And don’t come to any harm.



You can’t be fit and clever well, so it seems to me,katetoon_writer

You have to pick between the two and choose which one to be.

Einstein didn’t jog and Da Vinci didn’t box.

I’m pretty sure that Hawking doesn’t own some running socks.

As far I can tell, most athletes aren’t that bright.

I don’t think they sit reading The Economist at night.

‘Cos when you’ve run a mile, or sunk a ball or two,

Your body is exhausted but your brain is knackered too.

Tiger Woods is one example, he really had it all.

Then lost his wife for slappers, his brain must be quite small.

And Beckham, though a nice man, has the vocab of a twit.

He should buy himself a dictionary and go to bed with it.

Ever since I started running, my brain has turned to mush.

I can barely string a sentence, conversation is a push.

It’s like I cannot focus on two things at a time.

I can either pound the pavements or lose myself in rhyme.

But then I wrote this poem, so perhaps I’m talking shit.

I’ll go for a jog in a minute when I’ve finished it.

Then on to see my great trainer, who’s really rather smart.

I may not be a genius but this poem is a start.




Get your f**king dog away from me, you stupid f**king cow.

If you don’t I’ll punch your head in, so get your dog right now.

You’re a f**king little c**t did I mention that before?

I’ll kick your f**king teeth in, then kick your dog some more.


Your dog looked at mine funny, the f**king little shit.

If you don’t move it right now, I’ll punch you in the tit.

You think you’re something special, going for a little jog?

With your c**ting little iPod and your c**ting little dog?


Yes I know I’m a touch angry. I’ve had a f**king shitty day.

It was just your f**king luck to get in my f**king way.

Last night I got so pissed, I couldn’t feel my f**king head.

So anyone who comes at me, is going to wish that they were dead.


And don’t think that you can judge me, just ‘cos of my streaky perm,

I like my stonewash jeans, go f**k yourself, you worm.

Yes I’m sad and lonely and all this swearing is a front.

But don’t feel sorry for me, you stupid posh-faced c**t.



Chubby knees crawling,
With shrieks of gurgly glee.
Then standing solo,
To waddle away free.
I watch you go.

Tiny fingers grasping,
Warm and sticky in mine.
You release to explore,
The start of life divine.
I watch you go.

Nervous eyes peeping,
Shy hands to hide smiles.
I’m left behind forgotten.
For a little while.
I watch you go.

Wobbly wheels turning,
Slowly first then fast.
Off with a happy whoop.
My baby in the past.
I watch you go.

Roomy uniform itching,
With excitement you burn.
Then through the gates.
A sponge ready to learn.
I watch you go.

New engine running.
Music fills my ears.
You drive away slowly.
My dreams rank with fears.
I watch you go.

Slowly life changing,
A proud and precious joy.
It’s time to say goodbye.
My lovely little boy.
I watch you go.



I’d like to write a poem, but the well has run too dry.

There’s an inspiration drought – it’s enough to make me cry.

My mind’s an arid desert, where ideas won’t take seed.

At this stage I’d be grateful for a bloody tumbleweed.

My brain used to be fertile, lush with thoughts and dreams.

But now there is a blockage, my rivers turned to streams.

I could give drugs a go; it worked for Byron after all,

But all I’ve got is Lemsip and a pack of Panadol.

Perhaps I could get pissed to get the juices flowing?

When drunk I am a genius, witty and all knowing!

But after a few glasses I find it hard to type.

The next morning I see that what I’ve written is just tripe.

I tried the ‘Morning pages’ but slept through my alarm.

Went to a writing retreat, in a hut on a small farm.

But I couldn’t write a thing; the words seemed to be stuck.

I was frightened of the chickens and didn’t like the muck.

So I guess I’ll have to wait ‘til my creativity comes back.

And hope that pretty soon I find the flow I sorely lack.

It can’t go on forever – something’s got to give!

Can someone please send me an inspiration laxative?


Can I share a secret? It’s embarrassing but true
I’d like if we could keep this between just me and you

See I’ve got a thing for tradies they drive me wild with lust
They set my thighs a tingle and make my loins combust

The sight of a carpenter banging with a hammer
Is known to make me drool and talk with quite a stammer

And painters smell so nice with their paint thinner cologne
That sight of their wet brushes is known to make me moan

My handyman’s so handy with his tool belt hanging low
If I stripped naked now would it ruin the status quo?

And when the sparky comes to fiddle with my plugs
I want to grab him tightly and smother him in hugs

I start to blush and giggle, I’m such a silly fool
Whenever I stand near the man who cleans the pool

The plumber’s oh so sexy with his hand deep in my pipe
Despite the smell or sewers, he really is my type

And all those men in fluro? Well let’s just not go there
I’d lick them up and down if I had the time to spare

But now it’s getting silly, finding faults that don’t exist
In the hope of one day starting, a tradie type of tryst

The house is looking great, there’s nothing left to fix
My husband’s getting wise to my constant breaking tricks

With my tradie lust unabated, I can only sit and stare
And imagine that hot builder in his grubby underwear


I wander lazily after an un-fetched ball.
The dog a beige, fur, blur across the sand.
Sipping coffee, still too hot to enjoy,
Blinking back the brightness of the dawning sky.

The pensioner in his battered tennis shoes,
Jogs down the beach splashing cheery grins.
A toddler gurgles with glee,
Fleeing the waves to his mum’s warm arms.

Divine sunshine fingers push through the morning clouds,
The hills, like mossy mounds, rising comfortably.
Hugging the near deserted beach.
Beneath the too blue air.

The tumble dryer roar of the sea,
Smothers every sound, quietening the soul.
Thoughts, long submerged, arise unbidden,
An easy flow of possibilities.

Hardy grass and brilliant flowers, poke
Through smothering sand,
And seaweed broods in stinky clumps,
Sniffed by every passing hound.

As a lonely seagull runs, his skinny legs so fast.
The tide sucks back, sand popping and bubbling in delight.
There a charred hollow and half-buried beer bottle.
Speak of boozy fun around the flames.

The surfer, impossibly lithe, pulls on his wet suit, runs,
Feet slapping across the sand.
His Beiber hair rigid against the rolling sea.
He floats, back straight, looking for the perfect wave.

My wet dog panting with a sandy nose,
We trudge back to real life.
Our soggy paw prints,
Wiped clean until tomorrow.


I didn’t want to be a mother, Christ, I’m only seventeen.
Mum said that it was fate, I said, ‘well fate is fucking mean’.
I dropped out of school real early, I couldn’t take it any more,
Mum said ‘ignore the staring’, then I hear them whisper ‘whore’.
I didn’t to go to schoolies, and I missed out on prom night.
Mum said that I should go, but it wouldn’t have felt right.

I loved Sam and he knew it, I gave in one pissed night.
Mum said he was a user, and I know this time she’s right.
He didn’t have a condom, ‘don’t worry I’ll withdraw.’
Mum said I was an idiot, ‘I’ve heard that one before.’
She was sixteen when she had me, so she knows what it’s about,
Mum said that it was tough, when her parents kicked her out.

I texted Sam to tell him, I never heard a thing,
Mum said ‘well just forget it, we really don’t need him.’
I knew that she was right, but it kinda made me sad,
Mum is great and all, but I wish I’d known my dad.
I thought I’d die in childbirth, I’ve never felt such pain.
Mum said it would make me think, before I did that again.

They gave her to me after, all sticky, small and red,
Mum said she was my image, she had black hair on her head.
She grabbed onto my boob, started sucking straight away.
Mum said I was a natural, didn’t think I’d feel this way.
Her face is like her dad’s, her eyes are just divine,
Mum said she is a beauty, I can’t believe she’s mine.

I named my baby, Sally, ‘cos that’s my mothers name.
Mum says I have to understand that life won’t be the same.
I’m a mum now, I can feel it, and I hope that I can be,
As kind and good and lovely as my mum has been to me.



Is it that time already?
Almost forgotten
You are back again
I see you everywhere
Relaxing with your friends
Winking at me in the supermarket
So tempting,
So wrong
In my memory you were bigger
And the reality is a little
But as I undress you
Breathing in your decadent scent
Knowing the sweet pleasure within
You are enough
My tongue explores your every crevice
My eager fingers smeared
Seeking the golden treasure
And then you are gone
Too soon
One taste is not enough
But another would be too much
Surely? Maybe
I love you Creme Egg


A new job can be scary.
What if your boss is hairy?
Or someone’s there called Mary?
Who’s intolerant to dairy?
And the IT dude is glary?
Or you have to catch the ferry?
(The timetable does vary.)
So if you’re feeling wary,
Just hug this bear called ‘Beary’,
And it won’t be so scary.


Mum there’s two brown monsters in my shoe.
I’m scared mum please tell me what to do.
Mum I saw a monster over there,
With lots of teeth and long red hair.

Mum there’s a fat monster by my bed,
With a pink tongue and a big black head.
Mum will that monster eat my feet?
Am I safe if hidden by the sheet?

Susie don’t be silly can’t you see,
The red haired monster is your sister, Emily.
The fat one that is lurking by the bed
is just your little doggy, furry Fred.

But what about the monsters in my slipper?
They smell bad, like an awful rotten kipper.
Ah I see now what they my little Sue,
Poor Fred has found a brand new place to poo.


Once my dreams were sweet, but now they’re rather bitter.
Perhaps it’s ‘cos I’m fat, when once I was much fitter.
Each night I dream of food, my nightmares full of cake.
I chew upon my pillows, am starving when I wake.

I’d like to take up running, or maybe learn Tai chi,
but I just can’t be bothered to move from the settee.
I could go to the gym, or give Zumba a go,
My brain is really willing, my stomach just says ‘no’.

So I’ll just sit here quietly, eating custard creams.
And save all thoughts of thinness, for my undigested dreams.


In a ‘jazz rhyming’ stylee

Hair gets people down.
Makes them frown.

Dan had no hair up there,
not since he was twenty two.
He said he didn’t care but felt it wasn’t fair.
Some people seemed to stare,
so he retreated to his lair and didn’t share
his emotions with anyone.

Sarah had no hair down there.
She’d never waxed or shaven her haven,
No, it was a case of
pubic alopecia when just sixteen.
Life could be so mean,
But at least it kept her clean.

Bernard had too much hair in there,
His nasal passages were fluffy,
So that if his nose got stuffy
The mucus just couldn’t get through; it’s true.
He plucked and pulled, such pain,
but the hair grew back again.

Bridget had too much hair under there.
Her pits were so hirsute,
it wasn’t cute.
Some bloke shouted ‘epilate’ when
she was running late
to the
She’d been wearing a small vest
that didn’t show her at her best.

Hair gets people down.
Makes them frown.


Eyes bright with giggles
cheeks rosy red
you dash across the glassy sand
small footprints sparkling
in this heart-waking light

A found stick is flagpole
A spade for digging
an artist’s brush
to scrawl a grand design
of wiggling worms
a spiralling salute to the sun

Crunching the sea shells
to make more sand
your hand in mine
as we scurry from shallow waves
Eager squeals
to send the seagulls soaring

Lungs tight with sharp salt air
We huddle, fingers slick
from too-hot chips
then brush the sticky sand
from icy bottoms

and say bye bye
to all that blue


(Best read fast, with a slight Cockney accent)

There’s a man called Andy Warhol and he lives just down my street.
I think he’s a podiatrist or something to do with feet.

He used work in factories, drove a Forklift that was blue.
Now he’ll sort you feet out lovely and cut your corns off too.

He’s nothing like that artist, the one with the silly hair.
His drawings are quite rubbish and he doesn’t really care.

But he once went to a gallery, saw the picture of Monroe,
And wondered what it’d be like, to get his hands on her big toe.

He likes to tell his customers, feet are the ‘window to the sole’.
He made up lots of jokes like that when he was on the dole.

He says if you look after feet, they’ll care right back for you.
And given his experience, I rather think that’s true.