Issue 003

Pardon me, but don't you ever sweat? / Page 4

Kevin's an 'erbert

(Poetry selected by Luke Wright, Nasty Little Press)

Paradoxical tracksuit
Nick-me-quick hat
Cross eyed bull terrier
Baseball bat
He’s a litter faced scholar
Of rat arsed combat
What’s Kevin?
He’s an ‘erbert

His BlackBerry’s spell-check
Has thrown in the towel
His 50 Cent Tattoo
Has got the wrong vowel
All cock but no chicken
Kentucky fried foul
What’s Kevin?
He’s an ‘erbert

Is Kevin an ‘erbert?
Do simians spank it?
Are his missus’ tattoos,
Misspelt in Sanskrit?
Has mum gone to Iceland,
In a thong that her nan knit?
What’s Kevin?
He’s an ‘erbert

Kevin’s the sun
To his giro’s ice shelf
A diazepam conscience
Don’t buy itself
They don’t hand out Donks
On the National Health
What’s Kevin?
He’s an ‘erbert

He listens to hip hop
But votes BNP
See’s himself through the bent eye
Of daytime TV
Where twinset gloommungers
Sour anodyne tea
What’s Kevin?
He’s an ‘erbert

She’s “Bint” or “Skankflaps”
His kids are called “Oi”
A snot pickled daughter
And potty brained boy
Ten cans and a fumble
Per bundle of joy
What are they?
Little ‘erberts

Each limp day sucks
Like fart flavoured luck
Shoplifting sportswear
Whilst dumb-cabbage-struck
Nature or nurture?
You what?
Give a fuck?
What’s Kevin?
He’s an ‘erbert

Then came the moon faced, dunce baiting, measle
TV’s “strait talking” smug mouthed, git weasel
With scrubbed raw contrition
In stinging submission
Kev sought salvation
On live television
Laid frail his truth
In clumsy admission
But when his dumb stutters
Fell on deaf ears
And his awkward insides
Were smothered in jeers
He spat his best venom
To dilute the tears
But his whole self was choked
In a sea of derision
As the heckling necks
Built a fork worded prison
And the hypocrites squawked
Like a crows inquisition
What were they?
Erbert’s, the lot of em’

There is innocence born
Into each hefty moment
All time and all things
Are its fated opponents
The lesser of us
Hear it die, through our backs
Then kick it for failing
And bitch when it cracks

Fifteen shit munchers
In one pimped up nova
not one of em eighteen,
not one of ‘em sober
nihilistic banter
they think it’s all over
they’re probably right
bloody ‘erberts

Byron Vincent  is currently poet in residence for the South West for Apples and Snake’s groundbreaking poetry project My Place or Yours. His pamphlet – Barking Doggerel – is forthcoming from Nasty Little Press in May 2010.

Previous page : 3
Next page : 5