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Stephen Cree

of

Leeds, England, UK

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Psychodrama

by

Stephen Cree

The doctor's certificate certified
that my brain was a splutjabbing mess
on account of a purple depression
brought on by my wire-wool stress.
Referred to a young psychologist,
a practitioner of psychodrama,
I was encouraged to re-enact events
that had pierced my mental armour.
It's strange how real role playing becomes,
how despair's dank well soon appears,
within minutes my voice began trembling,
my sight bleary-blurred through the tears.
I was invited to halt the enactment
until near enough to gather myself
the trembling detrembled, the blubbing deblubbed
a hankie mopped up the nose filth.
After what seemed an appropriate hiatus
I was invited to carry on
I "carried on" by damaging office furniture
before making good my escape with a yucca


Road Rage

by

Stephen Cree

Narrowly avoiding a road traffic accident of my own making
I was confronted by an emotional young man
sporting a spider's web tattoo on his face
and waving his muscular arms all over the place
who queried my spectacle lens prescription
with a colourful choice of diction
short phrases peppered with saloon bar adjectives
predicting how many minutes I had to live.
I parried the thrust of his argument
by pointing out that I am a poor driver
who cannot fight for toffee.


My Second Girlfriend

by

Stephen Cree

My second girlfriend was called Simone
she looked like Arsenal's Martin Keown
but she owned a Raleigh Chopper
so I went out with her proper
though her dad who was a copper
thought our relationship improper
and said I'd come a cropper
if I didn't end it.
I did not intend it
to jeopardise my welfare
so I bade farewell to her
having had a final go on her bike.


Malaysian Sausage Suspension

by

Stephen Cree

Hang a
banger
in Selangor.


James

by

Stephen Cree

Teary eyed James at three o'clock
dirty knees, grey concertina socks
hicks and gulps around his sobs
and through snot caked lips explains
that Josh had called him terrible names
like bird, crocodile and Matthew.


Spoons

by

Stephen Cree

I have lost a stainless steel teaspoon
misplaced, not dropped on the floor
my net spoonage is down by twenty per cent
I owned five but now have just four.
If you said you wanted two rice spoons
I may mistake you for a South African and fetch a starter pistol
anticipating the dull contest of spoon versus spoon,
can you name a recent Olympian kitchen utensil?
Daley Teaspoon?
Daley Telegraph-Pole-Thrower?
He was a tosser
but not of salads.


Selfridges

by

Stephen Cree

Selfridges
does not
Selfridges.


Neighbours Don't Dig My Garden

by

Stephen Cree

Rockweed, chickweed
makes 'em damn well sickweed
bindweed, ragweed
interfering old bagweed
pickweed, hogweed
next-door's lost their dogweed
put up your feet
effort zero
getting weedy
the way to go.


Further Education

by

Stephen Cree

I scratch my ass
in arse scratching class.


Mysophobia

by

Stephen Cree

Mysophobia is the fear of poo
and if I were to suffer
I'd scream on sight of dog dirt
and never wipe my chuffer.


Shoes

by

Stephen Cree

I've spent three hours
putting on my shoes.
It took me so long
cos they're only size twos.


Turnips

by

Stephen Cree

Turnip feast, turnip feast
Bastock stuffs a gut full
burpy turns to gassy leak
Bastock looking doleful.

Home he trot to see wife, Dot
says "Clean blasters I desire"
Dot say "You mucky Bastock
I'll wang 'em on the fire".

Burning pants a fumey choke
descends upon the kitchen
"May as well have baked a turd"
say Dottie still abitchin'

Bastock lopey off akip
two by beds they lie in
Bastock bottie windy blow
the duvet goes aflyin'

Bastock cork in sphincter shove
to stop his bum achuffin'
one comes up and cork pops out
hits Dottie in her muffin

Dottie yell plays bloody hell
Bastock runs for cover
deep regret of turnip feast
he'll never chomp another.


Dead

by

Stephen Cree

When my lungs come to rest
and I've thought my last thought
and I've pennies for spec's
and my vive has turned mort...

When I've kicked at the bucket
and shaken a seven
and bench-pressed some daisies
and tried to make heaven...

When my boot soles stop wearing
and Reaper's close by
and a grey undertaker
packs me up for the ride...

When I'm fast losing weight
and fluids and skin
and achieving my goal
of becoming quite thin...

When I'm subterranean
sleeping with worms
and no longer fearful
of picking up germs...

Remember me, remember me
but not as a right knob.


Polytetraflouroethylene

by

Stephen Cree

Let's get down with polytetraflouroethylene
a prince among resins on the thermoplastic resin scene
opaque-white and waxy, maxe me happy, bash a tambourine
I can't get enough of polytetraflouroethylene.

Thermally stable, ain't no fable, it's a boffin's dream
no acids, alkalis, won't oxidise, it is resistant, see
for short I call it -C2F4 or PTFE
I'd do a lab dance for polytetraflouroethylene.

You'll never get stuck with polytetraflouroethylene
it's friction coefficient is so low it makes me want to scream
hail, sweet science, how you're fractionally frictiony
for frying pan and egg you make the ideal nonstick go between

I'm a resin anorak and you're an anorak's dream
I find it really hard to keep my thoughts of you clean
If you asked me for a date I'd be very, very keen
I so love you polytetraflouroethylene.


Moor

by

Stephen Cree

I stride the moorland
o'er the heath
as bracken cracks
and snaps beneath.
A heather pastel
shawl is cast
across the breast
of land so vast.
I stand alone
no other soul
exists within
this vista whole.
If I wished
my trousers drop
out of anus
long stool plop
and no one
would ever know.


Udders

by

Stephen Cree

If women had udders
and cows had breasts
what would be shown in The Sun?
Would it be Daisy
the feisty heifer
boasting 98-100-91?

Would it be Sharon
the Croydon belle
With udder attached to her sternum?
She'd have admiring bullocks
throughout the land
though four-teated Sharon'd spurn 'em.

Would Farmer's Monthly
become a jazz mag
top shelf stuff not for sale to the nippers?
Would Playboy become
a livestock guide
a rattling good read for sheep dippers?

This fascination
for lactiferous glands
raises questions I believe worth pursuing.
Who was the first man
to milk a cow
and what did he think he was doing?


Doctor

by

Stephen Cree

Doctor examining patient asks
'Do you get breathless, Meg?'
Stone deaf wrinkly thinks then replies
'I sometimes have an egg'.


A Very Strange Thing

by

Stephen Cree

Whilst on a pleasure cruise on the River Ouse
I remarked to my good friend, Hector
that were he employed as a casting director
and looking to fill the role of a U-boat officer
he could do worse than casting
the man starboard standing
with monocle and scar over his kisser.
We later conversed with the very same chap
and were truly astonished to glean
he had served in the German armed forces
and commanded a submarine.


A Trio Of Visually Impaired Rodents

by

Stephen Cree

A trio of visually impaired rodents
A trio of visually impaired rodents
Observe their rapid movement
Observe their rapid movement
In concert the three
pursued the landworker's cohabitee
who amputated their cartilaginous appendages
by swift application of a meat cutting utensil.
Do you recall witnessing a similar incident
to a trio of visually impaired rodents
being mutilated in the aforementioned manner?


Nipples

by

Stephen Cree

Mens' nipples have no purpose
a complete waste of skin
they hurt when chums pull on them
and shrink when soaked in gin.

The navel is of little worth
just a knot betwixt the hips
but it's very useful, holding salt
when I'm naked eating chips.


Mum

by

Stephen Cree

The very first words I ever spoke
according to my mum
were 'brachial plexus bronchiolitis'
and then I sucked my thumb.

From thereon my mater thought
that I'd become a doctor
but I didn't fancy that
and my reluctance shocked 'er.

She's still convinced I meant to say
those multi-syllabic words
but I was only six weeks old
so find this quite absurd.

Don't get me wrong, I love my mum
but not her expectations
I'm happy in my dead end job
as Head of The United Nations.


Experiment

by

Stephen Cree

If I took all your veins and arteries
and arranged them in such a way
that the end of one met the end of the next
and pulled them to see how far they'd stretch
I'd be sectioned and locked away.


Matter

by

Stephen Cree

It doesn't matter what you say
It doesn't matter straight or gay
It doesn't matter what you wear
It doesn't matter you don't care
It doesn't matter you can't fight
It doesn't matter dense or bright
It doesn't matter you can't smile
It doesn't matter you're on trial
It doesn't matter you belong
It doesn't matter weak or strong
It doesn't matter you don't talk
It doesn't matter you can't walk
It doesn't matter young or old
It doesn't matter feeling cold
It doesn't matter how you pay
It doesn't matter go away
It doesn't matter what you own
It doesn't matter you're alone
It doesn't matter deep in debt
It doesn't matter who you met
It doesn't matter lonely bed
It doesn't matter nothing said
It doesn't matter what you know
It doesn't matter if you go
It matters that you love yourself
It matters that you love yourself
It matters that you love yourself...


Toothache

by

Stephen Cree

You hoped for sunshine
I hoped for rain
They hoped we'd get back together again
You go to nightclubs
I read my books
Me with my glasses and you with your looks
I wanted Beatles
You wanted Prince
The CD and tape deck have played silence since
I'm a left winger
You're centre right
You go with the flow when I'm ready to fight
We are dull toothache
We know the cure
And so we disolve and our union's no more.


Trousers

by

Stephen Cree

'Where are my nice trousers?'
my plaintive cri de coeur
to the fast assembled crowding
on the parquet ballroom floor.

'You're wearing them, you idiot'
said one, trying to be helpful.


Christmas Party

by

Stephen Cree

Christmas is coming
and the fat are getting goosed
in busy store-rooms.
At office fuddles
intimate cuddles
bring rivulets and puddles
of tears as years
of an otherwise sound marriage
lay meaningless
amongst spent party poppers
and pools of puke.


Vic the Vagrant

by

Stephen Cree

Vic the vagrant
wasn't fragrant
but he didn't care
his unique smell
went down well
in Weston-super-Mare.
At this resort
the locals fought
to sniff around our Vic
one good snook
was all it took
to make 'em very sick.


At The Fishmongers

by

Stephen Cree

As Mr Starkey busily mongers
I am drawn to a salmon
paralysed on a deep bed of crushed ice.
I imagine this fresh water freedom fighter
flexing and thrashing silver blue armour
as the hunter reels this piscean to it's fate.
This makes me sad.
I study the salmon form
fetching fanned fins
paper-cut gills
glassy flesh
and swollen lips.
The salmon's ink black beady eye catches mine
and the salmon says
I'm not dead y'know.


Sleepwalker

by

Stephen Cree

Bored with the dream then showing
I rolled to an upright stance
slipperless, genital scratching
quiltdown man in a midnight trance.

As if on non-slip rubber skis
I shuffled through kip-house door
downstairs and into the pantry
where I peed all over the floor.

Somehow (don't ask how) I unlocked the door
the night cold did nothing to wake
intruders walked past me into my home
and took all they could take.

Little did the burglars know
I'd been awake throughout
and told police about the monk
goblin, tank and sprout.

The constable believed my statement
to contain dream excerpts.


Family Planning

by

Stephen Cree

They stood on the bridge
over the River K Y
at its estuary
to the Ovulant Sea
both sychronised watches
and studied charts
to concude that
on Thursday at three
her tides would be in
most generous flow
and his loveboat could
sail to Virility
with anchor dropped
seamen would swim
in the deep warm
Bay of Fertlity.
Back on the bridge
he found it hard
to confess that he
had been vasectomised.


At Leeds City Art Galleries

by

Stephen Cree

Amid the traps
of beauty and provocation
set by Hirst, Spencer and Bird
sits a beaver fashioned from
a plywood twin-tub facia
a sign warns not to touch
just in case ya
want to kick it across the gallery
as I did
so maybe it works.


Rat

by

Stephen Cree

A rat the size of a lorry
has invaded my garden shed
should I call Rentokil to evict it
or simply ignore it instead?

Rat has tattoos on his eyelids
and teeth the size of church doors
a tail that cracks like a bull whip
and fat hairy razor-sharp claws.

Cat is on antidepressants
since rat arrived on the scene
rat bullied pussy in public
now pussy has low self-esteem.

Perhaps I should try and "befriend" rat
feign concern and pretend that I care
feed it cheese, maybe knit it a jumper
then persuade it to move on elsewhere.

I could hire a fieldmouse femme fatale
to soften him up a bit
catch rat of guard then hit him hard
when he's least expecting it.

But why resort to violence?
It never solved a thing
the answer's clear, I'm leaving here
to go live in Beijing.

Hang on though, I think it may be going...


Ambitions

by

Stephen Cree

Never flown in a balloon
never learned to play bassoon
never tamed a wild baboon.
Given the opportunity
I'd be keen to do all three
and then consider myself to be
a balloonist, bassoonist
baboonist opportunist
content and ambition free.


Postman Pete

by

Stephen Cree

Postman Pete
had two left feet
so inclined to the right
this slowed him down
and so his round
was mainly done at night.

Pete would cling
to anything
to keep up on his feet
a bus stop, wall
even Pope John Paul
had one-time propped up Pete.


Reinvention

by

Stephen Cree

From today, I'd like you all
to refer to me as Kurt Xerox.
When my new name is mentioned
people will sit up, take note
and afford me due respect.
You don't get anywhere in life
with a name like Sid Orange.

Should you invite me to dinner
I will, more than likely, punch a guest.
You don't mess with Kurt Xerox.
Manners and decorum?
All very nice if you're a wimp
but K.X has no time for convention.
In my book, the meekly are weakly.

Ask Xerox a direct question
you'll get a lie straight back.
No one is interested in the truth.
Read any newspaper, listen to any politician.
Honesty is passe, old hat: So for the record
Kurt is a secret agent responsible for co-ordinating the elimination
of the seven species of alien lifeform here on planet earth.

Women? I'll be beating them off with a stick
men too, I wouldn't wonder (not interested).
Call me old fashioned but I don't hold
with all this gender equality business.
If God had meant us to be equal
He wouldn't have made women such poor drivers.
Women don't go for the sensitive type, anyway.

So this is the new me: Kurt Xerox,
a maverick, ass-kickin' S.O.B.
I get my own way by fair means or otherwise
and do who I like and what I like, when I like.
Charity begins with me.
I feel so much more in tune with the world
than the old me ever did.


Swans

by

Stephen Cree

Went for a walk
around a lake
with friend, Perry.

Saw four pillocks
drunk on cider
throwing pebbles
at six white swans.

Yelled at morons
to stop barrage.
Told to fuck off
and keep nose out.

Four idiots
throw more missiles
at distressed swans.
White wings flapping
swans cry for help.

Drenched with fury
I throw a punch
at mouthy drunk
miss, lose balance
and fall in lake.

Six angry swans
attack at speed
a swift response
to my presence
within the swan
exclusion zone.

Four swanhaters
and friend, Perry
laugh 'til they pee.

Don't see Perry
much anymore.


For My Friend

by

Stephen Cree

I'd give just about anything
for the wisdom, compassion
and clarity of thought
to write the words
that cool your burns
and warm your spirit
bathe you in peace
and dispel your fears
breathe life to your soul
and gift you hope
reassure to exorcise
that paralysing self-doubt
words that whisper in your being
as you sleep safe and long, smiling...
...just about anything...


Car Crash on the Leeds toYork A64

by

Stephen Cree

Rubber-neckers in rubber knickers
slow to view the carnage
yet another source of garbage
for them to feed on.
Still life, yes, but blood is a must
and perversely appeals
it's the rubber club lust
for spinning wheels
air-bags and a child-seat
by the roadside.


Very Married

by

Stephen Cree

They sit together
looking to Venus.
It's the only thing
they see the same way.


My Sister, Tricia

by

Stephen Cree

My sister, Tricia
is that great you'd wish 'er
to be your sister
but I'd miss 'er
so find your own.


My Brother, Terry

by

Stephen Cree

My brother, Terry
is very, very,
very clever.
Terry is a teacher
and if he ever
was to meet ya
he'd soon evidence
his vast intelligence
by the topics he covers.
Terry is the brainiest of brothers.


My Sister, Claire

by

Stephen Cree

My sister, Claire
is clued up and aware
of the latest health and fitness
plans and she's a living witness
to the benefits of the same
'cos Claire's a very healthy dame.


Very Married (2)

by

Stephen Cree

They don't need to speak.
Both seem to know what
the other's thinking
but don't take offence.


School Days

by

Stephen Cree

I remember Dale Grimes
he won't remember me.
Dale Grimes, schoolboy sadist
scourge of the meek
and my personal bully.
You have to give him credit
he was always inventive in his work.
That was the scary thing.
You never knew what was coming.
Pinning me down and dropping
daisies down my throat was one technique.
You would not have thought it possible
to suffocate on daisies, but that was Dale
a genius in his field.
Then there was the ultimate humiliation.
Dragged from the communal shower
and thrown into the adjoining school hall
with door held firmly behind me.
I covered what I could and wanted to die
NO, REALLY WANTED TO DIE,
naked in the gaze of two hundred mixed gender pupils.
How everyone laughed (exept me, I wept)
The whole school talked of that prank or years...
I wonder how many times my spec's
were broken when I was playing football?
At least that's what I told my mum
who bollocked me for not removing
the double-glazing before playing soccer.
I suspect Dale had brokered a deal with my optician.
I recall filling my pants one day
when I saw Dale approaching.
He didn't have to do a thing.
He enjoyed that one.
A measure of his power of intimidation.
"Creebo's shit his trousers,
Creebo's shit his trousers"...
I remember Dale Grimes.
he won't remember me..


Very Married (5)

by

Stephen Cree

He knows the weekday
by the meal he eats.
Sea snails in aspic.
He's with his mistress.


Very Married (4)

by

Stephen Cree

A Valentine card
'To My Darling Wife'
Same card as last year
in new envelope


Very Married (3)

by

Stephen Cree

Tasks and weekly chores
jobs that need doing
they won't do themselves..
Make love Friday night.


Very Married (7)

by

Stephen Cree

Her tongue is a blade
that cuts him to shreds
once used for tasting
and licking his lips.


Very Married (6)

by

Stephen Cree

His heart has not worked
for several years.
Body redundant
his mind sleeps around.


Very Married (8)

by

Stephen Cree

She watches the soaps
He watches the sports
In seperate rooms
for most of their lives.


Very Married (9)

by

Stephen Cree

He swears on her life
he's not slept around
Not on the Bible
in case God exists


Very Married (10)

by

Stephen Cree

She has hidden depths
into which she dips
warm pool of refuge
away from his gaze.


Very Married (10)

by

Stephen Cree

She has hidden depths
into which she dips
warm pool of refuge
away from his gaze.


Truth

by

Stephen Cree

Form opinions
on sound foundations
of research.
Do not be guided
by vox pop.
Lead with conviction.
Dismiss first impressions.
They are imposters
hoarding regret
for future torment.
Question politicians
who sell heart and tongue
for wealth and self-advancement.
They are the coldest of whores.
Interpret money and status
as shields of hidden wrongs.
Do not be blinded
by possessions.
They are shackles
limiting true freedom.
Tend, mend and respect
this planet and it's fruit.
The rape of Earth
is a crime against the unborn.
Understand that truth is.
Falsehoods do not exist.
Be true to yourself
and all others.
Above all else
love yourself.


Lessons From Imagination

by

Stephen Cree

Imagine:

As you stand blindfold
before your executioners
the last voice you hear
will give the command to fire.

As you step from
a tower block ledge
lost, hoping to be caught
by a higher love.

As you stand alone
within a burning room
encircled by flames
that eagerly lick you to death.

Learn:

Devour your hours
embrace your days
as if they were your last.
Evict ill-will from within
give, be slow to take
and leave this world
with a touch of class.


You In Your World

by

Stephen Cree

You in your world
across ocean and sky
at the end of a line
I would reel to my side.
So distant, so untouchable
yet so connected.
Me, so me, jammed
in this tight life I live.
So close but for distance.
Long distance learning,
long distance yearning.
Feeding me startling words
that blaze for days within.
Infused, confused,
awoken, relaunched, rebooted.
Thank you, my friend
for sharpening my taste,
colour and appetite
for life.