At twelve o’clock he received a sus parcel from
Africa addressed to The Chad.
He was on a boat, the wind blew gustily from the north-east
and, as the boat rocked, he wanted to hurl,
beginning to feel the effects of the ketamine;
then his limbs began to flail, swimmingly.
But the conversation was progressing swimmingly,
although he’d no idea which rock she crawled from.
She took a piss. He took some ketamine
which would tranquilize a horse lost on The Chad.
She returned to her seat, he turned to hurl:
chunks flowering on the wall to the north-east.
Yet, when he looked off to the north-east
and saw her standing there, looking swimmingly
good, he knew he wouldn’t have to hurl
frozen eyes too too far from
Mars. So he resorted to chewing The Chad
and taking a cocktail of amphetamine, Panadene and ketamine.
It was always the way with ketamine:
north, south, west, north-east
such a directionless entity was The Chad.
The Chad’s headspace resembled a pool, swimmingly.
The Chad appeared out of nowhere. Nobody knew where he came from
and, as expected, swimmingly and directionless The Chad was bound to hurl.
Come watch the giggling penguins hurl
popsicles at horses flying high on ketamine!
You can see it all from
some stuck-up bastard’s porch in the far north-east,
just drop around, bring a few cold ones, it’ll go off swimmingly.
I suppose we could invite The Chad.
All the girls were nuts after seeing The Chad
walk into the principal’s office and hurl
the remainder of his lunch, swimmingly
against the door, then ask for more ketamine
so his feet could grow out of his head to the north-east.
The Chad’s mobile was buzzing with calls from
his mum, inquiring about ketamine and the velocity of the hurl,
since the north-east pygmies were swimmingly
incestuous from continuous attempts to recreate The Chad.
The Aaaa-aaa Villanelle
‘Remember Marilyn’s been gone ten years blah blah …’
The peg leg parrot cackles in my ears:
‘Who gives a fuck about the (darling!) Haaaa-vaaaard?
Go on, mop up your mas-caaaaraaaa,
dolled-up, dead flick-tarts are the stuff of queers
and Marilyn’s been gone ten years blah blah …’
My First Mate boots the cocky to starboard
but, reborn, Portside Polly reappears.
‘Who gives a fuck about the darling? And Haaaa-vaaaard?
Just a portaloo in a Caaaar yaaaard
that any doltish commie commandeers.
Remember Marilyn? ’s been gone ten years blah blah.
We showed her the plank me hearties … h’haaaar!
Now she walzes ‘neath seaweed chandeliers,
stirring up the muck in Daaaarling Haaaa-baaaar
with Can-Can, Samba, Salsa, Cha Cha Cha!
Down your rums me lovelies, raise your beers:
remember Marilyn’s been gone ten years blah blah,,
and darlings, who gives a fuck about Haaaa-vaaaard?
With the Youngsters [Grand Parade Poets 2017] is an anthology of Group Sestinas and Group Villanelles from Alan Wearne’s poetry classes 1998-2016. They bear testament to his credo ‘I am an ëlitist, I am an entertainer.’