An epic sausage poem hath been writ

As a gift, for SausageFest 2026

 

Oh hallowed hose of holy ham!
This greatest achievement of man!
Whe'er from the grill,
Whe'er from the pan,
Blessed is the noble scran.

Sisters! Sons!
In crowds we gather,
with sausaged buns
in sauce to slather.

Praise, praise! the pig primordial,
HE is the source; his blood is cordial.
Provider of the meaty paste,
true founder of this cult of taste.

From flesh to flesh, let’s state our mission:
to honour this glorious tradition.
Older than the magna carta,
raise a glass,
and toast each martyr! (to the chipolata).

From genesis, it becomes cylindrical
(or other shapes, if you're feeling whimsical).
Foetal-like, the salty mulch,
must take form before we can indulge.

Venerable tube of spic-ed flesh
older than Jesus, and yet ...forever fresh.
The length, the girth, width and diameter,
true and measured, in each parameter.

Then strung up, like Mussolini;
the banger, dog, the frank, the weenie!
...But what's in a name? It's not interestin'.
What is, is meat! ...encased in intestine.

Long bag of chunks, so proud and tubular,
triumphant as a mounted bugler.
Every link, concatenated.
We watch the process, fascinated.

Our eyes they bulge, our stomachs grizzle
as sacrosanct sausages sizzle.
For in the flames, the charring phalluses
bequeath their juice, like broken chalices.

Hunks of fat and marbled meat
soon to entreat, this spicy treat.
A whiff of soot? ...they might need flipping!
Serve them on a platter dripping.

Each bead of fat, it consecrates
the happy jaw that masticates.
For to chomp and chew, that is our prayer.
The sound of hot gods are in the air.

Then by the condiments we muster.
For some, it's clear, it must be mustard.
Others favour red or brown,
or BBQ, if you're from the wrong side of town.

The smells are salvation,
the flavours delectable,
but send it back
if the eyelids are detectable!

Now heed your duty, hear my call:
to tell the tale, tell one, tell all.
Join the cult of kielbasa.
Cackle over kabanos.
Convert her to the frankfurter,
and in the process become...
A mortadella fella.
A slave to the salami.
A pupil of pepperoni.
A saveloy homeboy.
Become a black pudding protégé;
an andouille acolyte.
And finally,
cheer with aplomb, for the saucisson!

Kings come and go,
Queens live and die,
but still the sausages we fry.
In humble homes,
on open grill,
in public parks,
we take our fill.

Through millennia, it has endured.
May we all strive to be so cured
and if we can't, and must succumb,
to fates becoming of a bun:
wrinkled, stale, our memories gone.
Bless still the sausage, for it …lives on!

forcing words through a coarse sieve

Created as part of Sam Illingworth's workshop on writing science poetry on the climate crisis. The prompt: "pick a topic, pick a form, and write. you've got 3 minutes".

The world wanted me
To write in lines, but the wind changed
And I was, distracted

tall

even the biggest people are small
when they curl up into a ball. 

forever

your secret is safe
with me until the end
unless it's, funny

a mediocre poet

i'm a mediocre poet
and i can't tell
if i should care more
or care less

i'm a mediocre poet
it's a matter of taste
whether you win the prize
or get last place

i'm a mediocre poet
and I've always hated this format where the first line of each stanza is the same

Shame

Shame must change 
sides. But most (not all men)
are too cowardly to feel
shame. Too emotionally 
weak to do the hard work
of facing the consequences
of their actions.
Is there no greater achievement
for a man (but not all men)
to fearlessly look
not only out into the world
but even more so into themselves
and face
understand
digest
reflect on
and grieve with honesty their own
failings?
Instead they hide
behind a concocted ego
one they borrowed 
from someone else
they admire
when admiration is just jealousy 
except you still like them.
Instead men hide 
and wonder why 
they are lonely.

Pizza Pi

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Find the hottest deal using π × r²

Valentine 2026

in the crux of my heart
water becomes wine

beneath the moon
your kiss pauses time

over the soil
the dead flowers rise

we need not speak
now that everything rhymes

all threads will fray

my friend ended it
ripped up their life
like a rejected contract
and their clothes, thriftily
were hung up
on facebook

i inherited a pair of red shorts
and I wore them every week
gave them a new life
the static fibres bristling on my skin
i walked, ran and trained in them
i loved them

but the threads still frayed
coz that's how it goes
all the things that hold us together
that connect us
wear thin

it can happen
as sudden tragic tear
or the slow fading into distant obscurity
but we all eventually wear

i naively think
i've come to terms
with entropy's arrow
and my own decomposition

because

what else are we supposed to do?

I love you so much I accept with open eyes the pain of losing you

omg, I just remembered
you're my best friend
and you're the one of my life
and we make each other so happy
and we're going to be together forever
unless one of us dies
which is going to happen
which is so shit
I just remembered

cardiogrammar

instead of a kiss-o-gram,
perhaps a cardiogram?
my heart, written out
as stuttering toothed calligraphy, worn
on a slip of sleeve
for you to hold
and fold
up in your chest
pocket, where it maps
the gone-but-not-forgotten
beats of my excited muscle
that promised, in its time
dilating, diastolic way
to stay, to stay

Venus as momenti mori

according to NASA
Venus may have had a shallow
water ocean and habitable surface clime
for up to two billion years

which is a very long time

long enough for geochemistry
to become biochemistry
to become cells
become organs
become "intelligent"

i like to think
that intelligent beings did roam on Venus
made languages and tools
built empires and tech
but then fucked it all up
and turned the planet into a dusty wasteland
having got carried away
by inclinations for novelty
and convenience
and the desire for power

so i think that, perhaps
when we look to the stars
and see Venus, fossil-like
alarmingly bright in the night
that we might be looking
our fate in the face
a world-sized skull
that stares back at us
with ocean-sized eyes

but don't cry
it's only the end of a world

kh like khummus

"kh like khummus" by Bazeed is the winner of the 2023 Resistance & Resilience Prize

First they send in the girl soldiers.

They look better
not the soldiers themselves, I mean
no, no; the optics-
than sending even a tiny battalion of boy soldiers
to peel the old woman
off her son's grave.

Ruth Eglash, writing for the Washington Post
Has an article on the rise in the Israeli army
of voluntary orthodox girl recruits:

"Within a few weeks of starting their military service,
many Israeli women head to a tailor

to have their oversize uniforms altered
to be more form-fitting [...and] fashionable."

Army cum gender equality cum runway.

 

If you hover over her name,
Ruth Eglash, a helpful little box comes up.
It tells you Ruth is a

"reporter covering [for] Israel
and the Palestinian Territories." In
other words, colonialism's her beat.

Cuz that's part of how you steal a country, dontcha know,
right from under its indigenous inhabitants' feet:
Proper nouns turned adjective-
Israel as "Israel" is a nation-state,
Palestine, as "territories", pile
of black caviar on a plate,
ready for eating.

Have you ever been to territories
in the summer?                          I hear it's lovely
                            this time of year!

Keep up with that kind of thing,
and you'd very likely stand to win
the very khummus out of the bowl
with its traditional blue & white [star of flowers]
motif.

 

¹ this poem is in response to this video, showing a Palestinian mother attempting to halt the demolition of her son's grave in Al Yusufiyah cemetery in occupied East Jerusalem, to make way for an Israeli theme park planned in its place. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N jGFb3Yyv0

Birthday Poem

Dearest John,
It's the day that upon
You were born, so small.
Now you're many times tall.
Congratulations on your height,
And may your birthday be delight.

Dendrite

We grow
and branch
and bud
and vine
    through the warp and weft
    of space and time
        with magnetic pull
        and electric charge
        that shape the stars,
        these forces, twined
            like fabric woven,
            so aligned.

A threaded thought starts to enwind
and stir the neurons of my spine;
    it pulses through cerebral brine
    until we both can hear it chime
        the bells that ring
        and so remind,
            these mirror minds
            of Noam and Quine
            that need no semiotic sign.

I think of you
and start to pine
as evergreen desires shine.
I count the numbers,
naught to nine,
and look into the eyes of thine
and know you know i know that i'm
forever yours
as you are mine.