Poems by Adrian Mole

Throbbing

I am but young 

I am but small 

(with cratered skin) 

Yet! Hear my call.

Untitled 1

Pandora!
I adore ya.
I implore ye
Don’t ignore me.

The Tap

The tap drips and keeps me awake,
In the morning there will be a lake.
For the want of a washer the carpet will spoil,
Then for another my father will toil.
My father could snuff it while he is at work.
Dad, fit a washer don’t be a burk!

Blossom

Little Brown Horse
Eating apples in a field,
Perhaps one day
My heart will be healed.
I stroke the places Pandora has sat
Wearing her jodphurs and riding hat.
Goodbye, brown horse.
I turn and retreat,
The rain and mud are wetting my feet.

PANDORA! PANDORA! PANDORA!

Oh! my love,

My heart is yearning,

My mouth is dry,

My soul is burning.

Untitled

Bert, you are dead old.
Fond of Sabre, beetroot and Woodbines.
We have nothing in common,
I am fourteen and a half,

Moon’s Last Quarter

The trees are stark naked.
Their autumnal clothes
Litter the pavements.
Council sweepers apply fire

Punk Poem

Society is puke,
Soiled vomit.
On the Union Jack
Sid was vidious

Untitled (to Pandora)

My young love,
Treacle hair and knee-socks
Give my system deep shocks.

Ode to Engels or Hymn to the Modern Poor

Engels, you catalogued the misfortunes of the poor in days of youre,
Little thinking that the poor would still be with us in nearly 1984.
Yet stay! What is this I see in 1983?

Waiting for the Giro

The pantry door creaks showing empty Fablon shelves.
The freezer echoes with mournful electrical whirrings.
The goes ragged trousered to school.
The woman waits at the letterbox.

Mrs Thatcher

Do you weep, Mrs Thatcher, do you weep?
Do you wake, Mrs Thatcher, do you wake?
Do you weep like a sad willow?
On your Marks and Spencer’s pillow?

The Future

What future is there for the young?
What songs are waiting to be sung?
There are no mountains left to climb,
No poetry without a rhyme.

Daffodils

While on my settee I lie
From out of the corner of my eye
I spot a clump of Yellow Daffodils,
Bowing and shaking as a lorry goes by.

Oh Moscow Trams

Are your wheels revolutionary?
Are your carriages forged from the steel
of conflict?
Are there bloodstains on the uncut moquette
of your seats?

Nipples

Like rapberries
taken from the freezer
Inviting tongue and lips

On seeing Pandora’s Midriff

The glorious shoreline from ribcage

To pelvis
Like an inlet
A bay

Dr Braithwaite

Since you gained your Ph.D
You have had no time for you me.
You loved me once, you could again.
Pandora, give up other men!

Poem to Bianca Dartington

Gentle face,
Night black hair,
Natural grace,
Love I swear.

Untitled (to Diana)

Oh Diana!
Oh Diana! Was a song, of 
my mother’s youth.
Sung by 
Paul Anka, who was small
 and white of tooth.
The refrain, Oh Diana!

Glenn Bott

Seen from a distance
Tall, frowning, twelve.
Gangsta clothes
In an English market.

Requiem for Mrs Wormington

She as not a little old lady
She was six foot tall.
She didn’t smile sweetly
She wouldn’t play ball.

Poem to Dave

Dave Mutter, Dave Mutter
His name is so charming.
My passion for him though
Is slightly alarming.

Untitled

Mr Blair,
You have nice hair.
You blink a lot
To show you care.

Daisy

It’s not your eyes I miss,
It’s not your hair.
Your lips I’d like to kiss,
But you’re not there.

To My Organ

Oh my staunched rod of old,
Why art thou now so limp and cold?
Has desire fled from thee?
Or art thou anxious to be free

Untitled 2

I stroke the places Pandora has sat

Wearing her jodphurs and riding hat.

Goodbye, brown horse.

I turn and retreat,

The rain and mud are wetting my feet.