Here are some edited, versions of poems written primarily for performance.

Written as spoken word pieces they are designed to evolve, be adapted, improvised around and to be honed over time. As such they may change when you hear me perform them live. that is kind of the point.

The Poet Beanz The Poet Beanz

The Joy Of Running Dogs

The Joy Of Running Dogs

The joy of running dogs

the happy skip of every trip

In rain or sun

on slick wet grass

across hot slabs

the run the walk

the stick and ball

the joy of running dogs

the dreams of running dogs

no need for papers

coffee or news

where they lay

is where they snooze

the happy snore

the snuffling twitch

the scent of leaves

the snap of twigs

the dreams of running dogs

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The Poet Beanz The Poet Beanz

Waiting

This is a poem written whilst waiting in a hospital as my wife had a minor outpatient operation. Having spent some time myself as a patient recently I absolutely understand why such waits are inevitable in a fantastic but strained NHS.

Click on ‘Read More’ to read the poem

So here we go

another hospital

more waiting

then a little chat

it was

impossible

so back we come

to try a new approach

sitting on

the same old seat

discomfort

never broached

waiting, waiting, waiting

can be infuriating

overthinking never blinking

I should be meditating

long corridors

and vinyl floors

no skirting boards

sealed up the walls

still

waiting,waiting, waiting

sit then fidget

stretch my legs

tuck them away

from hurried beds

on wheels

the patients

wheeled like trams

or adult babies in their prams

scratch my elbows

swing knees that fold

tap patella beats

click hammer toes

pinch my ear and

scratch my nose

wait, sit, wait

at least we were not late

routine procedure

unlike a seizure

it's the randomness

I hate

waiting, waiting, waiting

not quite excruciating

the patient patient

consciousness latent

while I'm anticipating

surgery, clinic, casualty

vaccinations,

like pulling teeth

the queues the wait

the sitting down

at least I'm not in the blue gown

impatient at the outpatients

and sorely tried by triage

I thought 'she's here'

but it's not clear

turns out to be a mirage

waiting,waiting,waiting

it's the not knowing

that I'm hating

I grind my teeth in disbelief

the other waiters

find this grating

soon this will pass

like kidney stones

and we will both

be going home

biscuits for her

but not for me

for both of us

a cup of tea

this waiting room

this purgatory

hope springs eternal

leaks for me

ah

I have not been forsaken

here is the end of waiting

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The Poet Beanz The Poet Beanz

NITS, NITS, NITS

If you are a parent, a nursery worker, school teacher or pediatric nurse then you will be familiar with the unspoken Hammer House of Horror that is a plague of nit laying headlice.

Nobody talks about it as though it were somehow connected to bad personal hygiene or a dirty and untidy house. Go through the poem with a fine comb and see if you can spot the Bauhaus lyric and get through the entire thing without scratching your head.

Click ‘Read More’ to read the poem

Nits

Nits

Nits

I hate the little gits

they invade your house

the dirty louse

like a plague that never quits

Lice

Lice

Lice

they're not very nice

combs and Potions

nit killing lotions

fingernails that splice

another annoying

infestation

I wish on them insect cremation

drag them and eggs out

with a comb

stop the insects taking hold

round up the kids

wash their heads

comb out the dead

the tiny eggs

wash the bedding

5000 degrees

hell on earth

for louse and fleas

they become nymphs

just after hatching

then suck your blood

and we start scratching

blood sucking insects

that spit on your head?

of course I want

the biters dead

countless Draculas

and Nosferatu

the tiny vampires

that feast upon you

a six legged

Christopher Lee

the victims have been bled

until your whole house

is Oldman free

Bela Legosi is not dead

decapitate

stake through the heart

garlic drops

before you start

you can live in a mansion

or social housing

you still need chemical

Van Helsing

a nurse , a chef,

barber and teacher

another role

your job will feature

parental duties

pest control

it never ends

destroys your soul

and so to cope

you will soon learn

straighteners make

the parasites burn

still they return

back from the dead

to climb and feed

off every head

Lice

Nits

Lice

you will have then more than twice

unless you shave

your kids hair off

and that's not very nice

itchy creatures

contagious, catching

just mention them

and we start scratching

but they cannot fly

carry disease

they can only crawl

not jump like fleas

I will leave you with one thought

as you stop and scratch your heads

did one just crawl onto your scalp

or can an idea grow six legs?

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The Poet Beanz The Poet Beanz

The Rainbow Road Not Taken

I make no apologies for interpolating Ellen Glasgow’s ‘The Freeman’ (1902), William Wordsworth’s ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud’ (1807) and The Beatles ‘In my life’ (1965) all within a poem about the emotional resonance of characters and worlds created within computer games.

While John Lennon was clearly thinking of lost friends like Stuart Sutcliffe and Wordsworth was musing on the ability of nature to inspire humanity, I am inspired by the ability of stories about humanity (even within non-human protagonists) inside videogame worlds to elicit as much, if not more visceral and emotional responses as great cinema or literature can. There are now friends I am sad to say, that I have spent many joyous hours with, sat around a console, for whom it has now been game over for many years.

Like Glasgow’s hero, Half-Life’s Gordon Freeman, Mafia 3’s Lincoln Clay and Mario himself, are all towering examples of people unwilling to accept bondage and limitations, or to know their place, confronting their oppressors and determined to bring justice to bear.

In Robert Frosts 1916 ‘The Road not taken’ a fairytale decision is mused upon with about as much solemnity as that felt by people of my age when playing an Ian Livingstone ‘Choose your own adventure’ book. Frost himself said “I am never more serious than when I am joking”

Some people think games are simply about a digital characters life and death. I can assure you it is much more important than that.

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Oft when on my couch I lie

In console playing mood

Their worlds they fill my inward eye

The bliss of gaming solitude

I wandered on Lakitu's cloud

that floats on bytes o-er pipes and hills

when all at once I saw fire flowers

piranha plants and shrooms like pills

Climbed ladders playing Chuckie Egg

telepathy had become real

Into a 16 year olds head

Programmers inner worlds revealed

Zx Spectrum Bitmap colour

Just one bit per pixel

Type LOAD " " , start tape

8-Bit landscape

simple adventures, blissful

the sound of Data

one low, nought high

those crazy flashing lines

Manic Miner, Chequered Flag

School Daze, the best of times

In the arcade cabinet i have sat

and zoomed through vector graphics

blew up Death Stars, lassoed At-Ats

And flew to other planets

In Another World, a world of blue

There were no words

No internet

In Ico, I spent weeks in towers

The nostalgia of the infinite

My heart still aches for Yorda

and the abandoned boy

I climbed and rode 16 Colossi

raised Wander's sword, and jumped for joy

I took my part in the Bards tale

and walked through Baldur's Gate

fought enemies in dark dungeons

and smashed a million crates

I've cruised in boats and starships too

through open worlds and galaxies

found trading routes within Elite

set sail with Link on the great sea

I jumped through time in Time Splitters

played as Kings, and Orcs, and Cats

fought countless wars, with guns and swords

with only tea spilled, on mouse mats

first person Shooters, RPGS,

action, Adventure , Sports

epic sprawling massive campaigns

cute independent shorts

a POW Escape from deep within,

an ancient German castle

first in 2D and then in 3

Those Nazis were all assholes

Fergus ,Wyatt, Hendrix, and Tesla

the different paths in Wolfenstein

alternate realities that test ya

your destiny, your own timeline

I dream of streets in New Orleans

that I have walked with Lincoln Clay

raised hell for weeks in lost Heaven

and lost whole days in Empire Bay

I've been James Bond in GoldenEye

also the mud skipper, James Pond

I stormed Normandy 2003

the very first and finest C.O.D

Black Mesa Cave, hope is a slave,

and Gordon is a freeman

Half- Life decay

VR today

held captive by the G-Man

W,A,S and ,D

have long moved characters for me

The Last Of Us and poor Max Payne

now lost in time, like tears in rain

I 've seen things you people would not believe

attack ships on fire, a pink playstation

I grew up with people who set us free

open world procedural generation

some seem to get their downtime thrills

by dancing with the daffodils

but I'll take worlds, fantastic worlds

and things I can control

when things are bad and I am sad

I'll be consoled by my console

For worlds created are no less

real than the one we walk through

less traveled yes, there is no best

choose who you want to talk to

roads may diverge switch back and merge

fact and fiction promote growth

we pass through this yellow wood but once

so why not travel both?

our lives are randomly switched on

new levels every year

we bounce like pixels within pong

the final boss, now holds no fear

These are places I remember all my life,

from different games

some are in my dreams forever

some uninstalled and some are saved

all these games they had their moments

alone and with friends, I've played them all

in some I'm stuck and some are finished

in my life I loved them all

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The Poet Beanz The Poet Beanz

Under the wave

“You can see it everywhere”.

In just six years time Katsushika Hokusai’s spectacular swell will have loomed large over Japanese art for 200 years. It is the most mass produced image in art history and so predictably has been dismissed by many inside and out of art criticism, as though it’s accessibility and enduring appeal were somehow inverse indicators of it’s significance.

Love it or hate it, it is not going anywhere soon and so here are some words on what it means to me

Click ‘Read More’ to read the poem

or head on over to the video page to watch

You can see it everywhere, it broke off Kanagawa

in museums, shops and galleries

on the curtain for your shower

on your phone-case or your wallpaper

in LA , Tokyo and London

a hand carved print of wet brush strokes

we drown in it's abundance

below white foam the Prussian blue

the contrast is effective

for this sea-based Mount Fuji View

pre-selected, fixed perspective

commissioned by the VOC

Katsushika painted scenes

Japan suffered for their sanity

oh how he tried to set them free

years later Van Gogh painted night

in an asylum filled with fear

'these waves are claws, the boat is caught'

it seems you had his ear

though it is clearly now ubiquitous

a never ending fountain

like a perfect curve for Sisyphus

to rick roll his rock back up the mountain

but what's remarkable, extraordinary

and really quite astonishing

for all the high brow curt dismissal

and the art critics admonishing

is the fact that is exists at all

yes,the sea can be quite frightening

not just struck with inspiration

at 50, Hokusai was struck by lightening

brushed with a stroke when in his sixties,

just like the waves that move the sand

he had to learn to paint again

the sleeve erasing was not planned

a striking image that sticks out, for a four Island nation

he painted it at 70, 18 years before his expiration

none braver, than the fisherman

his hair dried out, his skin, rope burned

he rides the wind, stares down the sun,

a lesson in resilience learned

just persevere, cast out the fear,

live now, embrace the motion

live each moment at a time

through life's turbulent deep ocean

life flows like sand, between our fingers

yet hands still grasp, right to the end

grief like the taste of salt, it lingers

a seasoned end for a dear friend

the unthinkable that stumps the thinkers

the carver first removes the wood

here's to the the artists , poets, drinkers

the printer inks the block like blood

the patterns made repeat themselves

woodblock made prints, the artists hand

like spines of books upon a shelf

sacred landscape, the working man

like lives arising from the sea, returning to humanity

that arc, that crest, our worst and best

under the wave is Mount Fuji

for though like fishermen and Sisyphus

our lives may seem absurd

our search for meaning is futile

our prayers are never heard

an ever changing great wave caught

as it comes crashing down

the struggle itself is enough

the mountain never drowns

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The Poet Beanz The Poet Beanz

Two tone at home

For somebody like me growing up and starting to buy records in the late 70s and early 1980’s it is impossible to overstate the importance of the Two Tone Ska Revival here in the UK. The cultural, political and social impact was matched by a personal affinity to a music that felt like our own.

It did not condescend or preach to you. It had that sense of mischief of being on the edge. Even as a preteen it could make you dance and smile and feel the kinship and solidarity that belonging to your own tribe brings you.

Nearly half a century later.

That has never gone away.

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Mento, Calypso and all that Jazz

blew in on a Jamaican breeze

rhythm and blues , and snares that crack

and hips that sway, chords like palm trees

the walking baseline stepped ashore

in Windrush Brogues so patent bright

black heels clicking, on two and four

one white socked foot lifted each night

the corkscrewed hips, the crawl and twist

the punch, the bass, the upbeat bliss,

the offbeat riddims, guitars that glisten

shimmer upstroke ,breathe and listen

then a later generation

moved by that rock steady beat

syncopated dislocation

the Midland maestro's from the street

the English Beat moved more than feet

and Coventry was Special too

Saxa bridging Orange Street

new wave revival, and Punk 'F*ck you'

made to heal tears, soul inflection

full stop ranking beat creation

staccato Stiff and Two Tone at home

British Ska that moved a nation

gangsters never trashed Hotel rooms

wha'happen dancing Jabsco did

three minutes heroes The Selector

too much pressure under the lid

the only invaders were North London

became the Camden Nutty Boys

brethren of the Prince were invited

racist toddlers threw out their toys

we harassed our mothers for Doc Martins

14 holers if we dared

black Harrington's with tartan lining

ad drainpipe jeans, trousers not flared

buzz-cut, ch ch, braces too, Skinhead style not BNP,

tabloid rubbish all the while

Bad Manners Margate by the sea

Jerry,Terry,Gaps and Pauline,

chequerboard that we adored

Yes and flares and Mud and Wombles

all the things that we abhorred

too young for Punk, but liked the naughty,

the Madness then was Absolute

rebels at playtime, ties as peanuts

beaten with canes and kicked with boots

the energy was so infectious,

the dancehall skanking had us hooked

other tribes could not deflect us

too cool for school was how we looked

and still Ska makes me feel alive,

a running man, two stepping madly

a child transported out of time

a Grandad dancing very badly

so thank you Rhoda, Roger, Doug

your body snatching, toasting tongue

Monsieur Barso, El Thommo, Suggs

by now I'm sure it must be love

©ThePoetBeanz.com 2025

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The Poet Beanz The Poet Beanz

Synths and cats

There is a venn diagram somewhere in which synthesisers and cats overlap. If you are a cat owning synth player then this is for you.

I have always had a cat (though not presently) and many synths. They do not always mix. Synth key beds are already fluff and dust magnets even without the cute furry Gods trampling all over them.

When they do walk across though it is very funny and I have spent many an hour programming patches or equing mixes etc with a cat either on my lap or somewhere else in the studio.

I created some of the images used in the video for this poem with AI and some with composites. AI curiously can create great cats in all their model and manufactured varieties but is pretty useless when it comes to all the different breeds of synths.

Click ‘Watch the Video’ to watch and listen

or click ‘Read More’ to read the poem

Moggies on moogs

Kitties on Korgs

Scratching claws across sliders

Paws on keyboards

TB 303s tabbies

Raving it up

British Short Hairs

On Behringers

Tweaking Res and cutt off

Playing M1s and Oberheims

Squelching and growling

Siamese on Sequential Circuits

Yamaha's yowling

Rexs from Cornwall

and rexs from Devon

Tinkling E Pianos

Sat atop DX7s

Pussies on Prophets

Gingers on Jen's

Cs80 Maine Coons

Tom Cats on Pitch bends

Clavia Nord

Roland and Novation

Ensoniq, Kawaii quacking

Catty clicking notation

In 1981

Dave Smith gave us MIDI

Near eastern wildcat

Prophet of polyphony

Now felis catus

Are all over the world

Splaying out over keybeds

Like cables unfurled

Stretching Abyssinians

Playing Jean Meaow Jarre

Bengal Brian Enos

Sphinxs beeping Vince Clarke

Random riffs from Black Cats

Sound just like Depeche Mode

Burmese cats switch on Bach

For Wendy Carlos at home

Clockwork Orange tom Tron

Eerie Circona The Shining

Transforming metamorphosis

With what she was designing

Feline frequency mod

Gorgio Moroder

Vangelis, Kraftwerk

Cats tweaking controllers

Hissing feral white noise

Lovely Purring sustain

Fluffy Persian resonance

Manx cut off decay

Teeth like a saw tooth

Arched triangle back

Cat on a hot tin roof

Square wave step down racks

Stalk like a sine wave

Oscillating warm purr

Additive synthipuss

Harmonics with fur

Cleaning faces with paws

ADSR tweaking

Felines and Fairlights

Cats chirping and speaking

In league with nerd Humans

Walk on flats and sharps

Cacophonous Orchestral

Manouvers in the Dark

I love cats and synths

So diverse and eclectic

A tiny mewman tubeway army

Our feline friends electric

Something to stroke

Whilst sat in your lap

A producer like Kate

Even moved like a cat

A bird in the hand

Is worth two in the bush

can't resist new synths

Geddy bass pedal Rush

Like the nonplussed look

At a bowl full of food

Even if I can't move

For all the synths in the room

I am about as likely

To keep synth free pledges

As cats are to give up

Batting objects off edges

But where would we be without cats

Without synths

Like a dance with no discos

And statues without plinths

Imagine a world

without ribbons and knobs

No tangerine dreams

No cute furry gods

With fluff in the keyboard

Paw prints on the keys

My mate once had a synth

That was Jumping with Fleas

It's a small price to pay

For a lifetime of love

One without the other?

Just can't get enough

© The Pet Beanz 2025

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POEMS TO COME

  • TWIT

    The idea for TWIT occurred to me whilst having to absorb yet another episode of Fireman Sam which my youngest (who was about two years old at the time) was obsessed with. It features a character called 'Norman Price' who could test the patience of saints.

    Most of the fires in Ponty Pandy can be traced back to Norman. I usually perform the main body of the poem in an approximation of his whiny annoying voice. (Somebody recently asked me 'why the Alexi Sayle voice?' which I was quietly pleased about.)

    Obviously the whole poem is inspired by John Copper Clarke's TW*T and my even worse approximation of his voice bookends the live performances of TWIT. There is no lifting of lines though. No complete lines from the original, only the spirit in tribute I hope to a legend. The challenge lay in trying to keep it both profanity free but acerbic and I hope fun. I love to perform it.

  • THE FILTH JUDGE AND JURY

    On the 1st of December 1976 Broadcaster William Grundy interviewed The Sex Pistols. Grundy proceded to ambush them, setting himself up as both Judge and Jury for a scene he had no time for, and did not understand. Grundy even admitted later that he had set out "to prove that these louts were a foul-mouthed set of yobs. And that is what I did prove"

    Steve Jones though was not the first person to say ‘F*ck’ on British TV. Irish Playwright Brendan Behan achieved the remarkable twin feat of being the first man seen under the influence on British television and the first person to say “F*ck” on the same show, during a live interview on BBC’s Panorama on June 18, 1956.

  • IT POISONS EVERYTHING

    I am not sure if I am an anti-theist rather than just an atheist, but there are times when looking at the irrational , ignorant, tribal divisive violence religion still seems to inspire, that make me quite sure I am much more aligned with such a position than the ‘edging my bets style’ of agnosticism that I adopted in my late teens after a horrendous childhood in a Christian cult.

  • AND THE NIGHT

    This is one of my oldest poems written at a time when walking at night was both a meditative and necessary act. It is as much about the auditory landscape as the visual and of course is a metaphor for the end of our own short time on this planet. The photograph is my own and part of a long scale project about cities after dark.

  • M.I.C

    On the 5th September 1981 a group of Welsh women, a group called ‘Women for Life on Earth’ arrived outside RAF Greenham Common to protest the Governments plans to site American Nuclear Cruise Missiles there and changed history.

  • EAT YOUR GREENS

    This is the poem with which I open most after hours sets. It is an opportunity to pay tribute to poets past and present on the screen behind me and loosen up those vocal chords. Will it work out of context and written down as text? I am not sure but you can decide yourself when it arrives here.

  • Clothed in Garments Soft

    The joys and challenges of fostering when you are neuro divergent.

  • I HID MY PLANS ON POST-IT NOTES

    Daydreaming at work when you are in a factory, warehouse, building site or office repeating mundane mind numbing tasks is something most of us have done. This is a poem about never giving up on your dreams. Your never too old ...even at 50.

    If you are In a cult,religion,marriage,job,contract,band and you don't want to be you can always put on women’s clothes and do the hoovering.

    Do you ever feel like Indiana Jones with a giant bolder behind you or that you are stuck in a trash compactor like Luke, Princess Leia, Chewy and Han solo in Star Wars?Be like Steve McQueen.


    It's never too late
    To escape

  • TREES (You are the Bees Knees)

    A poem about Trees.

  • Know a city by it's people

    An ode to Plymouth through the sculptures and statues on her streets. Monuments, artefacts and plaques that pay tribute to citizens, visitors, moments and events that have helped shaped the city.

  • HANDS

    A poem about hands

  • Boots and Cats and Council Flats

    Beauty within Brutalism and the urban on walks within my home city built the shapes and sounds within this poem

  • Those were the Greys my friend

    What would you do if Aliens visited you? What would you ask them? How do you rhyme extra terrestrial? Why was Mary Hopkins the first release on the Beatles Apple label?