Sophie Cameron

I am a performance poet in a style which breaks the boundary between poetry and stand up comedy. I have just finished my degree in English Literature at Royal Holloway University of London, having grown up in Yorkshire and then living in Devon, I now live on the outskirts of London.

I have aspirations as a writer in all fields and as for a career I hope maybe to become a journalist or at least involved with the arts, maybe publishing or advertising. I am 22 years old on the 2nd of September. I admire Vivien Stanshall, Peter Cook, John Cooper Clarke and Laurie Lee, and the League of Gentlemen, who all in there own way influence my work.

Bailiffs

The chipboard door to number 17 began to bleed

As two barbaric fisting pigs hammered

Ignoring the knocker.

They very nearly rocketed the humble house

Back into the gutter.

We peered over the sill

To find a large white van

Jammed between the pavements

Like some sort of shit sausage roll,

THE BAILIFFS ARE COMING

THE BLOODY BAILIFFS ARE COMING

I fog horned

Bury the fucking fridge

And the Kenwood mixer

Parcel up the heroine

And draw a hat on Mona Lisa

Drive Audi in t’pond

And wash away that swimming pool

Lock the doors to the terrace extension

Oh and hide me tea

No actually – leave it

It hurts but it’s realism.

As the hard boiled monsters entered

With dripping snouts

And frozen fish eyes,

They strode over the sofa

And surveyed our insides

Like preening bastard magpies.

Our mother smiled serenely like a plate

So they would find her endearing

And want to knob her

Whilst she smashed their fucking heads in

With the fireguard.

I smacked the other one with a lava lamp

Which broke and wept into the deep lacerations

About his jaw and neck.

I corkscrewed is nose in twain

And tore out his brain

Got the sandwich toaster for his hands

Then crisped up his dick membrane.

 We peeled ‘em like potatoes

Drawing the curtains

We split ‘em down the middle

Filing down all the tattooed flesh,

“You don’t get fresher than this,”

Mum said.

I chopped some fine beans

And muddled together a side salad

Carrots, beetroot and the odd onion,

Olive oil for the basting and salad cream for his bunion

I decided I couldn’t be fucked with salad

The bastard onions scratched my eyes

So I just bit his head off

And spat out the eyes

Picked the hairs from his dry flaky legs

And ate them as fries

I threw open the windows

To chase out the stench

Picked up my fishing rod

And baited my hook with his knob

To seduce some tench or possibly a nice halibut

Click Here

Grammar Police

I am the Grammar Police

I watch you for punctuation

Night and day and day and night

I lie and wait for ill placed exclamation!

I’ll twiddle with your points

Just for kicks

And watch you flush with embarrassment

As I draw rings round your dicks – plural

I am the Grammar Police

I don’t have this badge for nowt

You’re an ignoramus

You don’t fucking talk proper

There is no question, no error, no doubt

I’ll brainwash your idiot entourage

And breathe my rules deep inside

So when you splutter some illegible clutter

You’ll wish you were past, present and died.

I’ve got a fucking scanner

So you better pay your syntax

Or I’ll stuff you and cuff you

With the dictionary definition of a used Tampax!

I am the Grammar Police

And I patrol verb alley

Death row is nothing

To a hyphen rammed up your Aunt Sally

Believe me I won’t fucking full stop

Till your tongue is spined and bound,

Your brain is rubbed and shined

And your wick is ounced and pound

I am the Grammar Police

And you will use the semi-colon

You’re fucking full of shit pretentious bastard

All your knowledge is stolen

I’ll capitalise on the shit in your head

And point a red arrow at your face

So all can see your lack of brain

And at the laziness of the human race.

I am the Grammar Police

And I sentence you to five years

On a labour camp in the UK

So us prescriptivists can sleepful ease at nightly time

Free of love, free of life, free of fears

I am both masculine and feminine

Wing, hooker and flanker

I am – I am the definite article

And you good sir are a wanker!