Bonkers but bloody brilliant – Luke Wright: the poet shaking up poetry

14 Apr

So, did you know that April is National Poetry Month? Yes indeed. A month for us Brits to take time to pause and reflect upon our glorious poetic heritage. A time when we take to the streets conversing in nothing but iambic pentameter, spending our time making things rhyme.

In honour of this rambunctious month of celebration, I think a couple of poet inspired blog posts are in order. I’ve never thought myself a fan of poetry, but there are some AMAZING people out there who are really breaking the stereotypes of artsy fartsy beret-wearing navel gazers that my mind conjures up when i think ‘poet’.

Judy Funnie from Doug

Judy from Doug: the stereotypical beatnik. Note aforementioned beret.

First up in my poet appreciation, comes Luke Wright, a baby-faced word-wizard I recently watched at Book Slam. With an astounding grasp of the English language and a sense of rhythm that would make a Beyonce routine look lacklustre, he takes you on an exciting lyrical journey through timely topics that can move from hilarious to touching to profound in a few words. Covering everything from single mums to Essex girls to boozy, beemer driving bastards called Barry, his poems are hugely versatile and there’s not a whiff of pretentiousness about him.

Luke Wright

Luke Wright: a very good, non-Beret-wearing poet.

Here’s the poem I saw Luke Wright perform at the Book Slam, the magnificently titled B-Movie: Barry V. The Blog. A barrage of B-words about bankers, bummers and big bellied burping bullies, it’s blimming brilliant.

B-Movie: Barry V. The Blog, by Luke Wright

In a bleak Basildon boozer Barry, a bawdy big-bellied bully of a bloke who beat up his bird, knocked back the belly-buster breakfast, blew bellicose burps over the bar and brought forth a barrage of brainless bollocks:

Bigwigs in Belgium banning our bendy bananas? Bavarian bastards!
Boffin birds on the BBC banging on about bankers’ bonuses? Bloody Bolsheviks!
Bummers? Bummers! Those benders broke Britain!

He observed brilliantly bringing-up a broad buttock for a boisterous bottom burp.

Bloody broke Britain! He barked, banging his bottle on the bar and eye-balling Ben the blandly urbane barman who Barry believed was a blatant backstairs bummer.

Bang to rights, Barry was boss of the boozer, brow beater of the bar, Basildon’s Big Beast but … Barry hadn’t banked on The Blob.

The Blob, a big black boggy ball the breadth of a bendy buses, bounced down Basildon’s broken-down boulevards bingeing on bag-ladies, bouncers, bookies, builders, butchers, beauticians, bell-boys, barbers, bakers, bursars, bingo-callers, brick-layers and anybody who didn’t briskly do a bunk.

My beautiful baby! A broad bawled, but The Blob just bosched it like a bon-bon. Blob, blob, blob, blob.

The bloody hubbab broke-up Barry’s verbose, bitter outburst about Bennite bores who barrack big business with banal bellyaching. A brace of bones belonging to a bashful botanist The Blob had gobbed back out broke the boozer’s bay window and bashed Barry off his bar stool beautifully.

Bundled onto his bum, Barry burst a blood vessel. His buff biceps bristled. He bounded out the boozer bent on rebuttal and bumped boldly into the Blob.

Blob, blob, blob blob, it burbled, it’s burly brogue a baffling babble to Barry’s Basildon brain.

BASTARD! Barry bellowed, brandishing a brawny bunch of fives. You big, bloody bastard! He began boxing, bringing a breathtaking barrage of boffs and biffs to The Blob’s bobily body. Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!

But The Blob was unblemished. It bore his black barbed teeth and bit Barry’s body to bits. The Beast of Basildon was beaten and The Blob belched for Britain:Bloooooooooooobbbb! Before bouncing off to bother the bigoted barflys of Braintree, Brentwood and Billericay.


What do you think – any other poets to recommend?


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