Shankalamadingdong – the Joy of Angry Poetry

All Of You

Shankanalia12I’ve had a good few days in the last fortnight when I could cheerfully have killed everyone I’ve ever met, followed by myself. I would have been equally content doing it the other way round. It’s not a marvellous state to be in. The sheer internal vibrations threaten to shake a fellow to pieces.

Thank goodness there’s whiskey, and sleep and occasional poems.

I’m genuinely baffled that there aren’t more killing sprees and general outbursts of insanity from people pushed to the edge of their tolerance zone. It probably speaks well of us that we usually manage to cram it down inside into self-loathing instead. Yeah, that’s ace.

Anger management tip of the week

If someone (or the world) makes you really angry, just reflect on the fact that one day they’ll all be dead.

You can follow @shankanalia on Twitter for live outbursts, and you can listen to some of the poems on

The Joy of Angry Poetry

It’s Good That We Had A Chance To Talk
You know what?
Fuck you.
That’s the apology you’re due.
Fuck you.
It reflects my contempt,
And disregard
For your bullshit.
Fuck you.

If I could punch you hard enough
I’d smash apart your genome.
Watch you shatter,
And meld.
Chimeric retardation-
Scream and wail.
Finger eyes.

King Of The Hill
You’re an apex fuckwit,
Dumber than all the rest,
Squatting on
Your mountain of moron bones.
Empty skulls
Witless gaping
Stupid to the marrow.

Seeing The Difference
I wanna stab you people in the eyes;
Take your vision.
Make it what it should be-
The colour of blindness,
Pain and humiliation
And return ‘em backwards.

I Feel We’ve Connected
Good lord
You answered the fucking phone
Well done you.
And oh,
What’s that?
You don’t understand?
Then don’t pick up
The fucking phone.

Blending In Well
Feed you up on spit,
Toss you off a roof.
Slap down,
Face down-
Gravel fleshed,
Bruise scented,
Toss wretch twat.

Oh fuck you:
You never want to know.
Shove your head
Inside your arse
And inflate,
You fucking
Waste of space.
Welcome to low Earth orbit-

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Shankery – Angry Poetry For Liars

Shankanalia 8I suspect there are going to be a number of aggravating aspects to the early part of the year. They will likely be compounded with later, more aggravating factors. In short, I anticipate the degree of vexation to be raised skyward by my diurnal activities. I suppose it will at the least inspire me to be more florid in my ejaculations of anger. 

For me, a combination of bad planning (or what they call ‘high level planning’ without bothering to do the ‘low level planning’, i.e. planning the actual work itself), ignorance and a morbid lack of responsibility combine to cause a great deal of stress and risk for myself and those I work with. That’s to say nothing of the effect on service users. Oh well, this is a Conservative government (following an alt-Tory Labour government) after all and it’s hard to be surprised anymore by the ravaging insanity that spreads out from London. At what point do we stop caring at all? How long does it take before it’s not even annoying anymore?

Follow @shankanalia on Twitter for irregular poetic updates.

Shankery – Angry Poetry For Liars

Exceeding Expectations Like A Train
For fuck’s sake,
You can’t be this fucking dumb.
Your ignorance
Almost strikes me silent…
Except for this scream,
Waxing and waning
With pain.

Your Competence Leaves Me Speechless
You no facking worky-worky,
You some kinda facked up monkey
Tossin’ your filthy jerky
Like a fackin’ jism turkey:
Gobble spitting twat-finch flirty.

Coping With Frustration
You know, fuck it.
Just fuck it.
Fuck it all,
And fuck it up
Fuck it back
And fuck it sideways
Till it’s proper fucked-
Then fuck off
You fucking fuck.

Oak Aged Murder
I’d like to drown you
In whiskey
So I can taste your pain.
Down your suffering
Like a tonic;
Revitalising me
With your death juice.
You taste gritty.

Walk A Mile In Another Man’s Face
Kick you in the face
With gusto and whimsy,
Jab my foot inside your eye hole
And wear you like a shoe
With an inelegant heel
And bloody laces.

A Perfect Specification
Fit for purpose?
Fit for a punch.
As per design?
Designed by a twat.
Fuckspoons for eyes;
Cocknut eared wanker.

Worse Than Fries
Stab you in your ignorant heart,
Split it like a lettuce.
Toss the leaves of your life
With a nice bloody vinaigrette
Of your happy memories.

More of The Same

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Pub Poetry – TONIGHT! – Wednesday 8th January

Wednesday 8th January 2014

Pub Poetry – Open Mic Comic Lit

It’s poetry and wordplay time! Join us tonight for beer, spoken word comedy and a limerick competition (legendary prizes) plus an evolving segment of improvising beat poetry (as seen at Knickerbocker Glorious of late!).

Fun, Free and Informal


Bring your own poems, short stories, songs – whatever you have, as long as it involves words and might be funny. If you don’t want to read your own, bring someone else’s. Or just listen, have a drink and a giggle and meet some new folk. This is one of my most favourite of events. We usually get a lovely mix of the strange, comic and wonderful words and wordsmiths. I will be compering/hosting and will probably read a pirate story or maybe some Shankanalia.

There’s no need to book a slot in advance to perform but feel free to contact me with any queries below.

Starts at 8pm with periods of reading, drinking and writing limericks. All jolly good fun. See you there!

We’ll have some poetry books lying around, so should the urge take you…

Price: Free

The Canalhouse
Canal Street
Nottingham NG1 7EH

Tomorrow (Thursday 9th January) it’s Gorilla Burger – Improv Comedy Carnage!

Poem: Find Me

Find Me

Finding Meaning In Everything

This little poem wasn’t intended to have any particular feeling in it, but in retrospect it feels quite sad. I’ve always felt the appeal of the old solipsist philosophies which seem to justify the thought that there’s only me and everything else just pops in and out of existence according to my presence. I rather like the idea of the universe following me around like a shadow.

The calendar, notably, does not act in accordance with my wishes. I’m surprised to find that it’s nearly two months since Colin’s funeral. Today I’m going to his inquest. It’s just a formality since he died outside England and Wales – all the way up in Scotland. As there’s no suspicion of foul play there was no rush for it to happen but it does feel a little odd for it to be so late, and just before Christmas. I don’t really know what we’re going to learn from today – some confirmation of what we already know. Mainly, I think, a degree of finality. I like knowing the ends of stories, and I need detail to make anything real in my mind.

Lost In The Electrical Void

Retrospectively then this poem aligns weirdly with today – Colin and I are already separated by nearly three months – those regular opportunities for shared experience, the darkly shaded area of our familial Venn diagram slowly drift further apart. That’s already a quarter of a year’s worth of time. I don’t have any belief in the afterlife, and its strange to consider someone’s absorption of the world stopping while mine continues. All that’s left of him are those memories left in our minds and the physical ephemera of a life left in his house.

I don’t believe that we will meet again, other than in the trivial notion of our atoms once more rejoining the frothing flood of the material world. Eventually we’ll continue to exist only in the minds of those who knew us both. Occasionally we’ll be merged in a shared remembrance; neural shades of ourselves having a drink in someone else’s head.

That’s not bad, it’s more than we frail creatures can hope for. It’s already amazing that in the constant storm of atomic particles flowing through our bodies into the environment and back again, that this whirlwind of forces can ever lend us the appearance of body and the transient beauty of the mind. It’s neither surprising nor alarming that we will be blown back into the void from which we sprang. It’s just a shame we don’t always hold our forms for longer.

Poem: Apricot Shades

Apricot Shades

Shankling – Combustible Verse of Hatred

Shankanalia123I am frequently filled with emotions I don’t know what to do with. Counselling helped somewhat, sorting out the feelings that are relevant and appropriate versus those that arise from unknown causes and towards unknown antagonists. I’m pretty sure why I end up writing angry poetry though – I just want to be left alone to get on with things. If I want people’s input I’ll go out and find it, enjoy a cheerful babble-filled conversation with those who I enjoy having such conversations with.

Spare me the banalities of forced customer service culture and the imagined altruism other foist upon us. At least try to get things right, that’s almost all I ask. Just try, maybe even succeed. You never know, with a tiny bit of effort you won’t even need me – imagine how awesome and empowering that could be!

Follow @shankanalia on Twitter for irregular poetic updates.

Shankling – Combustible Verse of Hatred

Love It or Hate It I Hate You
I wanna see your eyes inflate
As I bellow loathing in your ear
Till they pop
Like runny jam-bags
To spread on toast
Tastes of pain;
Tasty treat.

The Eye of The Beholdened
Oh you fucking moron twat
What do you think you’re looking at?
I can’t bear to hear you sigh
I want to punch you in the eye.
Oh you fucking..

Proactive Solution Identification
Today’s the day that I strangle your baby
Travelled back in time,
Spelunked into your momma womb,
To lasso you with your own belly rope.

Choking Serpent
Every word from your mouth
Is ear-bleeding poisonous crap,
Like a serpent pissing itself through its teeth.
Your worthless husk,
Dry in my path.

(Good) Customer Service
Hi, thanks for calling
(Hope you die)
How can I help…
You to kill yourself?
Mmm, that sounds like a problem.
I don’t care, just fuck off.

You’re a Chatty Sort
Fucking shaft-twazzling shit-flute,
Erectile cock-muffin.
Slide your burning mind-fucker
Into your own cranium:
Spare me your noisy verbo-spunking.

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