A polymath with better parts

I've started the dreaded poetry component of my course. Years of hip-hop is bound to help out. Take this classic rhyme by AIDS victim Eazy-E,
'Ready to fuck until my dick is raw,
The motherfucking devil's son-in-law'
All the more poignant since the man's demise.

I think I'm going to go out all gangsta for the poetry assignment. I'm toying with the title 'Pussy Walls' as an ode to the 2-Live Crew.

Anyway, I went along to the poetry tutorial on Saturday. Held at Brighton Uni, it was all a bit confusing for me. All this stuff about rhyme and iambs and metre had me well confused. But it was a joy to listen to others on the course. My very favourite was some old dear with a bird's neck and an ice-cream hair-do who was compelled to comment or puff, or sigh, or laugh whenever anybody said something. The very best bit was when she asked the tutor what she thought about Stephen Fry's book on writing poetry. The tutor laughed and said that she hated it, 'who was he, this pompous fool, to tell us about poetry?' Old whippy head replied, 'Ha ha (seriously, she said 'ha ha', it wasn't a laugh), I thought you might say that,' before leaning back into her chair and saying wistfully, 'he is indeed a polymath with better parts.' If nothing else, the course has been worth it for that single comment. I wanted to get up on my chair and applaud. 'Polymath with better parts,' my fucking arse.

It was a good day though. Of course, it contributed little to the completion of the novel. But I did write a poem. Bit shit, only spent ten minutes on it, but thought I'd shove it up here anyway, right up here!

The Book of Massage Parlours

It was in a briefcase compartment
behind the Black and Red diary.
One of those hand-sized notebooks
Jerry sold for thirty-five pence.
Well travelled, its pages curled
and ink thumbed.
Chichester, Runcorn, Barrow-in-Furness,
St Ives, Felixstowe and Halifax.
Each entry detailed the décor, the
welcome, refreshments.
Videos playing?
Were the menus laminated?
Capitals and exclamation marks –
vulgarities as she saw them –
populated the dense one-entry pages.
Nine out of ten for French in Whitby
and a Birmingham half-and-half
with a squared ten.