Meryl Jones

It's taken a long time for Mel Jones to fully accept that she is a filthy, foul-mouthed and perverse woman.

Pushing 50, she has spent the majority of her life pigging-out, shagging for kicks, smoking, drinking and spectacularly failing to write and perform poems.

Recently there has been a marked improvement in that she now writes and performs poems. Most of these evidence a strong attraction to the lewd, crude and absurd, although she has been known to explore much darker subjects such as Lembit Opik and even chicken.

Mel has worked as a cleaner, bingo caller, check-out assistant, props maker, jazz singer, counsellor and dominatrix. She was mostly rubbish.

Mel lives in Hackney, London, near the big Tesco's. She has three vibrators.

Porn

I don't like Californian porn,

That bland, soulless performance

Where all the girls are perfect tens

And the cocks are all enormous

And no one ever drops a fart

Or laughs, or has a breather

And everybody comes on time

(Which doesn't happen either)

It's not that I don't like a wank

Unless I'm ill or sad

And if a porno gets me off

I don't think that's so bad

But I prefer the amateur

It's much more masturbatory

And knocks the spots off money-shots

False tits and other fakery

My problem with that Hollywood stuff's

Not just that it's appalling

In pandering to cruel stereotypes -

It's all so fucking boring

Let's see some real people, please

With their joyous imperfections

Their bold patches and wobbly bits

And minor skin infections

Let's turn to porn that's made with love

For fun, and freely shared

With every kind of body you could think of

If you dared

Let's celebrate each size and shape

In a porno jamboree

Let's watch a paraplegic romp

With a horny amputee

The more we break from Hollywood fake

The more its power diminishes

And shouldn't we be waging war

On fascist body images?

So let's hear it for homemade porn

The quirky and erratic

It's not got everybody's vote

But it's fucking democratic

Tenderness

I started out so innocent but developed sinful ways

Not just the usual stockings and garter belts and stays

But teasing lacy knickers down, assuming the position -

To be a fairground bumper-car, in a multiple collision

I've bathed in clouds of talc so I could roll on rubber dresses

Responded with orgasmic screams to violent caresses

I've lathered up with squirty cream and frolicked in Mazola -

And provided novel storage space for a well-charged Motorola

I've been tied to a forest tree by an elderly acquaintance

And taken stern instruction in the rituals of the Ancients

Attended fetish festivals where strangers copped a feel

And, once, inserted fruit into a lecturer from Keele

In summertime, and younger days, I did a spot of dogging

And honed my skills in watersports, anality and flogging

I've plumbed the deep depravities a la Marquis de Sade

Then gone and done it all again with a web-cam and some lard

I don't have a virginity intact that I kind think of

There's no climactic precipice I ain't been on the brink of

But, for all this hedonistic pleasure and excess,

Nothing's ever touched me more than simple tenderness

Child-Free

I'm often asked, 'Why are you childless'?

My answer is, 'I'm child- free'

And I know that the question is guileless

But it's starting to irritate me

So I have to admit to a prejudice

I know that it's bad and it's wrong

But the truth, although very distressing, is

I'm not very keen on the young

I didn't like 'young' when I was it

And my feelings remain fairly icy

Whilst others will cuddle and cosset

I treat every infant as dicey

Who knows when they'll next fill that nappy

Or sick-up some porridgy bile?

When I have to, I try to look happy

But there's horror behind that fixed smile

The next stage, the Boisterous Toddler

Equally fills me with dread

One moment you're wildly popular

The next, there's a truck on your head

They shove sticky fingers in sockets

Accost you before it gets light

And make easy work of your pockets

As they grow, like bamboo, every night

They then morph into acned teenagers

How I feel about them you can guess

They loudly exclaim all your failures

Bleed you dry and exist to distress

They slouch and complain through the building

Allergic to manners and light

And insist that they're adults, not children

As they tantrum, sulk, bicker and fight

When they move out, you could be forgiven

For thinking you've earned a long rest

But the silence will always be riven

When they bring laundry back to the nest

Over time, they recruit further forces

Adding partners and offspring and dogs

Draining all your remaining resources

As you babysit more fucking sprogs

So now I've explained my position

I think you must see that it's best

To agree with my first proposition -

I am child-free, not child-less.

ODE TO A PISSED UP BOYFRIEND

ALTHOUGH I WAS ALSO PISSED UP,

ONLY I WAS A HORNY,

'FUCK ME NOW I'M A RAMPANT, JUICY SEX-GODDESS',

KIND OF PISSED UP

WHERE AS HE WAS MORE OF A

'JUST GET AWAY FROM ME YOU HIDEOUS BANSHEE, WITCH-TROLL,

I JUST WANT TO CURL UP AND DIE'

KIND OF PISSED UP.

The girl inside me wakened in the night

She’s young and slim and more than average height

And stretching up away from me she flew

To make sophisticated love to you

Her legs are long and sleek and always tanned

Her breasts, when unsupported, make a stand

She’s manicured and pedicured and keen

And her underwear all matches - and it’s clean

There’s no trace of a stretch mark on those thighs

No eczema, stale breath or Panda eyes

She’s never had a stray pube or a spot

And she won’t pretend she’s coming - when she’s not

But you were lying next to her asleep

Snoring like a creature from the deep

And though she tried to wake you, you weren't budgin'

Even with entreaties and intensive nudgin'

You just farted, burped and groaned a little

Then stuck your tongue out, dribbling with spittle

Which may have a prelude to some kissing

But, by then, I felt the romance had gone missing

My inner girl then rapidly retreated

Rejection leaving both of us depleted

So I feel it's only fair to give you warning

You won't be fucking anyone this morning

Reality Bites

I have great tits and I suck like a Dyson.

I left my husband to live with a Bison.

I once chewed off a piece of Mike Tyson.

Oh please let me be on your show

I was the squeeze of some sad celebrity.

I went on the game to clear negative equity.

I have no brain but I don't let it get to me.

Oh please let me be on your show

Who needs a talent when you're an oddity?

I'm not a person, I'm just a commodity

Nothing but money and fame means a sod to me

Oh please let me be on your show

I'm devoid of personal dignity

I'll wank-off a pig and strip naked on live TV

There's no rancid pile of crap you can't pitch to me

If I can be on your show

Inconceivable

You don't want to think of it do you

That moment when you were conceived?

It's a massive communal collusion

An omission that we can't concede

We're so good at leaving that image

Completely submerged in our thoughts

And given the choice we would rather

Make love to a decomposed corpse

Than picture that sickening coupling

The hunching and bunching and sweat

Your Mum reaching out for the KY

Your Dad making sure that she's wet

Those things that you well know existed

Expunged from your mind as a trauma

Your Mum and Dad cannot be sexual

They're not even flora or fauna

They're your folks! and, as such, forbidden

But the truth, though I know it's not fun

Is, to make you, their beautiful offspring

At least one of them had to cum.

Don't be a Burqa

I think that I'll buy me a burqa

The classic hijab and niqaab

And then I'll apply to join UKIP

By the look of them, that can't be hard

Then I'll turn up to one of their meetings

In my gear, plus stilettos and whip

And add to the general confusion

With a few other pieces of kit

Some Elton John 70's glasses

An applique of Saddam Hussein

And a top-hat emblazoned with sequins

To go with my silver-topped cane

Then an old fashioned black satin corset

To gather that burqa in tight

Just to see if they get what my point is -

I'll wear what I fucking well like