Friday, June 4, 2010

Si Philbrook

Si Philbrook is a militant atheist married to a catholic. Lend him a tenner and he'll buy you a pint. His favourite food is gruffalo crumble.

Find Si's other work at

thoughts on kaplowitz

if he didn't exist we'd have to invent him

he is a poem
the one about how your mother
caught you wanking
over the lingerie section of kays catalogue
when you were ten

"i was lucky enough to learn with the bra section
of sears catalogues and the onset of 976 numbers.
national geographic would have been a challenge.
every generation has it easier than the last"

he is a poem//the one about your piss-stinking granny
who died alone in some care home
cos she was too much trouble
and a bit embarrassing

"Do I owe you an apology for almost making you think?"

he is a poem
the one about how crap you are in bed
lacking the imagination
to talk dirty
or use a blindfold
or spend an hour //just kissing her cunt

"I told you I don't fuck dogs anymore"

he is a poem
the one about children
with feet and hands blown off
by british-made american-planted

"Thanks for catching my typo.
As far as everything else you said,
fuck off."

he is the poem you don't want to read
but can't help yourself
car crash poetry

"it's simply my lack of imagination"


Recognising the smell of shit

I sit down and decide to write a shit poem
so shit that everyone has to say
"jesus this is shit"
and i start writing
sitting in the backroom
of an irish pub in Boyce Street
and then this girl walks in
all split skirt and legs
and suddenly i'm thinking of a poem by bukowski.
Yeah i see you, charles bukowski
sitting in your californian betting shop
eyeing up young legs
and guessing which horse
might just come in at 40-1
and laughing at me
and all the stupid-fucking-dimwit-poets
like me
who spend so long with their heads up their own arse
that they are no longer able
to recognise the smell of shit.


Kenny was a mate of mine,

we used to go and watch Millwall together

managed to blag a couple of season tickets

on account of his disability

I went along as his carer;

too bloody funny.

Kenny had Down's Syndrome.

He didn't worry about it;

he had some trouble speaking

and the most evil sense of humour I ever knew

I can still hear his laugh

worse than Mutley.

Kenny swore a lot


"Fuck off" came out "Fug all".

He was proud that he could say his own name,



he'd tap his chest and say

"Kenny Evans" when introduced.

I didn't know better when I first met him

so I tapped my chest and said…"Philbrook, Simon Philbrook…"

He roared with laughter

and ever after when I arrived he'd tap me on the chest saying..

"Fug-all, Fug-all, Smime"

then fall about laughing.

I miss that.

Kenny loved football,

he loved the cheering and the chants,

and anyone who scored…..them or us!

Upper tier behind the goal

whenever "the referee's a wanker" could be heard

you knew that Kenny would be standing up conducting

like it was last night of the proms.

At home to some crap nobody's in the cup

Thatcher steps up to head away a corner

perfect own goal


visitors end was always empty then,

Kenny stands up

shouts "GOAL" in perfect diction,

I couldn't look.

then from a couple of rows behind the chant began

"Stand up if you love Kenny…..Stand up if you love Kenny".

He conducted’

I cried.

this is why I fucking love football.


  1. stand up if you love kenny!! i'm standing

  2. One of my favorites from this exciting new writer, whose work I have been enjoying for some time now. Thank you for choosing such an excellent poet to feature on your blog!

  3. loved every bit of this, kap, bukowski but most of all kenny, wow. it's deep. very glad i stopped to read tonight... xooxox