Ardella Jones

ardella

Ardella Jones grew up fast in Ladbroke Grove, studied English at Bristol, became reggae correspondent for the NME, won the Catherine Pakenham Award for journalism, then switched to writing comedy including scripts for the cult 3D animation, Bunny Maloney. As half of double act, Ken & Ard, she won the New Names Award at the Edinburgh Fringe, and, as a solo stand up, she toured the circuit from Up the Creek to Jongleurs.

Now Ardella performs as a poet, writes crime fiction, and runs Chalk the Sun creative writing workshops in Tooting.

Ardella’s star sign is Scorpio; her hobby is buying shoes and her favourite food is expensive.  Her poetry is inspired by Existentialism and loft conversions, the English Novel and budget airlines, and goldfish.

This poem is dedicated to our mendacious friends Tony and George.   It’s called …..

 MINISTRY of TRUTH

 Extraordinary rendition

Sounds like a musical accolade

Collateral damage

Something for which insurance can be paid.

Friendly fire

Should be cosy, warm and nice

Theatre of War

Is surely starring Vincent Price

Blue on Blue

May sound rude to you

But what is actually true

Is that these linguistic compromises

Are just shoddy shabby disguises

For when truth bleeds and dies

Buried under bloody lies.

 

ALLO LOVE SALAAM

 

The Afghani Butcher’s boy,

Has eyes of shyest green,

They slither from bold to coy,

Leave little left unseen.

He comes from the wild borders

Mountainous, cool, remote,

Where Taliban give orders

Qu’ran is learnt by rote.

School is just some old iman

Sitting beneath the trees

Women are both worthless mules

And endless fantasies.

The UN drops its food aid,

The Allies only bombs,

He escapes from an air raid,

Finds everybody gone.

So now he’s here in Tooting,

The Afghan Butcher’s Boy,

Safe from bombing and shooting,

His sharp knife just a toy.

Expert he cuts, chops, slices,

Through sheep and cows and goats,

Halal free from vices,

Blood drained through slitted throats.

He speaks Pashto and Farsi,

Writes numbers but not words,

He’s learnt to speak in cockney,

To Bosnians and Kurds.

Jamaicans, Nigerians,

He greets with “What a gwan?”

Iraqis, Algerians,

“A Salaam Alaikum”

He cuts beef corti corti

Chicken chinga chinga

Leaves the lamb deghi deghi

Chops ghost chops when you ready.

He sports a diamond earring,

Hair gel, a mobile phone.

Says “it cool” and “Ting and ting”

“You want that on the bone?”

Potato head, he calls his mate,

That’s aloo head to you,

“My English she not very great,”

He shrugs, “But what to do?”

While women wait inside the shop

He still comes over shy

His hands chop chop non-stop

Through bellies, breasts and thigh.

Sometimes his green eyes linger

Can’t help but go astray,

He’s nearly lost a finger

But still he chops away.

Tooting’s a confusing mix

Blood, money, lust and joy,

And Women with alluring tricks

To tempt an Afghan boy.

 

 

 

 

 

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