…
it’s the hit ‘n’ mist
in bellend fog
where’s the ruddy twist?
( angry face emoji )
needs more sense
like plants need water
& other cliché
– face the beige instead –
settle like pebbles
on the restless riverbed
don’t rock the trumpet
or blow yer own boat
just be the dust
not scatterings of ash
& watch that splashback
– as per the bots
…
…
ghost lit passages
suddenly a human form
displaying phantom hands & heads
lo, the nature of
shapeshifters & uncarved blocks
let’s begin with misty limbs
sooner than a once
bonces unravelling
illusory balls
of baling twine – not string
– hark, the herald hedgerows sing
…
…
shivering silver
christingle toes upon
mistletoe althoughs
take the epiphany
strange time travel
unravelling rhymes
in the reason beyond
a load of old baubles
the normalz in retreat
as their fake cheer fades
like the ghost of a swan
…
…
forty three starlings
half a carton of skimmed milk
ghost fifty seven
…
…
broken biscuit spring
sings in yon unopened tin
( best before mayday )
…
…
w elly weather then
westerly downfalls
i t’s muddy underfoot as
invaders cross the sea
n ot a bee bumbles
no rose other than
t he hellebore blooms
twilights haunt too soon
e verything is cobwebs
eggs in a casket
i dle as the catkins purr
in between warm fronts
s outh east sunrises
snoring dormice
h urry old codger
home before the puddles freeze
…
…
henry the bloody eighth
will soon be henrietta
never underestimate
alt-historians
they’re proper gobby
like the climate changelings
in hi-vis orange
lost without a rhyme
as now is the sound
of the chatter on twatter
& dead sheeran lives
in this golden age of beige
but king charles is not my
elvis ruddy presley
& no flesh android voted
for sausage starmer’s rent boys
…
…
ten o’clock next tuesday
needs more oddness
blue stilton cheese
the battle of edge hill
glowing through the motions
bring a step ladder
henry the sixth sense
cypher like caesar
wedenesday, three a.m
don’t forget the postcode
– listicle or bust
…
…
a circular route
once more to the bus station
where it all began
…
…
sun hat saturday
ring us in the morning then
when the grey turns gold
…
( author notes )
thanks to anyone that reads these silly, tongue-in-cheek poems. i’ve lost quite a few subscribers recently – but we crack on when we can. off to work now, have a good one
resarf poetry 