…
two fat robins
gorging on me fat balls
a dunnet – not a sparrow
a jackdaw – not a crow
a lady blackbird
( so brown instead )
an old red squirrel
( since gone grey )
an origami crane
that blew in on some breeze
a harvest mouse
from the field beyond the hedge
seventeen snarks
& the scarlet pimpernel
mothman once
& the spanish inquisition
green parakeets
( spreading from the south-east )
& your missus
munching on me nuts
…
…
it’s a sort of story
but it’s not a story
– it’s a poem
it’s a branch of song
but it’s not a song
– it’s a poem
it’s a type of list
but it’s not a list
– it’s a poem
it’s a class of diary
but it’s not a diary
– it’s a poem
it’s a kinda magic ( magic, magic )
but it’s not magic
– it’s a poem ( soz freddie )
it’s a form of poem
but it’s not a poem
– it’s a poem
( goddit… ? )
…
…
roses aren’t red yet
the snowdrops are white
– it’s crocuses next then
( we should be alright )
…
~
the lord is my shep
herd – i shall not want – he makes
me lie down in green
…
…
stroll beyond the doldrums
with a springy step
ladder as the adders stir
mugs of cup-a-soup
cock-a-hoop’s an oversell
but the day is butterballs
either or a creaking door
breathing in the shapes
shifting after shivering
dogs become cats
catkins purring
in the morning wood
if proper poets could
gather up these scatters
should the thicket throb
with extra gorse – of course
as pampas grass swings
in a gimpy breeze
– more tea vicar?
so the crocus croak
february is feathery
in the second’s pastures
presently the hills & plains
sunbeams & tractors
…
…
the furrows that you plough
above the frowning sight
of your siamese eyebrow
singular it sits
above your eyepatch
& your left red stare
a snorting snout
& a marmite brown mouth
– actual cauliflowers
as your ears
so hope disappears
yet the rest endears
a crotch so fishy
that even andrew windsor
would sweat
the traces of soup
upon the handlebars
of your lady moustache
& a bosom so south
that penguins nest
on your nipples
the hair on your palms
– on your lovely lady arms
& arse
– phwoar
…
…
the sky is turquoise
the hills are yellow tartan
twenty seven moons
…
…
i thought we’d all be dead
but bugger all instead
i’ve checked under the bed
& rummaged in the attic
you’re not on t.v’s snooze
your old house is deserted
your flowerbed is thistles
the lawn is only earth
i’m on the cocoa pops
my third bowl in a row now
& yet my skin is smooth
like an eel on groovin’ bass
i’ve plunged the kitchen sink
& wondered were you real
or never really there
like the missing link?
perhaps a plot hole
or a cheeky cul-de-sac?
my favourite baddy
from season two-m twenty two?
better than the flu
& better lines too
you were the one
but the pantomime plays on
…
…
because all life mattress
– it’s true – don’t seek
a second onion
& us dyslexic fork
are actually gnome different
than the breast
as we are all
the children of
the same almighty cod
so thank you for reaping
& havoc
a good dab
…
…
dear darling stars
of this modern poetry
we, the proper wrong’uns
with rants in our pants
the scum of the erm
the gum on the sole
of your muse’s shoe
the muse of snoozing off
of popular you
who redefines purple
& gets away with cliché
because the bots love it
the flesh & the code
plus current thing platitudes
& suckles on the tit
of normalzzz shit
or some lovely words
about the hills & flowers
or some boxes ticked
( you’re quilling in their survey )
well, you fucking bells
we exist as well
underneath the bright
of your brilliant bilge
as your roses a ring
we, the gobshites sing
…
resarf poetry 