…
though the fat bastard
fasted half the hungry week
while the unsung heroine
modestly sang of her greatness
oh, yet the gobby mime artiste
never fhut the suck up
now the breeze from the south
is colder than a northerly
but the oxymoron seemed
quite bright in conversation
…
…
a letter from
the attic of
your long, lost uncle
a song about
your country cousin’s
chicken casserole
another of those
alt-accounts
( beware the many bots )
the reason why
it’s blue above
& no, not grey today
a diatribe
uncontacted
& ranting in the wilds
dear reader of
each clattering
this isn’t haiku or
an ode to
a pygmy shrew
nor a carrion crow
oh,
even though
it may seem so
sometimes the cuckoo lies
…
…
maverick limerick writer
adds an extra sixth line
penner of great epics
only wrote a paragraph
nonsense verse disperser bought
a gravy train ticket
haiku enthusiast
could explode, say experts
the clout what writes those couplets
learnt to count to three
love sonnet composer
still quilling on the loose
…
…
martian men invade earth
come the week ahead?
so tomorrow’s crumpets?
yesterday’s brown bread?
saladin & mothman
in your garden shed?
guinivere & danu
underneath my bed?
as the sun is singing
songs around the moon
bats above us gliding
of an afternoon
four & twenty mute swans
talking to the dead?
& a cat with eyebrows?
possibly, she said
…
…
perhaps with a scratch
on a scrambled egghead
in a phantom passage
bricked like the it
when we see our own ghost
yet the tawny owl hoots
while the what’s unaware
like a climate changeling
with bright blue hair
in green jackboots
so the song is a swan
& this desk is his nest
…
…
the pen keeps runnin
as if by magi
at the end of each sentec
in spite of what is written dow
once more out of in
…
…
a funny man walked into
a funny happenstance
on the way to the doctor
– doctor – knock, knock – who’s
there to change a lightbulb
( ? )
…
…
scribbled in the midlands
by a scroat in odd socks
lit by tealight
up before the farmers
read by smoky fishwives
praetorian gardeners
rabid traffic wardens
& seasick oceanographers
at least it’s not the sobbings
of your godmother’s sonnets
or the catatonic purrs
of your long lost uncle’s prose
may contain monkey
nuts & the other
best before last century
peaked in antiquity
i blame the belgians
the gypos & the methodists
sod this for a stare-off
with a freshly painted wall
( huff )
…
…
six granary baps
a pint of semi-skimmed milk
peaches & pile cream
…
…
disappearing here
the light behind the windows
seven pence in shrapnel
a song about an owl
moans the mourning milksop
unaware of cobwebs
poking the moon
with a plastic teaspoon
…
resarf poetry 