…

yes, quite a pious chap

a monkish, boffin brained

polymathic poet bloke

from them-there saxon times

with a very clean anus

…

…

spring in the afternoon

the closet saxophonist

plays in his basement

softer than the blossom

until the moon twigs

…

…

a scatter graph
a falling tree

the silent sky
is calling me

it’s pickled eggs
perhaps below

a sort of flute
a piccolo

so soon the moon
before the sun

a smoking road
an open gun

the spanners came
a muddled life

each cul-de-sac
is doubled strife

oh broken flow
a tit in bits

so jigsaw all
& see what fits

the custard cans
& cantaloupes

a tudor rose
spaghetti hoops

…

…

yet the poet lived

to bore us all again

so

the river found the sea

then became an estuary

rain fell on the desert

like custard on dessert

but

the fire in my heart

was only saint elmo

the bee in your bonnet

was a lost bluebottle

plus

the trees played possum

at the bottom of the garden

the sous chef knew

a recipe for remedy

thus

the cowherd heard

the cows moo music

…

…

a village lost in fog
perhaps the flying dutchman
your long lost cousin

five leaves left
on yonder english oak
as the river man plays

say what you meantime
in the great unrhyming
as the dormice snore

so, it’s november
then beyond the tentacles
of october’s octopus

scatter each thought
like stale breadcrumbs
& feed the phantom ducks

here in the midlands
bolting the blue
& loosening screws

gold became grey – we’re
waiting for the flood
to swallow us whole

…

…

we’re all in on it but you

even auntie valerie

great uncle percival

missus evans-sake

arthur yard-left

the ghost of last easter

hyperspace brian

the milkman – the greengrocer

& the greengrocer’s cat

…