…
unslept in yet
sweating like your uncle
i never dreamt of
my true love or
colonic irrigation
this day is grey but blue
stagger on though
a doldrum roll &
a poem in lieu
…
Author: resarfpoetry
life is a series of unfortunate accidents
…
the chemical burns
beneath my panda
eyes – the bright blue
sky upon your
haddock head
& we are battered
chipped & mushy
peas be with you
we are stories
like the distant – stars
a scar in
every twinkle
twinkle little death
& catching – fluttered breath
these scatter cushions
us, the cloudy
early hatchlings
groaning bones but
tomorrow isn’t cancelled
like a zed lister’s
online wrongthink
mister bump is
our spirit guide – life
is a series of un –
fortunate accidents
…
death is my uncle
…
death is my uncle
i help him with the harvest
by midsummer the grass is
ready for the scythe
we live in the same small
town or quite large village
down up in the midlands
where the air signs know
the king is not my queen
as the mistle thrushes crow
life is your cousin
& high on themself
…
five more cries for help
…
wearing a dryrobe
in the middle of the midlands
singing along
to your favourite a.i pop song
driving shiny four-by-fours
that never roam off-road
with personalised plates
( tee-double-yoo-ay-tee )
or saying ‘hello’
to people that you don’t know
…
old folk woe
…
the traffic warden hag
& the hawthorn sapling
arthur / martha
& the backstreet clinic ( shush )
half a crown in shrapnel
but a shilling still in debt
the piper, the fool
& the giant cob of sweetcorn
the ballad of the abbot
& the wet, wet sponge
my true love
is a chartered accountant
…
petal plucker
…
she loves me, she loves me not
she loves me, she loves me no
she loves me, she loves me n
she loves me, she loves me
she loves me, she loves m
she loves me, she loves
she loves me, she love
she loves me, she lov
she loves me, she lo
she loves me, she l
she loves me, she
she loves me, sh
she loves me, s
she loves me
she loves m
she loves
she love
she lov
she lo
she l
she
sh
s
…
the things we scribble
…
haiku on the back
of an own brand cornflake box
a black marker pen
…
beans on buttered ghost
…
bumblebees each evening
second guessing breakfast
trees between those wheaty fields
beans on buttered ghost
& the pelican grins
…
afternoon pigeon
…
then a collared dove
shat on your hat, my true love
two forty seven
…
the venerable bidet
…
yes, quite a pious chap
a monkish, boffin brained
polymathic poet bloke
from them-there saxon times
with a very clean anus
…
resarf poetry 