poets on strike

~

poets on strike ( ekirts no steop )

quell the feathered quills
sleeping now like arthur

toss aside your vellum
put down your thesaurus

the book of synonyms
untie all cravattes

lob the trusty ink well
as if a molotov

in the rubbish bin
outside the town hall

mindful of section five
on the picket line

with all the marxist bards
who’d like to buy a house

before the revolution
as then we’d all own nada

we, the fuming few
the ginger lovechildren

of music & prose
with vestigal toes

we, the unsung glue
blue plaques of the future

who kiss the ruddy cheeks
of miscellany’s anus

chanting – give us freebies
cash & online likes

poets on strike
so write your own shite

poetry f.a.q’s

~

poetry f.a.q’s ( s’q.a.f yrteop )

is rhyme a hangable crime?

can i stroke her tail

& feed her magic beans?

is she in me genes?

will she shine my shoes

& burn my toast each morning?

if i write five in a row

will my elbows explode?

if i read six in one sitting

will my skin become corduroy?

can i still avoid soy?

are batteries included?

can i plod her marshlands

or will she suck us under

like a polo mint?

are words optional

like ironing a shirt

or looking both ways before crossing?

is she available in turquoise?

can i scale her east face

solo in a thunderstorm

in a pair of underpants

with a leaden pencil?

can i kiss her tentacles

or tickle her phantom udders

with a phoenix feather

or gossamer from the attic

as a skylark barks?

do i have to wear a cravatte

& pretend i care about shat?

does she glow in the dark?

is she banned in denmark?

cool poem

~

cool poem ( meop looc )

~

this poem is the corpse

of a cucumber farmer

still wearing shades

in a haunted mortuary

~

a vortexed breeze

in the doldrums of january

blue moonbeams

or jack frost’s handshake

~

this poem is the mermaids

that swim europa’s oceans

or a lost sunbather

in the deepest dark of space

~

cubes in the glass

of your homemade lemonade

sipping as she fizzes

& bubbles in the shade

~

this poem is the dogs

– sploshing in the river

& polar bears smoking

p.g tips

~

this poem is cool

like a second hand cagoule

or a yeti in an ice bath

– top that, y’ tool

the bunting is munting

~

the bunting is munting ( gnitnum si gnitnub eht )

the silence was golden
a clamour is made
beholding the lost of
the wanker parade

a thunder of fuckers
a bitch of a groan
arranged by the folk who
won’t leave us alone

a floating of gloating
a schism of narc
the crows above circle
but never a lark

the sun is avoiding
the soiling of day
as mister punch swazzles
magonia’s grey

a tentful of tossers
& crap cover bands
the glasses are plastic
& warm in your hands

the lager is fizzless
an apt metaphor
so please putin save us
with nuclear war

a castle of bounces
the drowning ‘n’ bruised
the emptier vessels
are easily amused

the darkness in normalzzz
a forceful delight
the bunting is munting
the carnival’s shite

seen be to yet

~

seen be to yet ( tey ot eb nees )

when chelsea tractors plough
the muddy fields beyond

& hug-a-mugger chuggers
run away

when all the rich philanthropists
leave us alone

& those effing jesuits
mind their own beeswax

as elton john’s wig
grows an inch – overnight

an alien emerges
out of simon parkes’s arse

climate change melts
the snow in all the snow domes

andrew windsor vindaloos
sweating not a drop

when poltergeists pose
on the cover of vogue

i’ll eat my own toe jam
on hot buttered teacakes

& play leapfrog
with wild boar or rhinos

as you’re crowned the new queen
of sheba – or whiskas

goes saying the as

~

goes saying the as ( sa eht gniyas seog )

time to feed the unicorns
& face the candle’s bright

morris dance on mercury
& see the carrot knight

fight the cabbage dragon or
paint the piper’s door

kiss the vicar’s knicker drawer
& bid you all goodnight