…
unplugged in glug
improv workshop window
open both the doors
unbolting lightning
best before each morning
like a sleeping tree
rearranging puddles
on the grey car park
interjecting jet streams
burnt tongue offerings
green parakeet street
yet that clarinet
…
…
decalcify
the white cliffs of dover
& call the eiffel tower
‘the poundland blackpool tower’
flatten arthur’s seat
& let’s have arthur’s patio
rename the taj mahal
it’s already several restaurants
that all do chicken bhuna
& let’s build h.s 2
from here to timbuktu
or the arse end of mongolia
…
…
while the wise crow flies
in zig-zag directions
while onion dicers weep
& the resting dough expands
while the soap star dies
& the stunt man explodes
while occasional tables
pretend that they’re a chair
while your air guitar
gently plucks a scale &
while the curate’s egg
is scrambled for your breakfast
while temporary bus stops
disappear from here again
i’ll write another postcard
to your uncle rose in scunthorpe
…
…
tuesday morning swanned in
with the gutsy grace
of a fatso ballerina
with popcorn lung
after sunday’s oh so
suspicious demise
maybe colonel mustard
was clueless too in cluedo
& mrs. white staged it all
with a crafty poem
then legged it for the sunshine
or got bored with board games
( ? )
as lizards bask in warm
summer something blizzards
let a second moon hatch
from the cracking shell
of the scrambled eggheads head
in a muddle’s up
peaches inside stones
fruitful be thy quarry
…
…
the strangest of birds
a bunt out tealight
bite the stifled brightness
south of this north
when the west shakes
one lozenge at a time
as pop flattens
the cotton clouds growling
& her feathers rain down
…
…
your quill is running out of ink
your quill is running out of in
your quill is running out of i
your quill is running out of
your quill is running out o
your quill is running out
your quill is running ou
your quill is running o
your quill is running
your quill is runnin
your quill is runni
your quill is runn
your quill is run
your quill is ru
your quill is r
your quill is
your quill i
your quill
your quil
your qui
your qu
your q
your
you
yo
y
…
…
gasp between pauses
see the steamy kettle mist
poems in the pipeline
when the welkin opens up
pour another mug’s worth
…
…
horned like the morning
striding on crunches
cornflake flooring
feet twig beneath
us two fools
in matching green cagoules
seeking a glimpse
of the nymphs or sasquatch
once grey rooftops
gave way to cloaked oak
there where the elfin
cracks us up like popcorn
robin hood’s hood
the lord of misrule’s old skool
in this cosmic copse
in his leafen universe
…
…
hayfever, hatstands
the golden horde or frogspawn
nor haley’s comet
…
…
yes, my carbonated mate
is best served from the fridge
slurp him high on chemicals
he’s coloured artificial
been bubbly since bright youth
& still slightly uncouth
he’s mister fizzle out
( he’ll be flat in half an hour )
…
resarf poetry 