…
tattoos will never make
anyone more interesting
if anything
the opposite is true
i stay well away from
people who watch t.v
none of my few friends have
personalised number plates
…
Author: resarfpoetry
march, march
…
march, march
a lion roaring in
like an irate lamb
march, march
a mad bastard hare
is boxing fog & puddles
march, march
the starch on your pants
another laundry daydream
march, march
a troupe of baboons
escaped from the zoo’s confines
march, march
the shape of tomorrow
is leafen & somewhat green
march, march
the cherry blossom zen
overloads – then explodes
march, march
a lamb baas, leaving
like a sleeping lion
…
billy gnome mates
…
my only friends are
rosy cheeked midget men
fishing by the garden pond
hoping that a goldfish
will tickle their tackle
…
stuck on the sky
…
black velcro crows
yes, it’s one of those
stuck on the sky
lost in my true
highness of the welkin
fridge magnet alphabet
cotton wool water
rubbing like balloons
look at those weirdos
floating in sweet blueness
we’re upon the meadows
over earthly clover
in medieval hoodies
longer than a raincoat
not the latest smear
steering clear of drizzle
gawping for britannia
mooning with the moon
this is how the clouds grey
but mayfly live forever
gulliver’s ghost
is a bright white pigeon
nature is my second
cousin twice removed
…
trombone
…
dogs won’t bury you
or chew you in the bandstand
you juicy trumpets
…
outrage outro
…
inserting turnips
where the sun don’t stroke
sack the t.v chef
guillotine the d.j
chastise the m.p
rage at the bots
the what’s & the not’s
the lollipop lady
that eats her own roadkill
twisting frilly knickers
y-fronts & what the fuck’s
gasping pantomimes
the a.i e-thot
that ran out of code
so the cloud devoured her
read all around it
the pilchard poet
that wore odd socks again
dot them dots then
droning like a chainsaw
whispering foghorns
huffing all morning
twatting all the mirrors
steaming ’til evening
…
uddled mup
…
most bananas are sunday
candles help us see in the yellow
bramble bushes have darkness
gardeners have green thorns
the seventh day is fingers
…
all clued out
…
the pebble in your left
orthopaedic shoe
& rain last tuesday
a certain afterglow
in the sunset’s curtains
when we both squint
plus the cataracts
in the glass eyes
of the blind mortician
or the sparrows nesting
in the west wing
of the matron’s beard
the gnomes in the garden
that wink when we blink
perfectly in sync
like the lipstick smeared
on the vestigal nipple
of the bishop’s catamite
are all redder
than a blushing herring
square one beckons us back
…
the finest ingredients
…
five pints of thin air
two snark eggs
sugar-free sugar
salt-free salt
invisible flour
fat-free lard
four straws for clutching
half an ounce of nada
nut-free marzipan
ten spoons of mist
gluten-free gluten
three hen’s teeth
& a great imagination
…
p.s spills the beans …
…
the butler never did it
they railroaded him too
those sneaky widwits
the typewriter botherers
as whodunnit authors
are yet more rotten apples
& just as bent as coppers
or those limbo dancing hunchbacks
who loiter in the gents
toilet in the park
every friday luchtime
…
resarf poetry 