~
i dream in soup ( some poem or such like )
…
potage dotage a soupy head as brothy veins pump bits of bread asparagus bring me my spear the vegetables are mighty here as fungi loom the many spores great battles fought in - between snores i dream in soup leeked potatoes then yet more flies whilst comatosed ...
~
grim again ( some weather-verse )
…
it's grim again
grey clouds & rain
the river's full
as are the drains
it's far from warm
most hide indoors
shit's relentless
this deluge pours
yet on time goes
as cruel winds blow
when will it end?
nobody knows
i hope it stays
fuck part-time rays
the sun's a ****
i love these days
( x )
...
~
( … ~ … ? … ~ … )
…
~
( in person ) ( some stuff of poem )
…
i wrote you a letter on the back of my hand ( the back of my hand ) ( the back of my hand ) i delivered it in person as i'd ran out of stamps ( i'd ran out of stamps ) ( i'd ran out of stamps ) yet i still used your postcode & your current address ( your current address ) ( your current address ) but the rain fell on the way leaving just a smudgy mess ( just a smudgy mess ) ( just a smudgy mess ) ...
~
b-sides & bees beside the sea
( loosely inspire-based on an old music-hall banger tune)
…
oh i do like to listen to a b-side no i don't like to be stung by a bee oh i hate it when bees chase me down the prom prom prom where the brass band plays tiddley-om-pom-pom ( leave me alone ) ...
~
leg dangle song ( poet-tra-la-lee-ry )
…
dangle legs over the edge dangle legs over the ledge as this song sings in your head ( feel the breeze tickle your knees ) ...
~
village weekend ( a little bit of truth but not too much, erm … )
…
on the pavement walk many strangers many more now than before as drunk pubs sing the songs of wankers words are turds & time's a whore ...
~
keep britain tidy ( a little poem that doesn’t want to be good )
…
tip waiters not flys don't be a shitter keep britain tidy pick up your litter or you're a wrong'un asking to be fined if the urge persists write some shite online ( x ) ...
~
soap deaths ( some fret thee not poetry )
…
there is no death upon the soaps oft drama - yes but fatal? nope you'll see them soon - there's so & so all pantomimed - panto? oh no or else they'll switch to other soaps changing ( slightly ) but sad folk know of these rebirths so on it goes there is no death upon the soaps ...
~
in the year of the pineapple ( some moderately contemporary dross )
…
the nutter
on the
bus sat
next to
me
then painted
our world
with his
shades of
gob
making too
much sense
i sighed
tired &
peeved
'fore begging
the gods
i want
that man's
job
...
resarf poetry 