~
fook the scum
( a woe of trues in the vaguely cunning guise of a shite poem )
…
at knight i floss
bee neath my sheets
with nightscares ov thee
- grammar police -
thy CAPITALS
& dickshunreez
No, it's dictionaries.
- arrgh -
~
help me
please
...
~
ian is a **** ( some poemz )
…
punters like a punt
as sure as munters grunt
witches hide from hunts
freezing - those polar fronts
stuntmen perform stunts
altruists take the brunt
shite knives they are blunt
& ian is a ****
...
~
biscuit magic ( the magic of biscuits )
…
biscuits take the ... taste it dip it biscuits love 'em lifeblood live it biscuits problem? risk it fix it biscuits top shit magic mystic ...
~
them upstairs ( some poemz )
…
aye - them upstairs
they yell sometimes
in languages un -
identified
perchance in tongues?
one cannot say
their t.v blazes
throughout the day
they speak through floors
in x-rayed groans
their telephone tones
rattle my bones
then sing sometimes
in infrared
them beyond my neck
them in my head
...
~
mid to late winter ( some poetrys )
…
green shoots abound on the ground last year's a dimmed whimper but thick gloves are still required arrr - shiver me fingers transitions within seasons there's one for the thinkers hay fever is sleeping still it's mid to late winter ...
~
my farmer-lives ( another shit pun-job )
…
down in ancient sumer there
i herded goats
up in caledonia
i tilled them oats
in the fourteenth century
i tended sheep
when all was victorian
i gathered wheat
before scarecrows came along
i scared the crows
when the vikings invaded
my sows farrowed
with straw in my mouths - with my
rosy cheeked wives
but not in this life - no
- in my farmer-lives -
...
~
england expects ( some poemz )
…
england expects a man in a dress & windowsills with mustard cress foreign bullshit & national shite a tuesdayed moan a fridayed fight glimpses of hope but never too much things of the ilk their like & such all castled homes with canine best friends pints not litres rainy weekends ...
~
the lesser-spotted poet ( or poet minus-maculis )
…
the lesser-spotted poet can be seen in dim-light through squinty binoculars around dawn or twilight they're solitary creatures who don't do packs or herds they're lairs are all metaphored they hunt for juicy words they don't lek as those grouse do or rut as those horned deer they breed under those blue moons but only on leap years their numbers they are down now their future's on the brink so please help if you can as too soon they'll be extinct ...
~
& bobs … ( by mezentius cauliflowered )
…
& bob's the brother of your father or your mother possibly both that would be even handier ...
~
blowing gnosis ( some a poetry then )
…
ring-a-ring psychosis
head, shoulders, knees - osmosis
all warring like those roses
as sure as sure supposes
that home is where the ghost is
trombonists with thrombosis
foggy myxomatosis
then us all blowing gnosis
( ? )
...
resarf poetry 