n-word haiku


nora’s naughty nap

nestor’s nincompoop nephew

nigel’s nylon nob

the long & winding rhododendron

still skylarking

as the cat is barking

      squirms in y’ journals

      mustard cress & colonels

guess the fuckin’ rest then

shaving in the dark

swimming in the depths with

a kraken & a shark

crocus pocus

focus in the locus

      spring is on a mattress

       with a famous actress

talking to a bishop

wish upon a well

annals, ants ‘n’ flannels

as the badgers yell

sweet pea shooting

as y’ nan is looting

      morrisons & budgens

      that’ll make the cudgeons

put y’ fuckin’ boot down

cloud a summer day

walk with thee beside me

& squawk beneath the grey

prime twats strike again

riots when they form

them of masks & clot-shot jabs

      those that hoarded bog roll

      like a frightened squirrel

them that soiled their pants

& never saw their nan

      fighting over cans

      of fizzy snake oil

see the pillocks pile on

humping yet clothed

      like a bored bullock

      on a muggy august morn’

lost of all purpose

like a beached porpoise

      kicking off in aldi

      whislt i hum vivaldi

look at those battle-bot

normalzzz go

      it’s the freakiest

      show ( oh-oh )

& cumming fucking soon

to your local shop

      what a load of bollocks – it’s

      – twats & rip-off pop

( author notes )

my poetry prediction for 2023

is that simon armitage

will become alan titchmarsh

& alan titchmarsh will become

simon armitage

those two have been merging for years

ever since simon got the laureate gig

but they will become one

& the same

by this time next year

( stop making up your own jokes )

mike hunt is hairy

( back, arse & palms )

mike hunt is fishy

( fly & sometimes magnet )

mike hunt is tight

( there’s cobwebs in his wallet )

mike hunt is massive

( he’s seven foot two )

mike hunt is tiny

( compared to a blue whale )

mike hunt is yeasty

( he’s a baker by trade )

mike hunt is smelly

( normally lynx africa )

mike hunt is shaven

( but only on his face )

mike hunt is weepy

( but still dices onions )

mike hunt is wet

( from walking in the rain )

mike hunt is lovely

( he’s never seen on a tuesday )

mike hunt prefers

to be known as a michael

testing times


ten past quizzical

interrogation a.m

dunce hat day

yawning all morning

fight all fortnight

the disappearing years

head scratch afternoon

quarter to mercurial

bugger me p.m

tumbleweed fifteen

humpty dumpty evenings

doldrum & bass

tongue tied thirty

cul-de-sac month

a calendar of colanders

whirlpool fest

what the fuck o’ clock

( author notes )

i wrote this the other day
after a giant scotch egg on legs
( appearance & sentience )
tried to run me over
in his battered golf

the cunt had pulled in
to the junction i was crossing
& if i hadn’t had stepped back
– i’d be in hospital or dead

& what was its excuse?
… ” but i only live ’round the corner “
… well there we go then …

stay safe from zombies behind the wheel


thoughts on the unnamed narrator


who is the unnamed narrator

of nearly all stories & tales

      that ever have been told

      – they must be very old

or live outside of time

in some pocket universe

      in a terraced house

      with three cats & a goldfish

maybe their name is constantine

mike perhaps or julie

      they probably smoke a pipe

      & wash behind both ears

i bet they drive an audi

& dabble in taxidermy

      they may well play the bagpipes

      & grow their own begonias

there’s no way that they’re ginger

for fuck’s sake – that’s impossible

      or keep their eggs in the fridge

      next to their cucumbers

i do hear they bake flapjack

& skim stones on a sunday

      upon the lakes & ponds

      around the back of everywhere

( ? )

r i s i n g

squirrels up a tree

breakers on a storming morn

waves upon the sea

steaming kettle fog

gasses farted from a marsh

orblets from a bog

prices in the shops

higher than a satellite

as a sixpence drops

fledglings from a nest

up today & so away

dough after a rest

bread is on the brain

ghosts in smoking fires fly

puddles after rain

gristle up a nun

throbbing meat in either end

then of course, the sun

what the fog?

now is sodden smoke

from the bowels of rotten oak

( ~ )

phantom dogs afoot

sing of sinking sand & soot

( ~ )

then within the head

in the absence of a stead

( ~ )

darkness is a mate

as the cattle masticate

( ~ )

far beyond this where

in the barns of else’s there

( ~ )

plod beyond the town

as a nothing pisses down

( ~ )

cousin saturn spins

uncle odin’s stroking chins

( ~ )

shiver in the rhyme

of a headless horseman time

( ~ )

silent like the rain

or the e in michael caine

( ~ )

floating in the still

in the mists of winter’s chill

( ~ )

breezeless is the lieu

of this archimedes screw

( ~ )

’til the crocus croak

& king arthur is awoke