~
dick’ead has gone ( 12 lines of reality )
…
dick'ead has gone - peace is restored back to prison a month or four each irked road has a dick'ead there at least one dick they're everywhere in some ideal world on some street they'd be neighbours life would be sweet a border drawn like lines in sand there they'd kick-off in dick'ead land ...
~
the scraps of the year ( 8 lines of hope-stuff )
…
the scraps of the year what's left in the head aye - the end bit draws near so handstand for the dregs something might appear versey, yet unsaid or a novel perhaps or a feather instead ( ? ) ...
~
( suddenly all’s fine ) ( after this poem it’s out of the system )
…
why are we here? writing these poems? we could be playing golf hitting those balls yeah - watch out & fore into those bunkered holes with our golf clubs our special golf chums we're all so golfly dressed retired planners retired c.i.d a dodgy sweatered mess ...
~
cautionary ambles ( some lines of the year’s scrapz )
…
never trust a thin chef
never trust a clean rat
never trust those clear skies
never trust those fat cats
never trust a drunk monk
never trust a seesaw
never trust those goblins
never trust those detours
never trust all sonnets
never trust an m.p
never trust a flatfish
never trust the gentry
never trust a kelpie
gift horse fare - gobshite rhymes
never trust this word stuff
keep wary at all times
...
~
all the famous people will soon … ( a brief observation poeticalz )
…
dont blame benylin or
the tabloid press
all the famous people
shall soon be dead
don't blame calpol,old age,
badgers or stress
god's having a cull
off
with all their heads
...
~
( repetition is the key )
…
repetition is the key repetition is the key repetition is the key ( et cetera ) ...
~
( she tried ) by 8 lines of fuck it, oh wells …
…
mother used to tell me
never pen a poem
all poems are wicked
they're bad for our health
tie up your shoelaces
& don't talk to strange men
i am now a strange man
i talk to myself
...
~
bits of this poem ( some brief list-truths )
…
bits of this poem
have been scribble-scrawled before
~
skiving in a cable car
during the war,
hiding from a poltergeist
halfway up mam tor,
dreaming in an airing cupboard
breathing through a straw
_
it never goes anywhere
...
~
what the fog … ? ( a foggy poem-read )
…
the views have vanished here today here has no distance just this grey i saw the flying dutchman sail in silhouette form down yon vale along yon river with this chill surrounded by a lack of hills oh has my mind as focus gone? oh what the fog is going on? ...
~
opening other people’s post ( by 64 syllable read )
…
opening other people's post
the old tenants - the many ghosts
that have since fled - some new address
such strange names on those envelopes
there may be gifts - a ten pound note
from uncle fuss & auntie dote
or a death threat ( you're effing next )
so far just shit
we live in hope
...
resarf poetry 