Author: resarfpoetry

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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

x

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

…

if you were a bus

if you were a bus

i’d sit on your back seat

& rest my weary arse cheeks

but i’d rather you sat on me

i’d gaze out of your window

in between crossword clues

& see the town vanish

the grey becoming green

it’s leafier each blink

as blue rinsed biddies natter

on what to have for tea

& who should win strictly

i’d ride within your frame

& test your braking speed

the tyres & suspension

like a proper fuckin’ wrong’un

who should be on a register

& tagged for good measure

we would sweat in august

but warm a dark december

on the long road home

in the evening’s golden gloam

& then i’d ring your bell

when our stop approaches

…

( some call ’em pockets )

…

pouches of air
where we keep our keys

in the land of jangles
as we plod along songs

almost tambourines
rhythm in our jeans

sewn on three sides
stitched up like a kipper

folded like space-time
a universe within – with

a scrumpled notebook
perhaps a snotty tissue

a fifty p piece
with the dead queen’s head

a leaky fountain pen
– polo mints for ponies

& friendly rocking horses
the ones that don’t bite

or our hands when nippy
( poor man’s gloves )

shudder on our way
charting parts unknown

in our tool cagoules
& our wanker anoraks

…

winter calling

after all the conkers fell

in the dingles of the dell

then the squirrels ran away

snuggled up within their drey

see the branches bearing all

like a painter strips a wall

while the sunken sun is bright

in between the frozen night’s

frosted fingers frisking us

in the absence of a buzz

from a single bumblebee

or a butterfly t’see

autumn’s glory left alone

crackles on the telephone

winter calling – there’s the twat

grab some gloves ‘n’ wear a hat

…