Author: resarfpoetry

resarfpoetryhttps://resarfpoetry.wordpress.com
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upon a sodden morning plod

…

another daze on muddle earth
around the sound of browning turf
another death, another birth
a beetle’s back, a heaving clod

the eventide, the onion’s skin
a ghost within a stroking chin
the see y’ then in let’s begin
the splash is back, the path is trod

a green retreat, the gist of so
a smoker stubs his little toe
the roar is but the river’s flow
& strucken like a lightning rod

the day’s awash – a roaming sea
a badger in a bladder’s scree
is wazzing on the ash’s tree
& sinking with a winking nod

the breezes wheeze the cheese’s chalk
& ponder as the corvids squawk
the bend is yet another fork
an odyssey in socks of odd

a scattering of chatter’s brain
a bucket load o’ soaking rain
& fuck it’s pissing on again
upon a sodden morning plod

…

puddles

…

episodic ponds
shrinking beneath the sun’s beams
as above’s below

a fish for a gnome
a lake for water boatman
a sea for a flea

why the umbra turned
a darker shade of gloomy
over bill’s mothers

the shape of what was
the then of when the sky wept
the spillage is this

piddle of the gods
offspring of the isobars
liquid cats & dogs

the aftershaft’s splash
silver under blooming blue
splosh in green wellies

…

let’s

…

let’s write a poem
& bore them all rigid

let’s sing a song
in the key of skeleton major

let’s catch a bus
or a hypersonic tram

let’s collect stamps
from stampeding wildebeest

let’s swim with dolphins
– narwhals & krakens

let’s ride an old bike
– a penny farthing or katie price

let’s paint a scene
an acrylic photograph

let’s eat noodle soup
& stain the linen tablecloth

let’s plant bulbs
( daffodil & halogen )

let’s go window shopping
& buy a wooden sash

let’s walk the moors
& plod beneath the grey

let’s pretend it’s tomorrow
we haven’t got all day

…

night quiz

…

but can the foxes foxtrot

– perhaps a raunchy rumba?

      & is the blue moon stilton

      – cambazola or buxton?

do barn owls barn dance too

& sometimes roost in sheds?

      & if so – are they barn owls

      or “shed owls” then instead?

why’s the sun invisible?

where the eff’s it gone?

      do the dead snore?

      do birds dream they’re human?

do shooting stars shoot blanks?

how do those vampires shave

      – as mirrors won’t do shit?

      are ghosts afraid of us

– the quizzical insomniacs

who amble, stroking chins?

      how do bats fly upright?

      is the plough a question mark?

– what is the question?

wonders the sky out loud

      sounding off again

      – belt it up, orion

…

the war in france

…

the war in france, the secret war
is shushy-shush – so say no more

it must be grim for all of those
albanians to flee in droves

the frightened men of fighting age
that flee what’s left of death’s rampage

it’s terrible – what can we do
as paris burns & lyon too?

i’ll wave a flag – so all can see
the bravery in humble me

the stunningness in little i
who shall become a butterfly

i’ll jab the kids & wear a frock
i’ll buy some tits but keep me cock

& bend the knee for all who come
the ones that flee the beating drum

of racist climate change’s blitz
they’ll stay forever in the ritz

the dorchester & council flats
throughout this land of bowler hats

of sausage rolls & banging pots
they’ll live with us – we’ll have the lot

beside the thames, the trent, the tyne
or in your house but not ’round mine

…

just about everyone

…

antediluvian
& uncle atlantis

sister cistern
overflowing

father than you think
or a country mile

mother flutter
– moths or butterflies

brother blubber
then green bottles

hang like a bat nap
on the garden walrus

son on the horizon
bishop & away

daughters all & waterfalls
twilight cousins

doctor photographs
professor profess

captain whistle
sergeant owardness

missus the target
& mister riverbank

all organic
non-conformists

…

better out than ( dot-dot-dot )

” mmm danone “

( the danone marketing department )

…

a greeny green frog
from the bog within y’ throat
it’s so y’don’t croak

trumpets sound a pound
pushing out another log
shat upon the bog

you’re the squawking fog
i’m the cunt in countryside
farting far & wide

speaking with a creak
turns the key of either or
guffaw is a door

you of misted dew
rascal of the astral’s plain
chasing gravy’s train

as waz of the gods
soaks the odds ‘n’ sods of i
pissing from the sky

…

thieving gits

“a flower?”

( peter gabriel )

…

magpies steal moonbeams
& glossy magazines

coins from open pockets
– there goes y’ bus fare

diamonds in heists
with stockings on their noggins

lighthouse keepers
– bald as a featherless coot

who walk without a hat
beneath the midday sun

orange essex girls
with their oompa loompa tans

& the glowing temples
of their croydon facelifts

body builders posing
drenched in baby oil

dragged up by their ankles
to a roost in the sky

plus the little metal dish
of a mister kipling pie

or crowns from the bonces
of royal queens & kings

foil from the smack’eads
– yes, all the shiny things

…

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