…
d is for dunces
donuts & dipsticks
open the green door
let the spring sing
grin like a cheshire
cheesemonger’s moggy
only on the inside
under uncle cumulus
miles of piles above
dim mid-derbyshire
wit’s about turn
is marching further normalz
leaving us pillocks
speaking lamb’s lettuces
enter the bellend
the gone one in we
…
…
under yawning morning sun
comfortably spread
on the slated roof above the
buttery below – purrs
the marmalade cat
…
…
sheep invaded the pitch
play has been cancelled
so the goal is left wide open
like a whole in the fence
while the flock graze on
…
…
stranger than strange
mister vista’s jawline
it’s hairy over there
shrouded in cloud
the chinny chin chin
of some old god
or an otherling
maybe a monster?
depends who’s singing
we await your form
stroking hmmm anew
a moon for each sun
a soon in every though
blue dawn whispering
green death gleaming
whence in why ‘n’ there
wagtails wag
a brown hare legs it
let’s head west in vests
frogmen of the east
friends of phantom fog
…
…
morris men bailing out
parachutes & landing on
yesteryear’s merriments
enter the fayre
as their sunk plane explodes
with an orange plop
into the west’s horizon
so the foxgloves are off
let the bells knell then
let the barely legal
maidens weave
ribbons ’round a randy tree
let the ale keep it real
if the piss’eads insist
albion, the coffin dodger
is seventeen again
so this green & pheasant gland
de vere’s sceptred isle
mister blake’s jerusalem
is wistful like wisteria
while clematis climbs
like the ghostly smoke from
great auntie beltane’s
bonfire – the bardish
burks compose their verse
on greasy white chip paper
necking lukewarm cans of
dandelion & burdock
let anew resume
& a cuckoo calm us all
…
…
fergus in the ferns
frolics with francesca
furtively fumbles
…
…
scribbled sequentially
in a rusty cable car
halfway in between
the valley & the mountain
apart from verse six
which was borrowed from a dream
that your country cousin had
about your uncle’s chin
& verses one to five
which a gibbon improvised
on a dirty qwerty keyboard
from the centuries turn
then verse seven was flinched
verbatim from the back
of a pack of pork scratchings
in nineteen ninety two
then the rest just appeared
on the back doorstep
one frostless morrow
with love from trad-anon
so none at all hails
from my hinterland’s shores
but the english pigeons flinched
the phoenician alphabet
…
…
as a roundhead infantryman
hamming in the ranks
of the civil war department
in the sealed knot society
– i can relate
…
…
mozart went to mow
went to mow a meadow
on the moon
…
…
as a nobel prize
winning cryogenicist
– i expected more
…
resarf poetry 