Art

humans are disgusting

…

humans are disgusting
they’ve only got one head
& testicles – but no tentacles
so they can’t be that good in bed

their blood is red
instead of green
they have no anus inbetween
their nostrils unlike
me & you
plus all their pooh is brown
not blue

those humans, eww
i shudder when
i think of little biped them

they cannot spread
beyond their sphere
we’ll wipe them out
their end is near

…

sweet foxtrot alpha

…

since the clear vision year
sweet foxtrot alpha

has bean the samian
wearing odd socks

once faith foghorned
before the nappy faces

from my apple pips
to my fellow mango

but then saucer
with my plasma eyes

that moist folk
were frightened androids

shooting up ghosts
sputum software

& the twaddle is a twat
in a fucking wanker hat

…

spotted at the bird table

…

two fat robins

gorging on me fat balls

a dunnet – not a sparrow

a jackdaw – not a crow

a lady blackbird

( so brown instead )

an old red squirrel

( since gone grey )

an origami crane

that blew in on some breeze

a harvest mouse

from the field beyond the hedge

seventeen snarks

& the scarlet pimpernel

mothman once

& the spanish inquisition

green parakeets

( spreading from the south-east )

& your missus

munching on me nuts

…

technically speaking

…

it’s a sort of story

but it’s not a story

– it’s a poem

it’s a branch of song

but it’s not a song

– it’s a poem

it’s a type of list

but it’s not a list

– it’s a poem

it’s a class of diary

but it’s not a diary

– it’s a poem

it’s a kinda magic ( magic, magic )

but it’s not magic

– it’s a poem ( soz freddie )

it’s a form of poem

but it’s not a poem

– it’s a poem

( goddit… ? )

…

a kick up the candlemas

…

stroll beyond the doldrums

with a springy step

      ladder as the adders stir

      mugs of cup-a-soup

cock-a-hoop’s an oversell

but the day is butterballs

      either or a creaking door

      breathing in the shapes

shifting after shivering

dogs become cats

      catkins purring

      in the morning wood

if proper poets could

gather up these scatters

      should the thicket throb

      with extra gorse – of course

as pampas grass swings

in a gimpy breeze

      – more tea vicar?

      so the crocus croak

february is feathery

in the second’s pastures

      presently the hills & plains

    sunbeams & tractors

…

( my true love is a munter )

…

the furrows that you plough
above the frowning sight
of your siamese eyebrow

singular it sits
above your eyepatch
& your left red stare

a snorting snout
& a marmite brown mouth
– actual cauliflowers

as your ears
so hope disappears
yet the rest endears

a crotch so fishy
that even andrew windsor
would sweat

the traces of soup
upon the handlebars
of your lady moustache

& a bosom so south
that penguins nest
on your nipples

the hair on your palms
– on your lovely lady arms
& arse

– phwoar

…