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the grey list

…

clouds that look like hounds

chasing mountain hares

fog in concrete areas

urban mist & myths

mizzle’s sheet

retired red squirrels

elephantine smoke

geriatric ebens

mosty the morning sky

certain wagtails

patches or parrots

storms in the earl’s tea

spinsters in attics

combing their nasal hair

where there’s only vagueness

stone statues

of long dead poets

in all their faded eminence

mainly snooker balls

on a black & white telly

senior wolves

the shades of sunday’s soul

ghosts of old codgers

monochrome rainbows

the man on the moon’s pubes

…

exit the poets

…

exit the poets
singing like magpies

& combing the hair that
grows from where their earlobes

enters their heads
in pinstriped plaid

or storm trooper casual
because they bloody can

those cobweb cats
with syntax wings

here once & yet
on elsewhere’s road

they fade this out
cloudburst haircuts

trolling horizons
strolling forth – of course

…

re last thursday afternoon

…

why did the traffic jam

      like pitted damsons

air-con off

      so we felt swindled

how come the sun

      never flared up?

good walk though

      over the big hill

toasted tea cakes

      mustn’t effing grumble

a ten pound note

      against the gushing rain

the matron’s face

      these things still linger

like a headless horseman’s

      horse’s hoof prints

on fresh snow

      where earlobes tingle

once we stood

     at a temporary bus stop

a flask of turnip soup

      left at the traffic lights

three brown hares

      always a pleasure

the troubadour in town

     fined without a license

home & up the tree house

      later in the coal shed

drawing games of scrabble

     a pan fried rainbow trout

why did a meteor

      not wipe us all out?

…

poetess ess

…

speak to me in purple
prosaic prozac
of the twinkled kisses
from the sun – no less

all the lovely flowers
cotton something clouds
settle meadow bedlam
such a fluttered mess

butterflies & sweeties
nice shite – et cetera
godesses but no gods
unless they wear a dress

come vomit rainbows
paint another blandscape
in between hot flushes
poetess ess

…

then in ten whens

…

the whether turns again
upon a silver sixpence

the late bus is early
like a worm catching birds

the early bus is late
like a dead dead fellow

the trains run like honey
sticky but sweet

a pigeon never shats
on your lucky hat

a crackpot maverick
reinvents the shell suit

two fat ladies
blow it all on bingo

the moon is on mute
so we read the subtitles

the sun shines my shoes
in between sleeps

& writes you a poem
on a postage stamp’s back

…

o c t o b e r i s h

…

o h, this ghoul spool
once upon the turning
c obweb sandwiches
constipated poets
t oadstool legs
toffee apple tosspots
o peratic winds wail
open-source sorcery
b at soup cans
baked bean gasses
e very badger’s rabid
elfin woodland beckons
r oses wither so
re this eventide
i t’s fast falling
in between summers
s ing like a nightingale
sip stormy tea
h ope is a swan
hocus-pocus on

…

seven sings

…

~

” 99% of smokers still die “

( mark e. smith )

…

thy orthopaedic shoes
see you in loopholes

spin another sixpence
if the morning’s lost her hymn

six bullfinches
plus a wooden wood pigeon

october’s maypole
aspic wobbles

gay between the gorse
on the heathland’s scatters

if november eggs us on
so the curate is a swan

or a rabid badger
dancing like a twat

…

( author notes )

that’s a dummy / plastic horse
in that winch

they were hanging
from an outstretched fire engine
at a country show

so no actual horses were harmed
in the making of this poem

…