photography

august or bust

…

august or bust
the mugwart is calling

hello from the hedgerows
the blackberries beckon

a jigsaw above us
in herringbone pieces

the stone in your trainers
is fit for a peach

the morn’ is a muddle
the even’ tiptoes

the nettles still sting though
– yes, it’s one o’ those

so august or bust
octavian’s ghost

is prodding with twigs
& canes from the bean frame

…

a great acrostic …

…

b isto gravy granules, bat boxes, busybodies

r ed brick polytechnics, riddles, roast parsnips

i roning boards, ivy, iron age hill forts

t owpaths, toad-in-the-hole, trainspotters in anoraks

a nother lute solo, am-dram, apple pips

n ightmarish hellhounds, n.h.s death cults

n ob’eads, nettles, numpties – nonces on t.v

i tching powder tricksters, idiots in parliament

a valon, a bus fare home, a twat on the throne

…

in this still

…

hummingbirds glide by
with not a hum between ’em

butterflies becoming
their moth-like alter egos

green goes blacker
on this gland of hope & glory

fields fade a shade
of bugger off to bedfordshire

normies snore
like a corpse in a deep freeze

busybodies stop
waving their latest flag – or banner

even poets pause
& scratch their hairy bollocks

shepherds were delighted
at the redness in the heavens

…

( author notes )

& apparently – catalytic converter theft
is on the rise again

due to the lure
of their so-called  – precious metals

i’ve not got ’round
to writing a poem about it yet

but stay vigilant everyone
– together we can beat this

…

all’s well that wells all

…

snippets in between
england’s rolling green

strolling like the skies
spreading butterflies

buttercups & buts
squirrels scratching nuts

tangles up ahead
brambles scratch the stead

why the where in whats
dash before the dots

splashing on the brain
static crackle rain

firmaments confirm
what we’ll never learn

floating like a ghost
letters in the post

pillared be the bark
of thy woodland – hark

owlets howl away
night becoming day

jam upon your lips
sticky fingertips

snippets in between
england’s rolling green

…

yet more bird news

…

hawks are on the rise

      since hawks were reclassified

as any creature

      with feathers & a beak

rising from the ashes

      like a hawk from the flames

as all the hawks quack

      by the blanks of the river

yet one hawk

      does not a summer make

& we can’t resist the smell

      of tandoori hawk masala

since the twitchers turned

      those ornithologists

shunned taxonomy

      & got rid of the goalposts

– look, there goes a hawk

      black & squawking so

up above the hedgerow

      formerly a crow

but no, another hawk

      r.s.p.b that ( y’ twat )

& a hawk sang

      in that there berekely square

…

a different breakfast

…

a bowl of cornflakes

again but instead of milk

– milk of magnesia

…

( author notes )

june is pride month
as i’m sure we all can’t help
but ‘effing notice

so i’d like to take this opportunity
to announce to the world
that i too am a trans

but i’m not a transgender
like a chap in a dress
or a gimp in a crèche
tossing off the curate

– no,
i’m trans-star sign instead
or more precisely
i’m a pisces born in a gemini’s body

i’ve always known i was trans-star sign
ever since i was a sprat
come the 27th of february
i’d hurry downstairs
expecting gifts & a chocolate cake
but nothing
for three whole months
until the 27th of may
because of science, time & societal norms

this was deeply hurtful
& designed to destroy my true self
but the those fascist bigots failed
big time
& although i despise all clichès
i really do feel that the tide is turning

yes, acceptance is only one
well-funded quango away
& soon my kind will have their own stripe
on the magic rainbow flag too

& hopefully some sort of operation
perhaps some artificial gills
or scales on my skin
possibly from some sort of
experimental booster shot
free on the n.h.s
( we all need more of them )

so long live pride
& respect my beautiful bravery
or else

thank you for love & understanding

( amen )

…

build back butter

…

settle in the dusk

with your ears still ringing

      yesterday’s fingers sweat

      clutching pheasant feathers

far below the window

lies another sky

      high above the sun

      is a secret for the ages

pages after pages

abramelin’s mages

      missus porter’s daughter

      is pimped on the dark web

mister kipling’s missus

left him for the milkman

      at the second right

      turn left again

part the wave’s functions

like the centre parting

      which is gently combed

      on the palms of your hands

scatter like the flight

of a herringbone sunset

      barking up the bark

      of a dogwood’s trunk

…