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the self-portrait of a fruit bowl ( a p o e m & a t r u e t a l e )
…
the self-portrait of a fruit bowl those oranges, apples & pears with bananas to lend a hand & plenty of berries in there the self-portrait of a fruit bowl plus nuts thus we've not lost the plot they painted then when we were sleep but don't ask us who painted what ( ? ) ...
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ropy oak tree poetry ( s o m e r o p y v e r s e )
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ropy oak tree poetry the stuff all's heard before its leaves are just like similes its acorns - metaphors in some ways we're all oak trees with those seasons we grow yeah then there's roots - of course green shoots plus stormy winds can blow ropy oak tree poetry i'm strangely drawn to you magnetically with extra weird oh what else can i do? but pen a little plod to thee a piddle on me pad it's ropy oak tree poetry then somehow i feel glad ...
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feeding the ducks ( a s i x t e e n l i n e r e a d )
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feeding the ducks with stale bready crusts ducks never cluck yes ducks bring us luck chickens - they cluck as minstrels they pluck feeding the ducks no whirlpool here sucks stale bready crusts for ducks or their such camels with humps here waterfowl munch felled trees are stumped it's quarter past lunch grateful those ducks so quacks very much ...
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war isn’t art ( a p o e t r y o f )
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war isn't art
war has no muse
or dull journal
called war review
where is the grace
in bloody death?
shush war, don't waste
your bloody breath
in art at school
nobody died
our paint was red
so our insides
stayed safe within
then we sniffed glue
war isn't art
fuck you sun tzu
( dick'ead )
...
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the dog that’s me ( t w e l v e l i n e r e a d )
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the dog that's me barks up wrong trees my inner-dog my canine brain the cat that's me gets stuck up trees hiding from dogs & then it rains am i a tree? fuck knows - maybe is nan still dead? can wrong'uns change? i purr then pee so publicly this much blears clear yes, life is strange ...
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( eurovision looms again ) ( y e t m o r e i m p e n d i n g d o o m )
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diarrhoea sprays wild through the great british isles then all's incontinent on the continent ...
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lost lucky tin ( a p o e m i n p l a c e s )
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gobshite f.c i've lost me tin fucked for the cup the league as well me lucky tin with stuff within get on it yous oh fucking hell 'tis magic stuff that means we win now focus shrinks doom bloats - doom swells above black clouds are gathering as thirteen bells ring dead-tin-knells ( keep searching ) ...
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revoekam ( a t r e n d y p o e m )
…
brush your arse & wipe your teeth - yeah comb your ears then clean out your hair iron your nose then blow your clothes - godditt - ...
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short poems about nothing much ( a s h o r t p o e m a b o u t . . . )
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short poems about nothing much brief dither-wittles & their such short poems about bugger all more tea vicar? soz ( elsewhere calls ) ...
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all for equality but … ( s o m e s h i t e p o e t r y )
…
tall people
they're consuming room
far too much - they're blocking our views
face in clouds
so lost in themself
too selfish for
anyone else
tall people
oh why jesus why?
with their different heads in the sky
lanky twats
that has to be said
when i'm king it's
off with their legs
( x )
...
resarf poetry 