~
a park in the walk ( a poemtrys for thee ( z ) )
…
then write with your hands let ink meet paper breathe on your bowls green be the creator blow soapy bubbles scratch irksome mishaps dangle those fangles wiggle those knick-knacks in roundabout ways teeter on seesaws polish them word-turds endorse all detours a park in the walk brass your own bandstand think of the swinged things then write with your hands ...
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the gravity is not the same ( a poetry – thank you )
…
the gravity
is not the same
on earth - the time
here seasons change
quite strangely so
all movement's fucked
aside from the
grey heron's strut
all bats aren't gay
hot sun don't blink
most shit aint blue
those apemen stink
plus whales aint quails
this place is odd
i miss my home
planet of zog
...
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chuckle my shoe ( a little tribute )
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one, two chuckle my shoe three, four whatever for? five, six shoe hysterics seven, eight my blank straight face nine, ten shoe - share the joke then ( ? ) ... ( author notes ) buckle my shoe one, two buckle my shoe three, four shut the door five, six pick up sticks seven, eight lay them straight nine, ten a big, fat hen ... ( english trad-anon )
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why do psychics adverise … ? ( a brief query )
…
oh why do psychics advertise?
it should all be done with their minds
then we'd just know - thoughts harmonise
a siren song from their third eyes
...
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weasels keep on popping
…
yes weasels keep on popping exploding out-the-blue yet no one really knows why for some reason they do we've tried blaming the weather each other & ourselves acts of god or 'terrorists' but that shit never helps the science folk are puzzled they'd answer if they could the governments says keep calm but stay away from woods one blast could rip an ear-off or kill you if you're old thems old trad rhymes - they know why pop goes the weasel ( that's us told ) ...
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money thoughts ( a brief poetical discharge )
…
if i think of money
then i think of greed
divisions - divide & rule
struggles - suppressed mouths to feed
spineless wanker bankers
bullshit, death & woe
offer us a fiver though
chances are i won't say no
...
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still egg ( a brief ponder-thing )
…
this poem is still egg
until out pecks a head
i shall incubate it so
gently sit on this egg
upon a thorny branch
in my metaphored nest
in the bewildered forest
guests - please excuse the mess
...
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you’re history ( a brief poetical non-paradigm ( essay fragment ) )
…
your viking moods your saxon cross your maypoled frame & obby oss your gramophone y'old pants in ants glass-mad like charles the sixth of france your roman nose with ears to match the nose you pict your adolf tache your warts & all they tortured me sweet dungeoned dear you're history ...
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no one in particular ( 9 lines o’ rhyme )
…
it's easy as we are no one we're no one in particular no fiddler or cricketer or sacred cow of literature the streets are free to wander down no fans asking for signatures as fame is not our prisoner we're no one in particular ...
resarf poetry 