photography

poetical scapegoats

…

poetry stole my last rolo
& gave my cousin, clarabel
athlete’s foot

poetry became the winter wind
& frisked six nuns
standing at the bus stop

poetry shat
on the bishop’s mitre hat
when hiding in the guise of a pigeon

poetry pissed on doctor foster
rained all morning
& smoked all the catnip

poetry burnt down the scout hut too
back in twenty twelve
but was never found out

poetry dead-legged
farmer arthur-martha
then misgendered their cockerel

poetry did not shoot the sheriff
it was pfizer in his left arm
moderna in his right

but poetry drank all the vimto
& gave your great-aunt doris
crabs & lice – twice

…

the death of a morris dancer

…

the death of a morris dancer
well it happens a lot around beltane

& if you think haylage is the same as hay
that goes to show
how little you know

the death of a morris dancer
the bellend got carried away

one in four goatherds
marries a goblin
i’d rather not get involved

cloudy lemonade & a ploughman’s lunch
cloudy lemonade & a ploughman’s lunch
oh, ta very much
very much, very much, very much
but maybe when the cows come home
maybe when the cows come home

( oh )

cloudy lemonade & a ploughman’s lunch
cloudy lemonade & a ploughman’s lunch
oh, ta very much
very much, very much, very much
but maybe when the cows come home
maybe when the cows come home

when the cows come home
when the cows come home
when the cows come home

( etc. )

the death of a morris dancer
the death of a morris dancer
the death of a morris dancer
the death of a morris dancer

…

( xxvii )

…

swans on a wander
once upon a tongue

twist in the river’s mist
this is not a shopping list

songs beyond the fade
out & about turn

facing reflections
rippled puddle water

then of a plodness
when december’s embers

gloam like a ghost
float awhile in limbo land

standing where the two
full rivers converge

a pebble in your shoe
& a leftover sandwich

…

re last boxing day

…

caught the morning sunshine
hide behind a duvet

wore a pair of rudolph socks
sought the grail again

heard a jackdaw overhead
cackle like sid james

plodding on the heathland
as the gorses glowed

golden like a ratio
like a sandwich filling

stilton & cold stuffing
with a thud of english mustard

defended rorke’s drift
then thwarted ming the merciless

drank flat lemonade
slept on the sofa bed

…

the western wind’s a friend

…

upon this avalon
the winsome hinges squeak
the tide is in between
the novels plot is penned

the green is parakeet
a village in a town
if music is the glue
a dipstick dividend

a penguin for your thoughts
a scatter cushion breeze
the whispering is loud
& sounding ’round the bend

a turnip for the books
the prickles on each pear
a crumbled apple pi
a typo on the mendd

a poem in the mud
a fork for all the spoons
the road’s an open page
the moon’s a blooming blend

the nosedive in your eyes
a door before each day
the eastern sun’s a nun
the western wind’s a friend

the greyness in the gold
the chirrup syrups so
a chattering of ink
beginning when things end

…

the fully clothed streaker

…


the fully-clothed streaker
wore a sandy hoodie
baggy like a yesteryear
underneath a blue tu coat
but so low it overlapped
t-shirt first though
layer under-over layer
so many layers
baggy black tracky b’s
two boxers below
even grey woollen gloves
( five squid from matalan )
odd socks as always
white trainers from shoezone
( formerly bacons )
plus a green sheepy hat
so only the face
was truly exposed
to the frosty winds of truth
but the little village botlings
still saw flesh
fabric became skin
in the squint of the night
dim from a distance
a striptease with no strip – or tease
( should have gone to specsavers )

…