~
s u n d a y e d ( d e y a d n u s )
…
sleep beyond the cockerel’s crow
up before tomorrow
note the absent postman then
dawdle in a sodden wood
a rummage in the attic’s loft
yawn another cornerstone
embers toasting supper’s crumpets
don’t forget to remember
…
~
dates ( setad )
…
zahidi the fifteenth
the eighty fourth of neglet nor
jujube tuesday
medjool the twenty seventh
…
~
the things we hear ( raeh ew sgniht eht )
…
bamboo shoots
up like rhubarb
lost flock baa’s
garden gnomes & statues
singing filthy hymns
static on the radio
laughter in the loft
fates down the bingo
playing for a full house
fishwives wittering
pssst, kung pao
plughole gurgles
faces in the clouds
sneezing on the ground
lapwings or peewits
kettles whistle winds
telephones knelling
like a funerary bellend
fried egg crackle’s
like cladding on a new build
come mid-june
when the scarecrows are swearing
trudging on snow
so the planets realign
twats banging pots
wasps indoors
sunny days in dark socks
– fuckin’ alarm clocks
…
~
boris johnson poem ( meop nosnhoj sirob )
…
boris johnson
speaks fluent venusian
& martian
with a jupiter accent
boris johnson
cannot fly
like a buzzard
or an elephant hawk moth
boris johnson
piddles on the thames
from the middle
of westminster bridge
boris johnson
is blatantly a member
but not
of the sealed knot society
boris johnson
cannot play
the english horn
or cor anglais
boris johnson
licks the chins
of weasels & squirrels
for spiritual reasons
…
( author notes )
i don’t like any politician
i think they’re all wankers
this is just me being silly
…
~
doctor harold shipman’s lonely hearts club band ( dnab bulc straeh ylenol s’nampihs dlorah rotcod )
…
best before august
sixteen forty four
friends of the bend
in the fork on the lane
rain between sleet
come a quarter to three
chequered like chess
west in a vest
east up a tree
alder or rowan
i’m in the attic
laughing with the cobwebs
whence is it spring?
when the soil uncoils
crocus not locust
feasts for the eyelets
fly, little owl
tawny or barn
glow with the flow
bark in the darkness
written by ghosts
( inklings of squid )
god is a parsnip
she is a plum
…
~
i like to haiku ( ukiah ot ekil i )
…
some knit for britain
winter woollens, bobble hats
mittens, scarves & gloves
or twitch the curtains
watching out for owls & larks
burglars & doves
some up the rovers
ginger beers & way the lads
of a saturday
or cheer united
albion or team f.c
– oh, the games they play
some spot the spotters
spotting trains, the trams & planes
noting noting folk
numbered & jotted
anorak the anoraks
– no, it’s not a joke
hornets for courses
jumbles bee in mumble me
buzzing like a hive
i like to haiku
seven in the middle then
one, two, three, four, five
…
~
the things we see ( ees ew gniht eht )
…
clutter in the clouds
& a thousand frowning faces
badgers on the run
from a wanker with a gun
evening’s sinking songs
& a silent poltergeist
bluish shooting stars
& the speckled red of mars
spawning yawns of dawn
of a watercolour morning
finches still unflinching
like a stare-off with a mirror
pairs of great white egrets
in the doldrums of december
puddles within potholes
& a plot hole in a novel
the normies in their normalzzz world
the n.p.c’s / meat
little village busy-zees
watch the flesh-bots scurry
time as tealights flickered
with the whispers in the mist
shadows in the dark
& a golden host of snarks
…
~
wanker ants ( stna reknaw )
…
workers, drones & queens
as above & so below
cities underground
people become thee
looking down from moors & tors
hurry, little men
builders of the hills
flying high in summer skies
snacks for passing birds
destroyers of dams
toilers of the forest floor
soldiers on six legs
dead but yet – alive
barmy army carpenters
dancing in my pants
see the insects prance
sugar whores within me drawers
it’s the wanker ants
…
~
chanting back ( kcab gnitnahc )
…
lads the for
out tits your
get
…
~
why no poem? ( ?meop on yhw )
…
pardon this parsnip
the moon was too moon
dawn snoozed ’til noon
with birdsong on mute
black clouds gathered
but pissed on other poets
aliens invaded
but no one really noticed
too busy watching
goblins morris dancing
feathers fell elsewhere
wolves were never there
daimons were dozing
my muses alluded
thalia tailspinned
calliope croaked
erato farted
& stank out the outhouse
ink let me dow
pens kept running ou
…
resarf poetry 