Poem

the fully clothed streaker

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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 )

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your new favourite poem

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the morning wore a fez
& everyone ate flapjack

perhaps the stars agree
& so the starlings crow

the robins didn’t peck
the archbishop’s fat balls

beginning when its spinning
upon this cosmic egg

a ripple in your journal
& colonel mustard’s gas

the gaps between each simile
a sea of silver darlings

a varnished table leg
a cappuccino sheen

the ghost of old november
her bugles & bassoons

remember this & glisten
the river in your ear

a disappearing here
the horn on each gazelle

electric jellied eels
she’ll never text you back

the evening burped too soon
a dirge in perfect purple

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another foggy poem

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fog, fog, fog

a piggy in the mizzle

         a misty grey fog

         is howling in silence

a true mime artiste

while the fog fogs on

         alone in this fog

         shiver like a whisper

facing faceless fog-folk

once upon the gone

         fog me rigid

         the fogless town is far

or seven yards by step

it’s gone fog o’clock

         & time’s in phantom form

         the fog don’t give a fog

muddy wellys trudge

but fog knows the way home

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upon unrumouring the village weasels

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born this waveform

no added chemicals

just an early birdbath

broken like the morning has

short of o ( oh? )

when the stars charted

things you aut’ to know

& other prosy codes

not the poxy spew

of the clatter in the bots

pissing like pots

them of munting bunting

headless like a king

singing wanker songs

dung-heap tongues

spinning dark yarns

shoo, you shimmerings

kiss my arsenic

these are the annals

of the handkerchiefs & flannels

rhyming with a pen

when the ink quenches

shining with a tealight

on your little shadow-shite

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shaky love

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i long to snow globe
& play with your maracas
ready coffee beans
& dry like a dog
up from the river

mister richter’s calling
rising like a vibraphone
e to f to g
going for a h
redefining music

soon we’ll tambourine
or wobble like a trifle
the custard & the jelly
or the moobs & belly
of jack horner senior

we, the leafen folk
will strawberry milk it
us two lamb tails
’til the die is cast
then the past laughs last

we’ll become the ground
a shaky love sound
unversed heathens
surfing the waveforms
’til the echoes go

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november is a nod

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a squirrel on the scribble’s scrub
a kipper in your smoking kiss
the bubble wrap is bursting back
it’s bobble hats & bastard that
the western wind’s a sod

the morning was a yawning monk
& skeletal’s the turning key
the cuckoo’s cloud is falling down
as jacobite’s the battered night
& haddock be thy cod

the carlists carp a ducking pond
the mutant tudors hula-hoop
the robin is a crested tit
a distant dwarfish starling shines
& time’s a fishing rod

a shiver under silver birch
a leafless cloak of english oak
a sort of snoring garden gnome
the sunken sun is trudging home
the pace is but a plod

a once upon a twisted twice
the wrinkles on your crinkled arse
the drool between each dribble’s feed
the spittle’s spool’s a bucking mule
november is a nod

beyond the swan’s a wanker’s song
if mistily is missing we
a badger pissing up a tree
& so the fucking poets crow
the road ahead is odd

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