…
the whether turns again
upon a silver sixpence
the late bus is early
like a worm catching birds
the early bus is late
like a dead dead fellow
the trains run like honey
sticky but sweet
a pigeon never shats
on your lucky hat
a crackpot maverick
reinvents the shell suit
two fat ladies
blow it all on bingo
the moon is on mute
so we read the subtitles
the sun shines my shoes
in between sleeps
& writes you a poem
on a postage stamp’s back
…
…
no more a roaming
with imaginary maps
until next wednesday
…
…
o h, this ghoul spool
once upon the turning
c obweb sandwiches
constipated poets
t oadstool legs
toffee apple tosspots
o peratic winds wail
open-source sorcery
b at soup cans
baked bean gasses
e very badger’s rabid
elfin woodland beckons
r oses wither so
re this eventide
i t’s fast falling
in between summers
s ing like a nightingale
sip stormy tea
h ope is a swan
hocus-pocus on
…
…
~
” 99% of smokers still die “
( mark e. smith )
…
thy orthopaedic shoes
see you in loopholes
spin another sixpence
if the morning’s lost her hymn
six bullfinches
plus a wooden wood pigeon
october’s maypole
aspic wobbles
gay between the gorse
on the heathland’s scatters
if november eggs us on
so the curate is a swan
or a rabid badger
dancing like a twat
…
( author notes )
that’s a dummy / plastic horse
in that winch
they were hanging
from an outstretched fire engine
at a country show
so no actual horses were harmed
in the making of this poem
…
…
shave both elbows
buy more sea salt
text sir bedivere
email kek
re-invent the coal shed
cat not fed
out-weird the curate
a week next saturday
dye arse beard
wet paint
dog loose in garden
dinner’s in the oven
put bins out
milked both goats
gone fishing forever
( as seen on post-it notes )
…
…
it could chuck buckets soon
the moon is in the garden
she never learnt her lines
your underpants are back to front
while the dawn is snoring
…
…
hashtag stags
& haberdasheries
big up the microbes
that grow up your nose
desmond in a tutu
from swan lake university
ray d. ographer
the pygmy shrew massive
nice one the moon
& mister kipling’s tart
@ the heart of england
looking for a beach
shout out to the deaf
they might just hear you whisper
the tartan paint is peeling
on your chocolate teapot
…
…
atilla, atilla
the dreaded honey monster
with his honey monster hordes
swept through these lands
from sweet wheaten steppes
in the distant east
bringing e-numbers & death
& hyperactive yoofs
so old king quaker fled
& took his oats with him
in the age of sugar puffs
until the forces of
the rice krispies triumvirate
of snap, crackle & pop
of the kellogs dynasty
fed in from the west
so on this very spot
a bloody great battle
was fought with spoons – not swords
in this very bowl
until the cow mooed
then the milkman drowned them all
back in breakfast times
…
…
wake up & smell the
mother flippin’ coffee you
blummin’ pillock you
…
…
enter the readers
eating pickled eggs
in cheap tweed
or turquoise shell suits
glue sniffing them
probably all cousins
maybe half a dozen
on a good day’s stretch
they of cheddar breath
& barrow boy barnets
keen taxidermists
& amateur phrenologists
joy rides in milk floats
bicycle spokes
worn like badges
on the fronts of their berets
…
( author notes )
i’ve been away for a few weeks
in the south of england
& the west country too
& it’s all kicked off in the meantime
you must know what i mean
the age old conflict
has reared its ugly head again
& people have been losing their ess
online & at the many protests
throughout the world
as the media insists we may be
on the brink of world war 3
– you know what i’m talking about
but whose side am i on?
everyone has to pick a team
so what is it to be?
heinz tomato ketchup
or h.p brown sauce?
& the answer is both
plus own-brand brown sauces
& daddies ketchup
plus salad cream
mustard, mayonnaise
gravy, chutney & jam
the more condiments – the better
i refuse
to lose my mind over this
so i ignore this divisive pantomime
& carry on
writing bollocks
( amen )
…
resarf poetry 