…
pouches of air
where we keep our keys
in the land of jangles
as we plod along songs
almost tambourines
rhythm in our jeans
sewn on three sides
stitched up like a kipper
folded like space-time
a universe within – with
a scrumpled notebook
perhaps a snotty tissue
a fifty p piece
with the dead queen’s head
a leaky fountain pen
– polo mints for ponies
& friendly rocking horses
the ones that don’t bite
or our hands when nippy
( poor man’s gloves )
shudder on our way
charting parts unknown
in our tool cagoules
& our wanker anoraks
…
resarf poetry 