Poems

the things we hear

~

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

~

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

~

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

~

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

~

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

~

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

…

why no poem?

~

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

…

the things we say

~

the things we say ( yas ew sgniht eht )

…

with buttered toast & tea

but rain by five to sixish

the stormy dark was night

another summer daze

a song before the war

a pebble in your espadrille

a single into town

the library’s still open

& bubblewrap is back

so buy the wife a nightie

yet easter’s late again

it’s just a quid in poundland

i saw him glow this morn

a pheasant & an omen

the rumour mill’s abuzz

with fifty thousand parsnips

it makes the gloom look bigger

so keep the bloody shrapnel

a partridge in a peach tree

she bangs the belgian bongos

…