Poetry

reassembled missives

…


ten o’clock next tuesday
needs more oddness
blue stilton cheese
the battle of edge hill
glowing through the motions
bring a step ladder
henry the sixth sense
cypher like caesar
wedenesday, three a.m
don’t forget the postcode
– listicle or bust

…

sun hat saturday

…


sun hat saturday
ring us in the morning then
when the grey turns gold

…

( author notes )

thanks to anyone that reads these silly, tongue-in-cheek poems. i’ve lost quite a few subscribers recently – but we crack on when we can. off to work now, have a good one

we four

…

we, the mutant few
genetic blips-r-us

the early birdsong
fortuna’s mood swings

& other such factors
beyond the machina

for this phantos
& their experiments

~

we, a windswept meadow
the autumn in retreat

a woodland hermitage
so muddy green trousers

growling back at clouds
& the normalz folk

in their sadness town
beyond that plod

~

we, the speaking bones
up shit creaking tones

but no paddle
all wax & no saddle

perhaps a missive stuck
a post-it-note memo

god save the parsnip
turnip lives matter

~

we, the letters writ
to messrs nobody

the footpath much less
trodden is the tonic

as the hedgehogs fly
at supersonic speed

& a tin with nothing in
is the musical glue

…

the twelve days of poemas

…

twelve sonnets mincing
eleven odes exploding
ten villanelle-ends
nine bored fishwives carping
eight angry students howl
seven d.e.i hires
six in the audience
five gold bus passes
four limericks – or bust
three rhyming couplets ( somehow )
two epics yawn
& a haiku stuck up my arse

…

bellend freestyle

…

deeper than sleep
the rearranged pages
she cums in stages
the episodic sod
from the god of all odd
when steam rises
like a sylphid ghost
as alfred burns the toast
& catherine rides her horse
historically – of course
the roots lead to the source

…

a mess in eleven

…

your pillow smells of cornflakes
the phone book’s in the fridge
the radio is only
the crackles in between
as your border collie purrs
on her kennel, on the roof
oh, some say that the proof
is in the stodgy afters – but
your crumble tastes of sunday
& at least your attic’s warm
& the bog flushes itself

…

string theory

…


if this very ball of string
in your actual hands
factual t’ speak
not so to oblique
like some kind of ghost
was any longer than
it’s full, unravelled length
stretched in extremis
it would reach the town
before those pesky metaphors
& we’d run out of poem

…