Poetry

mid-jan man

…

baroque in a frock
the devil’s chord calls

clammy jazz hands
on the brow & forehead

rafting on the rafters
mizzle in your underpants

milk ‘tache mishaps
gaps between each gasping

catching the drift
of a woodland in slumber

perhaps the bishop lied
& monday is our oyster

a postcard in the post
from the younger dryas

the morning was a hag
& darkness was her nostrils

the clouds still growl
if we try to feed them fudge

u-boats & u-bends
whitsun is distant

the tide is a highness
‘pon a giant’s throne

as us cabbages
pen in awkward rectitude

rectories rattled
’til the battle was a draw

we became the ivy
on a battered garden fence

gland ahoy & balls
the kettle still sings

…

for all the tarts in bakewell

…

for all the rice in china
& the teachers sniffing glue

for all the burp in pardon
& the sneeze in atishoo

for all the fish in finland
& the zebras in the zoo

for all the gnomes in gardens
& the domes in xanadu

for all the sage in derby
& the waves upon the sea

for all the haze in maybe
& the mist in mystery

for all the crook in coppers
& the madness of cuckoo

for all the tarts in bakewell
& for all their pastries too

…

( author notes )

for those that don’t know
bakewell is a town in the derbyshire dales
& a sweet tart – called a bakewell tart
comes from there too

plus sage derby is a cheese

but i’m not a fan of poets
explaining everything in their author notes
so let’s leave it there

…

poetical scapegoats

…

poetry stole my last rolo
& gave my cousin, clarabel
athlete’s foot

poetry became the winter wind
& frisked six nuns
standing at the bus stop

poetry shat
on the bishop’s mitre hat
when hiding in the guise of a pigeon

poetry pissed on doctor foster
rained all morning
& smoked all the catnip

poetry burnt down the scout hut too
back in twenty twelve
but was never found out

poetry dead-legged
farmer arthur-martha
then misgendered their cockerel

poetry did not shoot the sheriff
it was pfizer in his left arm
moderna in his right

but poetry drank all the vimto
& gave your great-aunt doris
crabs & lice – twice

…

stream on

…

there is over here

undisappearing

plucked like a pear

~

hares & mountaineers

down’s a distant town

let there be lime

~

lights & lemon-scented

afternoons in june

come december morrows

~

cracks in the past

paddle boats & mostly

scatter graph paper

~

tracing the future

if the moon’s a second sun

beaming like a tractor

~

or a forklift truck

fuck knows is a friend of mine

when the pen sings

~

stream on, stream on

walking where the water falls

in spirit form

~

we see galaxies

brighter than us gobshites

while the normies snore

…

the death of a morris dancer

…

the death of a morris dancer
well it happens a lot around beltane

& if you think haylage is the same as hay
that goes to show
how little you know

the death of a morris dancer
the bellend got carried away

one in four goatherds
marries a goblin
i’d rather not get involved

cloudy lemonade & a ploughman’s lunch
cloudy lemonade & a ploughman’s lunch
oh, ta very much
very much, very much, very much
but maybe when the cows come home
maybe when the cows come home

( oh )

cloudy lemonade & a ploughman’s lunch
cloudy lemonade & a ploughman’s lunch
oh, ta very much
very much, very much, very much
but maybe when the cows come home
maybe when the cows come home

when the cows come home
when the cows come home
when the cows come home

( etc. )

the death of a morris dancer
the death of a morris dancer
the death of a morris dancer
the death of a morris dancer

…

( xxvii )

…

swans on a wander
once upon a tongue

twist in the river’s mist
this is not a shopping list

songs beyond the fade
out & about turn

facing reflections
rippled puddle water

then of a plodness
when december’s embers

gloam like a ghost
float awhile in limbo land

standing where the two
full rivers converge

a pebble in your shoe
& a leftover sandwich

…

re last boxing day

…

caught the morning sunshine
hide behind a duvet

wore a pair of rudolph socks
sought the grail again

heard a jackdaw overhead
cackle like sid james

plodding on the heathland
as the gorses glowed

golden like a ratio
like a sandwich filling

stilton & cold stuffing
with a thud of english mustard

defended rorke’s drift
then thwarted ming the merciless

drank flat lemonade
slept on the sofa bed

…