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the natives are hostile ( some poemz )
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the natives are hostile they trust not our kind they stare as we wander glares there in their eyes in this little hamlet where air tastes of fear two miles from our village we're not from 'round here ...
Poetry
look dad – no hands …
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look dad – no hands ( a true tale )
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look dad - no hands
look dad - no legs
look dad - no bod'
look dad - no head
look dad, i'm invisible
look
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there may be ghost tales …
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there may be ghost tales … ( a warning )
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up on yon moorland amid eerie fog where heather grows so by y'oldey peat bogs beyond the tree-line where cautious owls hoot there may be ghost tales & legends to boot ...
musings on the arts
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musings on the arts ( a hmmm )
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most of it's shit some of it's alright occasionally it's brilliant ( but ) most of it's shit ...
( then )
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( then ) an obz er vation
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yet when does winter become spring? as nutjob snowdrops bloom through snow? as buds begin their blossoming? when birds sing so ( they seem to know ) ...
mind your language
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mind your language ( some spillage )
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" mind your language " said my head's brain in silent thought confusion reigns who's thinking who? what's doing what? the plot thickens dot - dot - dot - dot ...
beethoven’s van
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beethoven’s van ( some poem )
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a man with a van is a man of the van ludwig van man beethoven man van of the man orchestrate hands conducting van man of the van ( ludwig van man ) ...
not joe king
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not joe king by not joe king
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i'm not joe king who is joe king? perhaps it's jo? don't know a thing are they real-real? a bird or bloke? pray - are they wise? - do they know any jokes - ( ? ) ...
help us lord moses …
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help us lord moses … ( by professor gavin saw-dust )
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belly button fluff & that stuff between our toes oh where does it come? no, nobody knows it tastes disgusting is it a gift in disguise? we can't smoke it either this is manna from the whys ...
good for bobbins
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good for bobbins ( some tree appreciationals )
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good for bobbins starts the ogham among treed folk plenty of 'em they're the organ woods are churches drink their rich sap silver birches ...
resarf poetry 