The sleepless sheep can flockin' count themselves cos part-time shepherds skive indoors, a puzzle book teeters precipice - wonky shelf as woodland turns, sleep-swears then snores. A barn owl has a dipole moment whilst pastures doze under Moon Cheese Head, but then a bike in the village plus a priceless trowel are stolen - they were askin' for it really, UNLOCKED SHED. Tut. ...
Poetry
post-nap
39 & a half winks in yet feeling completely refreshed, I spring up with zing like an uncoiled thing - tracky beez, trainers, vest, jacket, dressed. I still miss the Plague of Justinian ...
the internet has hairy palms too
The internet has hairy palms too just like Jesus, your mother or you & this may well BOO! & come as a shock but when really thought about clearly explains a lot ...
scumday
Trapped in corduroy yet dreaming of peace as campanologists clang their way through the embers of the week & the T.V's gone to sleep as the clocks creep a tock-tick-tock - cuh! It's alright for some but Sunday you're fuckin' scum x ...
& death shall have no dumb onion
Same is the opposite of opposite & opposite is the opposite of same, & yet grey areas still exist strange foggy places dewy-mist; condensation, evaporation precipitation - explanation ? ...
not pentecost
Whilst faintly listening to the wind blow & whisper beyond the window I heard a nasty rumour in regards to a celebrity baker. Embroiling a famous ice skater & Van de Graaf generator, an ostrich feather, a jar of Nutella a fortune teller plus several men of the cloth - & yet it was not Pentecost. . Disgusting ...
the brown stuff
Every poem is a turd & we defecate these words, as certain as that murder deserves our condemnation so obviously writer's block is a form of constipation. Yes every poem is a pooh - it's true be it haiku, sonnet or epic, they make us cry, laugh, love & think but please bear in mind that every shit stinks ...
a bespoke poem
When the woman or man who 1st bespoked-up the word bespoke, originally bespoke-assembled the letters it was far from absurd or a joke. Yet over several bespoke years all sense & meaning disappeared, due to bespoke overuse & blatant bespoke bespoke abuse ...
letter-open
... Like a harvest moon in pensive June or a Boxing Day in great late May, or a shipwreck sailing the 7 seas you're out of sync Dear Poetry,
the streets in town
The streets in town are fucked tonight yet its lights shine bright through the tardy hardy shite. & as an old man coughs passed a boarded-up shop all warmth retreats but indoors it sleeps ...
