The Sun is secretly Belgian but it's never told a soul like Eddie Merx, Stella Artois or the Smurfs for fear of losing its sway & control. As some Sun worshippers would demmand blood if they found out & no doubt switch their allegiences to the moon (!), oh the Sun is secretly Belgian & Jupiter's diabetic but don't tell a single sausage or that sun will come for you ...
Poetry
in the glaring absence-shat of amusingly shaped vegetables
In the glaring absence-shat of amusingly shaped vegetables, well dressing festivals & beneficial chemicals. You may still stumble across or disturb incredible spectacles plus them normal shaped vegetables are perfectly edible & when done right like apparently taste delectable. Try sensible ...
codswallop & toss bollocks
Pointless like the n in column, a really shit or possibly confused sword or Richard Osman. Whitsun, Christmas - yes the possibilities aren't list-less. Culinary mushrooms, pot holing, welly wanging & cheese rolling. Murder, horrible things, nice people - oh & salt & vinegar crisps plus probably reading this. Sorry ...
poem in a coal shed
No, no one's ever found a poem in a coal shed, in the deepest depths of dullest Summer there wondering why it's not cold yet ? Whilst all the other poems frolic gayly & freely flashing flesh & swearing less - no, no one's ever found a poem in a coal shed but why not is any one's guess ? (keep searching) ...
the way of the pad
Bellends who scrawl bollocks in them notepads & such at the back of the bus should probably be locked up. In their own Special implement & daylight-free wing where they can't write a thing - but due to cutbacks... Hello & as ever, sorry x ...
in constant pursuit
In life I'm in constant pursuit of rainbows, as an analogy & sign of sunshine when the rain goes. Because as mnemonically-sure as Richard Of York Gave Battle In Vain, they all too briefly prism-dazzle then bugger off again. Wankers ...
breads will roll…
Poems are alive yet often vermin & sleep deprived all toss & turnin'. Poems are good friends of most knaves & thought-trains yet naturally wary of focus, plus understandably partial to mystery parcels & how they love munchin' on locust. Poems are the sounds of the bastard hills, poems are a lovely monkey in a dream, most poems shoplift but only from the big stores safe in the knowledge that they'll outlive the Queen ...
scene isle
Clearly blatantly British with no debate or messing like sticky toffee pudding, drum & bass or cross-dressing. Leaves on the line, morris dancing & grime as in the music or soot with an odd-sock on each foot x ...
brief spooky yarn
Beyond the circle drawn in chalk we heard a chattering of talk, of darkness from another time while we stayed safe behind its line. THE END ...
the old gods here
Yes, the old gods here have been very quiet now for coming-on-at-least-a-ooh-good-week, without 1 cheery warning or blatantly divine sign no, not a single boo, whisper or peep. Have they gone on holiday or have their powers gone away or maybe they're planning a surprise nasty flood? Maybe it's virus-related or possibly 'family problems' - I think they need more blood x ...
resarf poetry 