…
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
…
…
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
…
…
spider each sentence
replying like a doctor’s
letter back to you
…
…
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
…
…
dress like the fields
baggy green tracky b’s
& matching dunlop wellies
splodged with the finest mud
the season provides
…
…
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
…
…
enter december –
unseasonably warm
between each polar vortex
enter december –
feasting on baked beans
& sausages for teatime
enter december –
may contain nuts
& hazardous packaging
enter december –
frosty cobwebs
on the footpath home
enter december –
crows caw in the dawn
your new ringtone
enter december –
smelling of z – list
celebrity fragrances
enter december –
having swam eleven lengths
& eaten their weetabix
enter december –
a photo of a solitary
swan on a calendar
enter december –
the undefeated sun
a greener in between
enter december –
& exit november
a ghostly bonfire
enter december –
sweaters & vests
& thermal underpants
…
…
no one reads these books
so the un-named narrator
stays anonymous
…
…
a cold rice pudding
fresh out the can
stodgy yet lost
& an icicle which since
melted in my hand
from last night’s frost
a sellotape roll
without a found end
so good luck with that then
an unwritten book
with white space within &
no isbn
the latest normie goss
about yours truly
none of which is true
five pence in change
two twos & a one
no receipt – now shoo
…
…
intersecting curves
on a sheet of graph paper
illustrate things well
…
resarf poetry 