…
re this bookish strange
the rearranged pages
it’s a frowning face
in the low cloud’s locus
it’s number sixty six
then seventeen somehow
i blame the teachers’ parents
& the cod of all odd
by the grace of this plaice
yet the blooming moon wonders
what the factual uck?
…
…
no one shat their pants
or wet their frilly knickers
when the screen monster screamed
stroke – roared with aplomb
& magic tricks were neither
magic nor a trick
as we knew that there’d be rabbits
somewhere in that hat
when everyone was kayfabe
& pretense was erased like
gullible from the dictionary
…
…
your advert goes here
the one about the holiday
in smug sunshine
or the latest wearable
that we’ll never wear – because
that’s n.p.c ‘reepy
or your miraculous pile cream
or chocolate flamethrower
whatever you wish
( dear mister e.washy )
to flog us all with next
…
…
a kitchen cabinet
reshuffle not
wetminster’s wazzocks – but
sortin’ out me cans
of baked beans for winter
…
…
we make their forms
from anagrams
a plastic pen
us spastic men
a head of road
the ghost in us
is mightier
than all your saws
the chain & buzz
we welcome shapes
the size of time
is not my spec
but welcome we
from other space
the doodles who
remember you
…
…
octobersome
a conker falls
& kills a squirrel
octobersome
horlicks or ovaltine?
open the post
octobersome
a postcard arrives
from barmy june
octobersome
the full moon resumes
so bury your headstone
octobersome
bonfires linger
on old tweed jackets
octobersome
deep heat cream
applied to your right thigh
octobersome
the lonesome ghost
of yer long lost cousin
…
…
i’ve got a vintage
combine harvester
she’s gone rusty now
cobwebs cover her
battered body but
sputter on somehow
shaking like a quaker
out the barn – as we do
oh, i’ve got a vintage
combine harvester
– once she was brand new
…
…
i’m a parish councillor
& the birdie song
is my mobile’s ringtone
i’m a parish councillor
i cycle with no helmet
‘cos i play golf with death
i’m a parish councillor
& all these cardigans
were hand knitted by artisans
i’m a parish councillor
& once i had a scooby-doo
& hair like george michael
since is the prince
& cash in brown envelopes
& cloudy amber ales
as i’m a parish councillor
& one of my young granddaughters
looks like jimmy nail
yes, i’m a parish councillor
just helping out my friends
& giving something back
oh, i’m a parish councillor
& charity is me
& hallowed by my name
…
…
& underneath the wooden
beams – with us below
a broken watch is still
as risk-assessment accurate
as clocks gone wrong
so time is like a ghost
haunting creaky awnings
& talkative floorboards
shuffles in the night
shivers in me silky nightie
the tosspot laments
…
…
we became a tree
with skin as hard as bark
& squirrels upstairs
the woodpeckers peck
the winter storms test us all
with bellowing bursts
of blow yer own horn
but we’re the giants’ hatstands
– owls were here last night –
in the woodland’s bowels
in the here of fade away
waiting for that spring
to reboot like feet
even though we now have roots
in am-dram workshops
…
resarf poetry 