Poem

another lost poem

…

~

yesterthen’s scribbles

went elsewhere

like your uncle after

~

the operation went wrong

since is not a song

or even in key

~

croaks the morning pheasant

& big bo peep

– little’s older sister

~

retracing steps

the sort that fingers make

is fruitless indeed

~

like a greengrocer

that only sells veg

so even no tomatoes

~

oh, where art thou?

huffs the pen – like a cow

herd in an unhaunted farmhouse

~

darker than before

it’s not in your notepads

or stuffed in your desk drawers

~

sputum & dust then

another lost poem

missing – presumed immortal

…

stuck on the sky

…

black velcro crows

      yes, it’s one of those

stuck on the sky

      lost in my true

highness of the welkin

      fridge magnet alphabet

cotton wool water

      rubbing like balloons

look at those weirdos

      floating in sweet blueness

we’re upon the meadows

      over earthly clover

in medieval hoodies

      longer than a raincoat

not the latest smear

      steering clear of drizzle

gawping for britannia

      mooning with the moon

this is how the clouds grey

      but mayfly live forever

gulliver’s ghost

      is a bright white pigeon

nature is my second

      cousin twice removed

…

outrage outro

…

inserting turnips

where the sun don’t stroke

sack the t.v chef

    guillotine the d.j

    chastise the m.p

    rage at the bots

the what’s & the not’s

the lollipop lady

that eats her own roadkill

    twisting frilly knickers

    y-fronts & what the fuck’s

    gasping pantomimes

the a.i e-thot

that ran out of code

so the cloud devoured her

    read all around it

    the pilchard poet

    that wore odd socks again

dot them dots then

droning like a chainsaw

whispering foghorns

    huffing all morning

    twatting all the mirrors

   steaming ’til evening

…

all clued out

…

the pebble in your left
orthopaedic shoe
& rain last tuesday

a certain afterglow
in the sunset’s curtains
when we both squint

plus the cataracts
in the glass eyes
of the blind mortician

or the sparrows nesting
in the west wing
of the matron’s beard

the gnomes in the garden
that wink when we blink
perfectly in sync

like the lipstick smeared
on the vestigal nipple
of the bishop’s catamite

are all redder
than a blushing herring
square one beckons us back

…