Poem

november is a nod

…

a squirrel on the scribble’s scrub
a kipper in your smoking kiss
the bubble wrap is bursting back
it’s bobble hats & bastard that
the western wind’s a sod

the morning was a yawning monk
& skeletal’s the turning key
the cuckoo’s cloud is falling down
as jacobite’s the battered night
& haddock be thy cod

the carlists carp a ducking pond
the mutant tudors hula-hoop
the robin is a crested tit
a distant dwarfish starling shines
& time’s a fishing rod

a shiver under silver birch
a leafless cloak of english oak
a sort of snoring garden gnome
the sunken sun is trudging home
the pace is but a plod

a once upon a twisted twice
the wrinkles on your crinkled arse
the drool between each dribble’s feed
the spittle’s spool’s a bucking mule
november is a nod

beyond the swan’s a wanker’s song
if mistily is missing we
a badger pissing up a tree
& so the fucking poets crow
the road ahead is odd

…

also orangutan

~

cracking up, the scrambled eggs
when the cockerel is a crow
so an end begins again
& the absent breezes blow

sneeze the day & face a head
leaden legged – a pencil ran
doodle in a book of notes
oodles of the mentals man

toodles to the normals spawn
let the jibber-jabbers spew
not is this a shopping list
or the groans of yawning dew

balls in all – a scratching plan
hatching on a sheet of white
whittle like an afternoon
kiss the moon & cue the night

…

phantoms of the recent past

…

in the greyness of a day
chasing trails of spittle’s spit
when the distant horses neigh
watch y’ step for goblin shit

as the brambles tangle knots
in this season’s odd unrest
fingers crossed & dot the dots
silent now the hornet’s nest

stirless stands & faces thee
in the woodland’s whisperings
on a leafless chestnut tree
as a chough above us sings

in the fields – the deed is ploughed
yet an ice cream van is heard
bursting through the wandered cloud
so the calendar is blurred

are these chimes within the mind?
is greensleeves still ringing here
will the garden hose unwind?
will these long nights disappear?

darting swifts between each blink
music moves beyond the swan
fuck the glugging kitchen sink
betty swollocks beckons on

squint & see within the vast
glimpses of a picnic’s gist
phantoms of the recent past
summer’s haunting autumn’s mist

…

the grey list

…

clouds that look like hounds

chasing mountain hares

fog in concrete areas

urban mist & myths

mizzle’s sheet

retired red squirrels

elephantine smoke

geriatric ebens

mosty the morning sky

certain wagtails

patches or parrots

storms in the earl’s tea

spinsters in attics

combing their nasal hair

where there’s only vagueness

stone statues

of long dead poets

in all their faded eminence

mainly snooker balls

on a black & white telly

senior wolves

the shades of sunday’s soul

ghosts of old codgers

monochrome rainbows

the man on the moon’s pubes

…

exit the poets

…

exit the poets
singing like magpies

& combing the hair that
grows from where their earlobes

enters their heads
in pinstriped plaid

or storm trooper casual
because they bloody can

those cobweb cats
with syntax wings

here once & yet
on elsewhere’s road

they fade this out
cloudburst haircuts

trolling horizons
strolling forth – of course

…

re last thursday afternoon

…

why did the traffic jam

      like pitted damsons

air-con off

      so we felt swindled

how come the sun

      never flared up?

good walk though

      over the big hill

toasted tea cakes

      mustn’t effing grumble

a ten pound note

      against the gushing rain

the matron’s face

      these things still linger

like a headless horseman’s

      horse’s hoof prints

on fresh snow

      where earlobes tingle

once we stood

     at a temporary bus stop

a flask of turnip soup

      left at the traffic lights

three brown hares

      always a pleasure

the troubadour in town

     fined without a license

home & up the tree house

      later in the coal shed

drawing games of scrabble

     a pan fried rainbow trout

why did a meteor

      not wipe us all out?

…