the mud beneath

~

the mud beneath ( htaeneb dum eht )

…

the mud beneath’s a sodden bog
a cloak of oak, a croaking log

the mizzled mist is missing sheep
a dragon snores & all is sleep

the deep is up, the south is north
the east is west, the back is forth

a feather falls – but falls from where?
your mother’s face, a leveret hare

the twisting shapes, a dip, a dive
a spooling ghoul, the air’s alive

the scattered land is sleeping cloud
the taj mahal, the turin shroud

a circle spins a string of yarn
a distant screech, a secret barn

& all is balls, a yawning day
the pastures pant, the grass is grey

a sunken see, the squinting sands
the seasons jazz with phantom hands

the mud beneath’s a sodden bog
a plod within the morning’s fog
…

question air

~

question air ( ria noitseuq )

…

pale beyond the gale
winter’s lost her twisted tail
in between the wars

all is yawning balls
cross & dot the whats ‘n’ wares
pause & question air

name your favourite cheese?
stiltons, cheddars, red leicesters
eighties, goats or bries?

why the summer haze?
did you build the pyramids?
brown sauce or ketchup?

is it sweet above
i upon the sodden ground?
why don’t penguins fly?

do i breathe in you
like i breathe in thee & see
dragons dancing breath?

gleaming, sylphid forms
of a speckled, spawning morn
plodding on the leas

why this stifled still?
is the off a peaking trough?
when will you blow so?
…

feathers

~

feathers ( srehtaef )

…

a friend from the welkin

the cousin of pens

the death of a pheasant

a gift from a gull

a bit of a robin

the heart of a pillow

a wind from the south

the spit in the mouth

a swallow, a swift

the tail of a quail

is dusting again

a flap in the attic

a hawk from the north

the kingfisher’s clothes

a cockerel, a crow

the dark on the snow

a snark of a lark

& villagers sticking

the truck in themselves

with plucks of a chicken

the pigeon’s a goat

the mallard is sitting

& off is a swan

– over tarred skin

…

doe ray me poem

~

doe ray me poem ( meop em yar eod )

…

so rainy
piss upon the pissed upon
’til the fucker dries

though maybe
all is not a knotted ball
as the crocus flies

oh, daisy
ride ‘er like a bicycle
lilting lullabies

blow hazy
spin it like a weather vane
scatter whats ‘n’ whys

milfs milk men
mercury is monkey me
whistle, winter wren

sing ’til then
ink within y’ blizzard brain
scribble with a pen

glow, grey bee
bumble in this in between
minstrels mincing pies

doe ray me
cut the crap ‘n’ zap attack
with y’ laser eyes
…

suck a pickled pepper

~

suck a pickled pepper ( reppep delkcip a kcus )

…

suck a pickled pepper

sink the kitchen dresser

piss another puddle

chickens in a huddle

swans upon a morning

as the sky is warring

hanging like a lizard

wizard in the blizzard

deep ‘n’ crisp ‘n’ even

fuck it – ’tis the season

supper’s in a cauldron

all is balls ‘n’ golden

rolling hills ‘n’ barrels

tossers singing carols

sniff the winter roses

as the summer dozes

ring-a-ring-a riddle

rhymin’ life ‘n’ piddle

glued upon the glooming

’til the blossom’s blooming

scribble is a couplet

rhythm is a drum kit

suck a pickled pepper

in a christmas sweater

…

the things we hear

~

the things we hear ( raeh ew sgniht eht )

…

bamboo shoots

up like rhubarb

lost flock baa’s

garden gnomes & statues

singing filthy hymns

static on the radio

laughter in the loft

fates down the bingo

playing for a full house

fishwives wittering

pssst, kung pao

plughole gurgles

faces in the clouds

sneezing on the ground

lapwings or peewits

kettles whistle winds

telephones knelling

like a funerary bellend

fried egg crackle’s

like cladding on a new build

come mid-june

when the scarecrows are swearing

trudging on snow

so the planets realign

twats banging pots

wasps indoors

sunny days in dark socks

– fuckin’ alarm clocks

…

boris johnson poem

~

boris johnson poem ( meop nosnhoj sirob )

…

boris johnson
speaks fluent venusian
& martian
with a jupiter accent

boris johnson
cannot fly
like a buzzard
or an elephant hawk moth

boris johnson
piddles on the thames
from the middle
of westminster bridge

boris johnson
is blatantly a member
but not
of the sealed knot society

boris johnson
cannot play
the english horn
or cor anglais

boris johnson
licks the chins
of weasels & squirrels
for spiritual reasons
…

( author notes )

i don’t like any politician

i think they’re all wankers

this is just me being silly

…

doctor harold shipman’s lonely hearts club band

~

doctor harold shipman’s lonely hearts club band ( dnab bulc straeh ylenol s’nampihs dlorah rotcod )

…

best before august

sixteen forty four

friends of the bend

in the fork on the lane

rain between sleet

come a quarter to three

chequered like chess

west in a vest

east up a tree

alder or rowan

i’m in the attic

laughing with the cobwebs

whence is it spring?

when the soil uncoils

crocus not locust

feasts for the eyelets

fly, little owl

tawny or barn

glow with the flow

bark in the darkness

written by ghosts

( inklings of squid )

god is a parsnip

she is a plum

…