lines upon retracing your steps

…

annoyingly oblique
like the two-a-penny prose
in poetry review

& other such squirms
the winter wind won’t sing
her lips are sealed frozen

the calendar cannot
recite in rhyming cantons
the cobwebs of tomorrow

i long to gaze & gawp
like a curtain twitching darren
at the form of each future

the line work & notation
the back, the sack & crack
to choose a brighter upgrade

& not more bland ahoy
as the wank in your angst
is the ants in your pants

yet the kitchen sink
the custard creams, the third crusade
the golden age of steam

the councils & the demes
the cotton clouds – if sung aloud
& we’re all backwards now

…

nopevember

…

no hornets or bees

no kittens with fleas

no blossoming blooms

just spawning mushrooms

no badgers on heat

no blisters on feet

no lawnmowers blare

& rattle this air

no hedge trimmers sing

& make the ears ring

no nettles sting legs

as autumn’s the dregs

no flowers of note

to sniff as we float

upon a blue day

in absence of grey

no pollen to woe

the sinuses so

as butterflies fly

in yonder bright sky

no sun on our backs

no sweat in our cracks

nopevember is here

& we’re in its clear

…

hermitage shanks

…

bardic is a barn
rusty in places
shelter for the sheep

mangles on their breath
wurzels & turnips
rustic bumpkin songs

rise before the sun
glorious each morning
gladder than priapus

trudge a lonely so
jill up a molehill
jack in the greenhouse

yawn a gold before
far from the town where
steve became eve

where the blue haired croon
of albion’s erasure
with a tea towel scarf

fly like a white dove
from the warring words
of their melting pot mouths

bee another breeze
in the dilly of the valley
& the dally of time

…

concussion song

…

a few too many

bumps to the head

      a few too many

      a few too many

a few too many

bumps to the head

      a few too many

      a few too many

a few too many

bumps to the head

      a few too many

      a few too many

yes, a few too many

bumps to the head

      & a few more

      for good measure

…

yet still not

…

the reason why the morning
sunshine gave way
to shrouded clouds of grey

a dodo egg
or the mating rituals
of the lesser-spotted snark

the bee in the mitre
not the bonnet of the bishop
a birthday wish

since gone wrong
or a sausage roll with chips
plus beans & garlic bread

the sinkhole that appeared
in the middle of the car park
of your local b&m

someone else’s faux-profiles
of odd little me
on spicy websites

your long lost uncle
or the ghost of fanny adams
so try bloody harder

…