…
humans are disgusting
they’ve only got one head
& testicles – but no tentacles
so they can’t be that good in bed
their blood is red
instead of green
they have no anus inbetween
their nostrils unlike
me & you
plus all their pooh is brown
not blue
those humans, eww
i shudder when
i think of little biped them
they cannot spread
beyond their sphere
we’ll wipe them out
their end is near
…
…
since the clear vision year
sweet foxtrot alpha
has bean the samian
wearing odd socks
once faith foghorned
before the nappy faces
from my apple pips
to my fellow mango
but then saucer
with my plasma eyes
that moist folk
were frightened androids
shooting up ghosts
sputum software
& the twaddle is a twat
in a fucking wanker hat
…
…
two fat robins
gorging on me fat balls
a dunnet – not a sparrow
a jackdaw – not a crow
a lady blackbird
( so brown instead )
an old red squirrel
( since gone grey )
an origami crane
that blew in on some breeze
a harvest mouse
from the field beyond the hedge
seventeen snarks
& the scarlet pimpernel
mothman once
& the spanish inquisition
green parakeets
( spreading from the south-east )
& your missus
munching on me nuts
…
…
it’s a sort of story
but it’s not a story
– it’s a poem
it’s a branch of song
but it’s not a song
– it’s a poem
it’s a type of list
but it’s not a list
– it’s a poem
it’s a class of diary
but it’s not a diary
– it’s a poem
it’s a kinda magic ( magic, magic )
but it’s not magic
– it’s a poem ( soz freddie )
it’s a form of poem
but it’s not a poem
– it’s a poem
( goddit… ? )
…
…
roses aren’t red yet
the snowdrops are white
– it’s crocuses next then
( we should be alright )
…
~
the lord is my shep
herd – i shall not want – he makes
me lie down in green
…
…
stroll beyond the doldrums
with a springy step
ladder as the adders stir
mugs of cup-a-soup
cock-a-hoop’s an oversell
but the day is butterballs
either or a creaking door
breathing in the shapes
shifting after shivering
dogs become cats
catkins purring
in the morning wood
if proper poets could
gather up these scatters
should the thicket throb
with extra gorse – of course
as pampas grass swings
in a gimpy breeze
– more tea vicar?
so the crocus croak
february is feathery
in the second’s pastures
presently the hills & plains
sunbeams & tractors
…
…
the furrows that you plough
above the frowning sight
of your siamese eyebrow
singular it sits
above your eyepatch
& your left red stare
a snorting snout
& a marmite brown mouth
– actual cauliflowers
as your ears
so hope disappears
yet the rest endears
a crotch so fishy
that even andrew windsor
would sweat
the traces of soup
upon the handlebars
of your lady moustache
& a bosom so south
that penguins nest
on your nipples
the hair on your palms
– on your lovely lady arms
& arse
– phwoar
…
…
the sky is turquoise
the hills are yellow tartan
twenty seven moons
…
…
i thought we’d all be dead
but bugger all instead
i’ve checked under the bed
& rummaged in the attic
you’re not on t.v’s snooze
your old house is deserted
your flowerbed is thistles
the lawn is only earth
i’m on the cocoa pops
my third bowl in a row now
& yet my skin is smooth
like an eel on groovin’ bass
i’ve plunged the kitchen sink
& wondered were you real
or never really there
like the missing link?
perhaps a plot hole
or a cheeky cul-de-sac?
my favourite baddy
from season two-m twenty two?
better than the flu
& better lines too
you were the one
but the pantomime plays on
…
resarf poetry 