” smoke me a kipper, i’ll be back for breakfast “

( ace rimmer )

…

gone magnet fishing
for tins of crab & mackerel

baked beans, sweetcorn
– blue fin tuna

perhaps a coat hanger
a ten p piece

a can of lemon fanta
from nineteen ninety seven

a tesco shopping trolley
from twenty fourteen

rusted like the kneecaps
of a geriatric robot

another magnet fisher
dragged in by their rod

swearing all the way
– catch of the day

a drawing pin
from last fortnight

the backdoor key
of your local mortuary

or an unexploded shell
what the luftwaffe dropped

so if not home by five
– call the bloody bomb squad

…

” kiss my axe ! “

( sláine )

…

the ghost of billy milkinson
still goes ten pin bowling
every tuesday teatime
he brings his own shoes

he cannot fly a plane
or play the vibraphone
& feeds the ducks crusts
from his kingsmill loaf

the ghost of billy milkinson
sleeps in a flat pack
cabin bed
he bought from ikea

& drives an unleaded
red renualt clio
like an old man
in a coma

but in the afterlife
with his dead cat, clarence
in the non-corporeal
midlands

the ghost of billy milkinson
plays naked twister
with the queen of sheba
& elizabeth the second

…

” let’s do the bongo-laced
twenty-second album “

( nigel worthington )

…

sneaking up behind us
like a randy cellmate

breathe in deep
& don’t drop the soap

as we plod along songs
hands in pockets

rucksack straps
dangle at the back

they of horsey huffs
the bringers of b.o

stinking as they go
in sodden lycra tights

creeping in the night
hunting in the day

ambushing pedestrians
their unsuspecting prey

they of phlegmy snorts
the jog on joggers

darting round corners
like a boy racer

chasing sound’s barrier
joyriding cheetahs

sweating like a nonce
or a rabid hare

pavement or park path
– beware, beware, beware –

…

” if it’s me & your granny on the bongos, it’s the fall “

( mark e. smith )

…

cobb webster
missus q. cumber
miss a. corn
sergeant pickled pepper
si d’urberville
jam broadbent
jean-claude van damson
the creeping in knight
in his thermal tights
anyone who’s surname
is gardener
or farmer
a load of old tarts
the aga oven khan
a turnip for the books
brock olly
messr p. pod
william the conker earl
& tom r. toe

…

” come on you slags “

( richard d. james )

…

rise from the east
like oriental dough

blow your backendish
breezes with aplomb

bomb us with conkers
& slates from the rooftops

make it rain toadstools
bring us pins & needles

spook us all rigid
with your ghost legends

of headless librarians
& spectral stamp collectors

a phantom flying scotsman
haunts your hornby train set

sing in the mist
go fog yourself

build your bloody bonfire
steal the leafen daydreams

die in the west
like an occidental swan

as per your contract
your storylines & bumf

gone by november
– so we haven’t got all month

…

” i dedicate this

to you punk motherfuckers “

( tupac shakur )

…

the queen isn’t dead

she lives in my garden shed

i feed her sardines

…

( author notes )

as it’s octquoteber
each poem will begin
with a quote

…