…

we, the mutant few
genetic blips-r-us

the early birdsong
fortuna’s mood swings

& other such factors
beyond the machina

for this phantos
& their experiments

~

we, a windswept meadow
the autumn in retreat

a woodland hermitage
so muddy green trousers

growling back at clouds
& the normalz folk

in their sadness town
beyond that plod

~

we, the speaking bones
up shit creaking tones

but no paddle
all wax & no saddle

perhaps a missive stuck
a post-it-note memo

god save the parsnip
turnip lives matter

~

we, the letters writ
to messrs nobody

the footpath much less
trodden is the tonic

as the hedgehogs fly
at supersonic speed

& a tin with nothing in
is the musical glue

…

…

your pillow smells of cornflakes
the phone book’s in the fridge
the radio is only
the crackles in between
as your border collie purrs
on her kennel, on the roof
oh, some say that the proof
is in the stodgy afters – but
your crumble tastes of sunday
& at least your attic’s warm
& the bog flushes itself

…

…

a kitchen cabinet

reshuffle not

wetminster’s wazzocks – but

sortin’ out me cans

of baked beans for winter

…

…

let there be ball lightning
phantasmic plasma

with a psyche of its own
– perhaps a cosmic fart?

or toads inside stones
croaking not croaked it

a showering of frogs
a light drizzle of newts

a cryptid in each
lake or quite large puddle

a double decker bus found
within a martian crater

a poundland discovered
underneath a megalith

from neolithic though
& so you scramble eggheads

dodos re-emerging in
sleepless suburbia

the puzzling is this
blizzards in mid-july

& still no solid reason why
so keep ’em all guessing

…