( ? )

also’s uncle

…

seventeen lapwings

candlemas cake tins

eighteen greylags

mister kipling’s caves

mister kipling’s caves

inside spongy earth

spongiform tuesday

telepathic pangolin

telepathic pangolin

mung bean in between

bleak cheese chatterings

shotgun michaelmas

shotgun michaelmas

colonel mustard’s gas

measles, myself &

madrigal matchsticks

madrigal matchsticks

frisbees in breezes

lemon thyme travel

herbal garden imp

herbal garden imp

ninety nine kings

forty four cormorants

seventeen lapwings

…

the old & the new

…

hot is the new cold

quiet is the new loud

gay is the new straight

sweet is the new sour

blokes are the new birds

low is the new high

far is the new near

here is the new there

apple is the new pear

where is the new when

what is the new how

war is the new peace

died suddenly

is the new expected

dark is the new light

lark is the new owl

science is the new god

normalzzz is the new odd

fingers are the new toes

toads are the new frogs

cats are the new dogs

fat is the new thin

king is the new queen

float is the new flight

old is the new new

open is the new shut

gnu is the new impala

poets are the new cool

shite is the new good

but m.a.ps are still nonces

…

an open letter to a martian penfriend

…

dear green keith

the mayor of mid-cydonia

where the air is ares

on the ruddy red planet

i hope you fixed that leak

in your pyramid loft

& christmas went okay

( it’s just as shit on earth )

the weather here is wet

which suits the duck in me

– is it sunny there

in your neck of the solar-wood?

how’s your ten-headed

foxhound called portia?

do you still garden?

are you on social media?

or should we dredge the canals?

have you moved to the moon?

it’s been six million years

so please reply quite soon

…

prime twats strike again

…

riots when they form

them of masks & clot-shot jabs

      those that hoarded bog roll

      like a frightened squirrel

them that soiled their pants

& never saw their nan

      fighting over cans

      of fizzy snake oil

see the pillocks pile on

humping yet clothed

      like a bored bullock

      on a muggy august morn’

lost of all purpose

like a beached porpoise

      kicking off in aldi

      whislt i hum vivaldi

look at those battle-bot

normalzzz go

      it’s the freakiest

      show ( oh-oh )

& cumming fucking soon

to your local shop

      what a load of bollocks – it’s

      – twats & rip-off pop

…

( author notes )

my poetry prediction for 2023

is that simon armitage

will become alan titchmarsh

& alan titchmarsh will become

simon armitage

–

those two have been merging for years

ever since simon got the laureate gig

but they will become one

& the same

by this time next year

…

( stop making up your own jokes )

…

mike hunt is hairy

( back, arse & palms )

mike hunt is fishy

( fly & sometimes magnet )

mike hunt is tight

( there’s cobwebs in his wallet )

mike hunt is massive

( he’s seven foot two )

mike hunt is tiny

( compared to a blue whale )

mike hunt is yeasty

( he’s a baker by trade )

mike hunt is smelly

( normally lynx africa )

mike hunt is shaven

( but only on his face )

mike hunt is weepy

( but still dices onions )

mike hunt is wet

( from walking in the rain )

mike hunt is lovely

( he’s never seen on a tuesday )

mike hunt prefers

to be known as a michael

…

thoughts on the unnamed narrator

~

who is the unnamed narrator

of nearly all stories & tales

      that ever have been told

      – they must be very old

or live outside of time

in some pocket universe

      in a terraced house

      with three cats & a goldfish

maybe their name is constantine

mike perhaps or julie

      they probably smoke a pipe

      & wash behind both ears

i bet they drive an audi

& dabble in taxidermy

      they may well play the bagpipes

      & grow their own begonias

there’s no way that they’re ginger

for fuck’s sake – that’s impossible

      or keep their eggs in the fridge

      next to their cucumbers

i do hear they bake flapjack

& skim stones on a sunday

      upon the lakes & ponds

      around the back of everywhere

( ? )

…

s.t.d’s

…

stroke the dogwood

soon tomorrow droops

so tuesday’s drizzle

soaks thor’s doorknob

saturn twirls dervishly

see týr disappear

since teatime died

satan torpedoes dagon

singing turnip ditties

sucking turpin’s dick

stand then deliver

sweat twenty droplets

suddenly tumbleweed dances

september tickles december

…