( ? )

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

…

autumnal acrostic to bear

…

a niseed annals

anoraks aplenty

u ndead unicorns

ubiquitous umbrellas

t offee apple teeth

ten thousand owls

u pland under umbra

unsung uncles

m izzle misted mondays

moribund maples

n osedive novelties

net-zero nob’eads

a ntlered apparitions

adders asleep

l izards & lillies

luminescent limboland

…

songs of the moment so far

…

george & the soros’s – suffer litter insects

november’s ghost – batten up them rafters

stone cold david austin – arrive, sniff roses, leave

back before october – even evensong

december’s embers – relight my firewall

black currant queen – seven seas of ribena

the be at les – lo vemed o

phillip & the schofields – super-injunction blues

s-club shit sandwich – taste the spillage

d.j tinitus – peaks around noon now…

dodgy culvert – chicken shite river

simply red herrings – old oak amber gems

matt & the hancocks – midazolam massacre

…