( ? )

poets on strike

~

poets on strike ( ekirts no steop )

…

quell the feathered quills
sleeping now like arthur

toss aside your vellum
put down your thesaurus

the book of synonyms
untie all cravattes

lob the trusty ink well
as if a molotov

in the rubbish bin
outside the town hall

mindful of section five
on the picket line

with all the marxist bards
who’d like to buy a house

before the revolution
as then we’d all own nada

we, the fuming few
the ginger lovechildren

of music & prose
with vestigal toes

we, the unsung glue
blue plaques of the future

who kiss the ruddy cheeks
of miscellany’s anus

chanting – give us freebies
cash & online likes

poets on strike
so write your own shite

…

cool poem

~

cool poem ( meop looc )

…

~

this poem is the corpse

of a cucumber farmer

still wearing shades

in a haunted mortuary

~

a vortexed breeze

in the doldrums of january

blue moonbeams

or jack frost’s handshake

~

this poem is the mermaids

that swim europa’s oceans

or a lost sunbather

in the deepest dark of space

~

cubes in the glass

of your homemade lemonade

sipping as she fizzes

& bubbles in the shade

~

this poem is the dogs

– sploshing in the river

& polar bears smoking

p.g tips

~

this poem is cool

like a second hand cagoule

or a yeti in an ice bath

– top that, y’ tool

…

seen be to yet

~

seen be to yet ( tey ot eb nees )

…

when chelsea tractors plough
the muddy fields beyond

& hug-a-mugger chuggers
run away

when all the rich philanthropists
leave us alone

& those effing jesuits
mind their own beeswax

as elton john’s wig
grows an inch – overnight

an alien emerges
out of simon parkes’s arse

climate change melts
the snow in all the snow domes

andrew windsor vindaloos
sweating not a drop

when poltergeists pose
on the cover of vogue

i’ll eat my own toe jam
on hot buttered teacakes

& play leapfrog
with wild boar or rhinos

as you’re crowned the new queen
of sheba – or whiskas

…

goes saying the as

~

goes saying the as ( sa eht gniyas seog )

…

time to feed the unicorns
& face the candle’s bright

morris dance on mercury
& see the carrot knight

fight the cabbage dragon or
paint the piper’s door

kiss the vicar’s knicker drawer
& bid you all goodnight

…

a bits of a poemz

~

a bits of a poemz ( zmeop a fo stib a )

…

the bus was late

like henry the eighth

      ( who died

        in fifteen forty seven )

ten passed two

& eleven went twelve

      ( washing machines

        live longer with calgon )

vans car by

but cars van faster

      ( they should have seen it coming

        – the tay bridge disaster )

phil collin’s middle names

are david & charles

      ( there goes godot

        in his souped-up milk float )

sixteen down

in the cryptid crossword

     ( a badger & an otter

       crossed with an owl )

according to guiness

the oldest known woodlouse

      ( was aged eighty seven

        & two months – in dog years )

cats can’t dance

the macarena backwards

      ( & the blackpool tower

        is taller than saint paul’s )

why this trivia?

yonder is a songbird

      ( shitting on the vicar’s

        peter storm cagoule )

…

june salad

~

june salad ( dalas enuj )

…

foxglove gulliver

goosegrass troubadour

puck lore undertones

deep green clover

how now, trouser press?

great big little owl

fusilli field mouse

flowery treetops

row, row rosary

ray gun ganymede

butterscotch bathtub

toejob telegram

plimsole solstice

pineapple panpipes

blue moon’s phallacies

blooming raspberries

…

( author notes )

if i ever write a poem

about binley mega chippy

then please, please, please

shoot me in the fucking head

…

bullocks in the graveyard

~

bullocks in the graveyard ( daryevarg eht ni skcollub )

…

through the rotten fence
where the ash branch fell

on soaked oak posts
after indra bolted

came the storming hordes
of cloven hoofed yoofs

tagged like wrong’uns
out on parole

mooing for freedom
in the doldrums of june

cheeky fresian bastards
hared upon the greenery

fucking up the grass
chomping on the flowers

in the crystal vases
as the vicar legged it

larking like tomorrow
is a distant cousin

as the farmer napped
in the haybarn’s loft

death row’s fugitives
next month’s bourguignon

patted with aplomb
on your true love’s headstone

…