christmas cards in june

…

oh, hemorrhoid cream
when he’s just sixteen

autobiographies
written in their twenties

the mayfly that died
one sad day in april

christmas cards in june
it’s all too rather soon

…

god of odd

…

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

…

ooh err missives

…

the occasional tables
were mostly chairs that day

the sun dried tomatoes
were eaten overnight

the winter wren sang
of a southern hemisphere

the peanut butter warned us
‘may contain nuts’

mister holmes was constipated
all the green bananas

breathed with their gills
& feathered quills flew

with the dusters in a circle
over puzzled heads

when the scarecrows frightened
themselves in the mirror

…

( of a formless morning )

…

backwards barks again
a backdoor key

cartoon rudiments
cloven hoofed clover

a zoomorphic moon
with rain in between

an ache in my right leg
a lake in your left eye

the day became frogs
human cattle banging pots

remember the moos
& the chalkboards thank yous

& irk the normalz off
of a formless morning

on is reverse
we the scattered ash

& quercus quilled ink
still the unbecome

melted into fundaments
rearranged yesterday

grew a green tomorrow
ate baked magic

beans on toast for tea
with grated cheese on top

…

us, the scribbles

…

i’m strangely drawn in

like a cartoon you – but some

may say – that’s art, maaan

…

merely mortal

…

sat ‘ere unlike

a satyr – stroke –

some woodland god

one from the wilds

beyond us scrotes

…

& a cat with eyebrows?

…

martian men invade earth
come the week ahead?

so tomorrow’s crumpets?
yesterday’s brown bread?

saladin & mothman
in your garden shed?

guinivere & danu
underneath my bed?

as the sun is singing
songs around the moon

bats above us gliding
of an afternoon

four & twenty mute swans
talking to the dead?

& a cat with eyebrows?
possibly, she said

…

al17-7

…

perhaps with a scratch
on a scrambled egghead

in a phantom passage
bricked like the it

when we see our own ghost
yet the tawny owl hoots

while the what’s unaware
like a climate changeling

with bright blue hair
in green jackboots

so the song is a swan
& this desk is his nest

…

citric bemusement

…

no, washing up liquid

or floor cleaner

nor a certain meringue pie

is not the yellow reason why

this kitchen smells of lemons

…

resarf poetry

( ? )