…
he smells of tuesday afternoons
& friday morning fog
he speaks fluent squirrel
& hedgehog with an accent
i’ve yet to see him levitate
or dance the macarena
he sleeps in the coal shed
& eats all the cobwebs
…
( ? )
april, april
…
april, april
a fool in a cagoule
here beneath the clear blue
april, april
a plateful of mash
with red onion gravy
april, april
a gnome with a big nose
is kissing your tulips
april, april
a temporary bus stop
& half a tube of voltarol
april, april
the blossom on the breeze
is snowing white petals
april, april
another lamb sprang
then the west wind sang
april, april
a fool in a cloudburst
without a waterproof
…
a few awkward truths
…
tattoos will never make
anyone more interesting
if anything
the opposite is true
i stay well away from
people who watch t.v
none of my few friends have
personalised number plates
…
trombone
…
dogs won’t bury you
or chew you in the bandstand
you juicy trumpets
…
outrage outro
…
inserting turnips
where the sun don’t stroke
sack the t.v chef
guillotine the d.j
chastise the m.p
rage at the bots
the what’s & the not’s
the lollipop lady
that eats her own roadkill
twisting frilly knickers
y-fronts & what the fuck’s
gasping pantomimes
the a.i e-thot
that ran out of code
so the cloud devoured her
read all around it
the pilchard poet
that wore odd socks again
dot them dots then
droning like a chainsaw
whispering foghorns
huffing all morning
twatting all the mirrors
steaming ’til evening
…
uddled mup
…
most bananas are sunday
candles help us see in the yellow
bramble bushes have darkness
gardeners have green thorns
the seventh day is fingers
…
shaping the conversation
…
not in circles but
squares like a belgian’s breakfast
while i waffle on
…
poetical scapegoats
…
poetry stole my last rolo
& gave my cousin, clarabel
athlete’s foot
poetry became the winter wind
& frisked six nuns
standing at the bus stop
poetry shat
on the bishop’s mitre hat
when hiding in the guise of a pigeon
poetry pissed on doctor foster
rained all morning
& smoked all the catnip
poetry burnt down the scout hut too
back in twenty twelve
but was never found out
poetry dead-legged
farmer arthur-martha
then misgendered their cockerel
poetry did not shoot the sheriff
it was pfizer in his left arm
moderna in his right
but poetry drank all the vimto
& gave your great-aunt doris
crabs & lice – twice
…
( xxvii )
…
swans on a wander
once upon a tongue
twist in the river’s mist
this is not a shopping list
songs beyond the fade
out & about turn
facing reflections
rippled puddle water
then of a plodness
when december’s embers
gloam like a ghost
float awhile in limbo land
standing where the two
full rivers converge
a pebble in your shoe
& a leftover sandwich
…
re last boxing day
…
caught the morning sunshine
hide behind a duvet
wore a pair of rudolph socks
sought the grail again
heard a jackdaw overhead
cackle like sid james
plodding on the heathland
as the gorses glowed
golden like a ratio
like a sandwich filling
stilton & cold stuffing
with a thud of english mustard
defended rorke’s drift
then thwarted ming the merciless
drank flat lemonade
slept on the sofa bed
…
resarf poetry 