Art

jugband greens

…

did the shoot really shoot
like a rascal blowing peas?

or is the shoot forced out
kicking like a drum

major marching on
as march is where the hare

boxes with their silhouette
maybe martians watch us all?

sound is bound in time
& from the thawing ground

goes another gasp
clasping at this foginess

wave with phantom hands
write us all a postcard

too soon like the moon
light reflects the sun’s smile

( ? )

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historical blame racket

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margeret of anjou never
rummaged through your wheelie bins

no visigoth ever
misgendered your labradoodle

my great, great, great, great grandfather
did not jump the queue

in the bakers yesterday
or ghost you on tiktok

as the past is ossified
not the cobwebs of tomorrow

but the bones of groan elsewhere
( the future’s yet unwoven )

so clive of india
did not fuse your brand new toaster

& no ancient phonecian
ever pissed on your dog roses

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trickster variations

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he’s banana skins
on footpaths on the sly

& the itching powder
in our restless underpants

he’s that jester’s hat
upon your eggy head

one side is green
& the other is red

he is the laughter
in the dogwood wood

knock, knock, knock
but no one is there – yeah

he is a puzzlesome
whiff in the air

the traffic light sprite
captain spanners

a sputtering machine
& the gum on your flip flops

the answers, my deer
are antlers on a postcard

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feeding the redux

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back before your ghost is born
bleating like a pygmy goat

breathe another biscuit tin
kiss a swan – & dawdle on

bite another bulletin
let the morning coffee sneeze

bring a pen of burning gold
older than the bastard hills

blear another clearing here
sliding like a trombone nose

billow, if the pillow speaks
cast a net of castanets

unarrange the normalcy
every daze – the beans & we

bless id us & sun above
when forever’s floating forth

…

rearrange strange

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tin whistle then
the ghostly folk men
in bright white coats

scrawl this morrow
blue is the new black
unslept in sigh

why is beyond
once upon mute swans
middle eight ten

cold winter day
grey like lady jane
old shuck’s breakfast

beans in a can
the turin shroud wink?
clouds below groan

dick turpin’s neck
turns like warwick’s earl
facing the gaze

rearrange strange
faith in her water
warmer than flames

…