…
cobwebs for breakfast
trapped into a coroner
cue those dancing hedgehogs
& silent pyrotechnics
oh former covid wardens
…
…
cobwebs for breakfast
trapped into a coroner
cue those dancing hedgehogs
& silent pyrotechnics
oh former covid wardens
…
…
last seen on the moors
in a puddle of himself
watch your step walking
…
…
kosh o’ clock
quarter past curtains
ten to let’s be ‘avin’ you
every ruddy mayday
s.o.s p.m
…
…
last seen lost & wandering
without a cagoule
on a saint swithun’s eve
as the western then blew
grey clouds in some more
…
…
stagnant stags standing
statuesque the stillness
uncracked eggshells
~
then when before
that-a-way’s odd socks
& hot chocolate sachets
~
music is the muse
of your long lost uncle
let the hedgehogs fly
~
super glue the curvature
unarrange the furniture
& lick a puddle’s ripples
~
die each dream
the tangible’s a trickster
tangled in brambles
~
the moon is out tune
all the chords sound cool now
owls agree with we
~
us, the toffee suckers
under twilights treeline
badgering dawn
…
…
& your advert goes here
plastered like a gash
postered like lost cats
stuck up like a bank job
( look forward to ignoring you )
…
…
unwritten yesterday’s
rediscovered poem
spidery strokes
stokes no coalite since
unremembered gist
knicker twisted mist
must & dust settled
any disagreements
gardens overgrew
no rosetta stoner
could decode those scrawlings
those mute changelings
we became the same
flame until the candle
had the last laugh
belfries chiming off
but still the bellend sings
kiss my arcadia
…
…
singing us back
mister bump & tickle
tony the tiger
exmoor ponies
next turn for coleslaw
walking pole to pole
freon in his veins
radio derby ram
darth vader’s head
gathering detritus
fridge magnet man
semi-skimmed insides
cool like the blind
with their shades indoors
white plastic skin
him of ants in pantries
humming like a sleeping bee
give him souvenirs
your trinkets & your life
– it’s another stick-up
…
…
~
yesterthen’s scribbles
went elsewhere
like your uncle after
~
the operation went wrong
since is not a song
or even in key
~
croaks the morning pheasant
& big bo peep
– little’s older sister
~
retracing steps
the sort that fingers make
is fruitless indeed
~
like a greengrocer
that only sells veg
so even no tomatoes
~
oh, where art thou?
huffs the pen – like a cow
herd in an unhaunted farmhouse
~
darker than before
it’s not in your notepads
or stuffed in your desk drawers
~
sputum & dust then
another lost poem
missing – presumed immortal
…
…
my only friends are
rosy cheeked midget men
fishing by the garden pond
hoping that a goldfish
will tickle their tackle
…