Art

stuck on the sky

…

black velcro crows

      yes, it’s one of those

stuck on the sky

      lost in my true

highness of the welkin

      fridge magnet alphabet

cotton wool water

      rubbing like balloons

look at those weirdos

      floating in sweet blueness

we’re upon the meadows

      over earthly clover

in medieval hoodies

      longer than a raincoat

not the latest smear

      steering clear of drizzle

gawping for britannia

      mooning with the moon

this is how the clouds grey

      but mayfly live forever

gulliver’s ghost

      is a bright white pigeon

nature is my second

      cousin twice removed

…

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

…

all clued out

…

the pebble in your left
orthopaedic shoe
& rain last tuesday

a certain afterglow
in the sunset’s curtains
when we both squint

plus the cataracts
in the glass eyes
of the blind mortician

or the sparrows nesting
in the west wing
of the matron’s beard

the gnomes in the garden
that wink when we blink
perfectly in sync

like the lipstick smeared
on the vestigal nipple
of the bishop’s catamite

are all redder
than a blushing herring
square one beckons us back

…

index left

…

unscattered ashes
catch the last drift home
bones unbroken

all’s unaching
nor a restless tingle
when breakfast calls

take another gulp
swallow like a summer
while the tealights dance

dunce in the mist
nouns becoming verbs
shine like the plough

pow & kerblam
power nap slang man
index left

cleft fist this
voles, vowels & barn owls
scanning your barcode

say cheese & sneeze
odin sesame
dawn chorus horus

…

for all the tarts in bakewell

…

for all the rice in china
& the teachers sniffing glue

for all the burp in pardon
& the sneeze in atishoo

for all the fish in finland
& the zebras in the zoo

for all the gnomes in gardens
& the domes in xanadu

for all the sage in derby
& the waves upon the sea

for all the haze in maybe
& the mist in mystery

for all the crook in coppers
& the madness of cuckoo

for all the tarts in bakewell
& for all their pastries too

…

( author notes )

for those that don’t know
bakewell is a town in the derbyshire dales
& a sweet tart – called a bakewell tart
comes from there too

plus sage derby is a cheese

but i’m not a fan of poets
explaining everything in their author notes
so let’s leave it there

…

he of brighter bicycles

~

he of brighter bicycles ( selcycib rethgirb fo eh )

…

i’m a breathing pantomime

sings the scribbled ink

      with some super glue

      stick a pube or two

he of brighter bicycles

an easter egregore

      all is throbbing thickets

      & toads upon toadstools

rabbits not rubble

the catch is in the double

     trembles of treble

      as hares box the air

hespero & i

wandered of a morning

      on the road of romans

      quarrymen & drovers

time is like a light

in the dim of thought

      nought is but an egg

      scrambling the smeg

weaver of before

in the mirror – rayed

      ‘fore the dawn’s middle eight

       & chorus to fade

…

nonsense talk

~

nonsense talk ( some truths as poem )

…



i love it when they say oh-kay

ooh look - a bird - is that the time?

i really must be on my way

enjoy your simple, little mind



there's gubbins blowing in the wind

such bollocks on the syllabus

it's good to question everything

you're full of shit like sisyphus



it's good to fuck about - it is

consider march - its boxing hares

yes magic's real like boring pricks

i'm on the ground & in the air



reality's insanity

so all or nothing's nonsense here

my other selves also agree

we're vetting too

please disappear

...

wake-up poem

~

wake-up poem by some pisspot-poet or other

…




begin begin

the opening part

act one scene one

the dawn of start


the cock has crowed

then died on his arse

there is no script

it's shit not art


it's not a song

there aren't any words

the cock? piffle

there are no birds


just make it up

go on - have a splurge

mar blank a4

with bastard verse

...