if you were a bus

if you were a bus

i’d sit on your back seat

& rest my weary arse cheeks

but i’d rather you sat on me

i’d gaze out of your window

in between crossword clues

& see the town vanish

the grey becoming green

it’s leafier each blink

as blue rinsed biddies natter

on what to have for tea

& who should win strictly

i’d ride within your frame

& test your braking speed

the tyres & suspension

like a proper fuckin’ wrong’un

who should be on a register

& tagged for good measure

we would sweat in august

but warm a dark december

on the long road home

in the evening’s golden gloam

& then i’d ring your bell

when our stop approaches

hey, kurzweil


hey, kurzweil ( liewzruk ,yeh )


robots will never

smell the petrichor

wafting up nostrils

from orgaicoil soil


stirring a song

for the hinterland’s band

– no, not the robots

the metal or flesh


too busy writing

poems online

& shining illusory shoes


walking the dog

on the crust of the moon


waving the flag

of the latest bot-fad


robots will never

catch athlete’s foot

from a paraplegic



badgering on

with a blister so persistent

she even switches heels

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

frost property


frost property  (  ytreporp storf  )

a yawn of fog & out the yard

the daze is dark, the moon is starred

as mountaineers

we face the blear

the puddles - rocks, the river's hard

the grass is stone - a crunch is heard

a groan of bone but not a bird

is hymning in

this misted dim

us idiots are undeterred

we slug a trudge - the dog & me

as winters limbs are doddery

when penguins prance

& mammoths dance

a rummage in frost property

as poets squawk of summer's gold

as circles churn - this song is old

a frozen roam

& then back home

the kettle calls - it's fuckin' cold



world whirr 5


world whirr 5  ( a  p o e t r y  )

cloud-shroud balladeer

brontosaurus broccoli

cowpat caravan

goldfinch weather map

sugar snap pea shepherdess

stoat throat-singalong

goshawk gathering

mother earth & morris men

bus pass brussel sprouts

ten squid tentacles

anchors of a wanker war

quarter past wednesday



dribbing drabs


dribbing drabs  (  m y  r h m e s  a r e  w e i r d e r  t h a n  y o u r s  )

bee the beat of dripping taps

scissor kicks & snipping snaps

summer daze & sputtered sups

ducking stools & paving cracks

rue the spew of splitting slacks

river mist & missing maps

finger food & buttercups

whirling pools & swirling traps

phase the hay of tipping stacks

laser rays & slipping grasps

serpent tongues & monster trucks

thundered crumbs & otter scraps

fight the bite of nipping gnats

iron gloves & whipping slaps

sinking stands & plunder struck

tiger stripes & lion naps

span the sand of swinging sacks

pigeon piss & shitting gasps

candle quacks & rubber flux

what-the-ducks & spitting wax

tread the stead of tripping tracks

feathered blends & flipping flaps

scrambled legs & dangled up

phantom pens & dribbing drabs





autumble  (  a  p o e m  f o r  . . .  )

the fields have fledged - their crops have flown

& hog's the hedge as feet they roam

the barns are calm & lofts are hay

as trees they swirl & fade to crone

the hills seem green - the mares are roan

& hares they snore as spores are sewn

the dogs are frogs - the cats are strays

as clouds they shroud & mouths they foam

the ponds are splosh if rocks are thrown

& bird's the blur as earth's the tone

the doves are rooks or so folk say

as wraiths they stir & ghosts they groan

the land is sleep - the stones are bones

& nights they creep to fight the gloam

the plod is fog in socks of grey

as songs are sung & winds are blown