Bollocks

stream on

…

there is over here

undisappearing

plucked like a pear

~

hares & mountaineers

down’s a distant town

let there be lime

~

lights & lemon-scented

afternoons in june

come december morrows

~

cracks in the past

paddle boats & mostly

scatter graph paper

~

tracing the future

if the moon’s a second sun

beaming like a tractor

~

or a forklift truck

fuck knows is a friend of mine

when the pen sings

~

stream on, stream on

walking where the water falls

in spirit form

~

we see galaxies

brighter than us gobshites

while the normies snore

…

excuse me, i’m a poet

~~~~~~~~~~

excuse me, i’m a poet by tom tarpaulin

~~~



excuse me, i'm a poet

yes poet coming through

we love all the pointless things

as that's what poets do

excuse me, i'm a poet

& poets can jump queues

then get special discounts

coz we're not plebs like you


excuse me, i'm a poet

behold my mighty pen

all my friends are poets

i don't have any friends

excuse me, i'm a poet

this gift is a godsend

destined to bore so blame the lord

until my fitting end


thank you

...

 

bananas come in handy

~~~~~~~~~~

~~~ ( click me ) ~~~

~~~

the brain's elastic bandy

but bananas come in handy

when the day's seem strange

coz the sun's been on the shandy

& the sky is always high

despite the hills that we climb

& the clouds? well they're just cloudy

which doesn't clear the mind

so i peeled a bent banana

but i peeled it the straight way

which can only always

look a little slightly gay

 next i gobbled from the tip like

with all my mortal might

& then shat went yellow

goodnight vienna, goodnight

( x )

...

 

in regards to the sun

 

often i stop & wonder

in regards to the sun

not the tabloid press lot

no - not mister murdoch's scum

but the actual sun

yes that blurry cancer gun

which some folk worship

yet albino owls shun

( like )

what's its favourite cheese?

does it like its tea quite strong?

does it rise in the east

or are the compasses all wrong?

has it ever got its hat on

or is that just a song?

is it hollow or a hologram?

these queries just keep on

...

 

death by nice

it's all quintessentially 

picturesque & quaint

warm brush strokes

the lord doth paint




thatched cottages for villages

lush meadows all around

a light breeze & birdsong

are oft the only sound




every reverend cycles

on the green - wicket keeping

cake sales & ginger ale

a chocolate labrador sleeping




inevitably green hills

generically idyllic

begging for mass murder

or failing that

a picnic

...