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from great urns ( a smack my keats up versus the met office of a poem )
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scattered from great urns above us spattered bits in bursts of sputter grey meets green & other colours life & death are cousin-lovers staggers here & taps on awning chattered words & birds as warnings cakes awake & serpents yawning sprinkles on a half-baked morning pattered earth & maybe riddles jabbered codes of brainy fizzle muffled drops & building trickles listen to the summer drizzle ...
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too hot for xylophones ( eight lines of bellend )
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oh trombones be thy skies above as oboes - doze so in yon fields so it's too hot for xylophones but not too hot for glockenspiels ...
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dearest jenny lind, ( s o m e b o l l o c k s )
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dearest jenny lind, i'm in your fan-fanfanclub though folk say you sang like a nightingale but i prefer them nightjars barn owls & your fans dearest jenny lind, often things get sticky all is saunad through too hot then for abba minecraft or ikea then come wafts of you ( x ) ...
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stern gales in storm drains ( a ? ( ? ) )
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there's stern gales in storm drains & judges in wigs there's branches called russell so then something twigs fire engines when it rains with shite siren song cat burglars stuck up trees so let's wander on - look, judas on burnt toast he's winking - the scamp plus bees in yon bonnet as barns start to dance there's presence in present & past in its tense there's jigsaws & piss-takes yes far too much sense ...
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my inner-busybody ( a p o e m o n i c e t h e m u s i c a l ( i n 9 – d ) )
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( my inner-busybody told me to ) write an article for the local parish news tut like a king & co-ordinate queues in god's absence & to keep an eye on you ( wankers ) ...
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there’s a ghost in me toaster ( a s h i t p o e m )
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there's a ghost in me toaster & a dragon in me kettle little imps in me fridge & in me cupboards the devil ( ! ) there's a troll in me fruit bowl which is more than i can handle wicked covens in me oven fuck it breakfast is cancelled ( forever ) ...
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the greats are dull ( t o o m u c h t r u t h i n 1 6 l i n e s )
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the greats are dull the classics bore it's no wonder most folk ignore this poetry it doesn't help its veiled self or anyone else this much is clear yet on things plod like michaelmas or dogs in clogs yon sun still shines that wind still blows this poem's shite ( at least i know ) ...
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( some call it haiku ) ( 3 lines )
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photosynthesis diplodocus cabbages dodecahedron ...
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village weekend ( a little bit of truth but not too much, erm … )
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on the pavement walk many strangers many more now than before as drunk pubs sing the songs of wankers words are turds & time's a whore ...
resarf poetry 