better out than ( dot-dot-dot )

” mmm danone “

( the danone marketing department )

a greeny green frog
from the bog within y’ throat
it’s so y’don’t croak

trumpets sound a pound
pushing out another log
shat upon the bog

you’re the squawking fog
i’m the cunt in countryside
farting far & wide

speaking with a creak
turns the key of either or
guffaw is a door

you of misted dew
rascal of the astral’s plain
chasing gravy’s train

as waz of the gods
soaks the odds ‘n’ sods of i
pissing from the sky

thieving gits

“a flower?”

( peter gabriel )

magpies steal moonbeams
& glossy magazines

coins from open pockets
– there goes y’ bus fare

diamonds in heists
with stockings on their noggins

lighthouse keepers
– bald as a featherless coot

who walk without a hat
beneath the midday sun

orange essex girls
with their oompa loompa tans

& the glowing temples
of their croydon facelifts

body builders posing
drenched in baby oil

dragged up by their ankles
to a roost in the sky

plus the little metal dish
of a mister kipling pie

or crowns from the bonces
of royal queens & kings

foil from the smack’eads
– yes, all the shiny things

( author nodes )


if you want to see the full photo

& not just the snippets of it

( sort it out – wordpress tech-twats )

october salad

“bring me my spear; o clouds unfold!”

( william blake )

toadstool cushions

gnomes gone fishing

      fission not fusion

      flatpack furnishings

further in the foghorn

haunted orchard gate

      gone with the windmill

      snails in a gale

alpacas, llamas

summer in pyjamas

      spot the baboons

      in hot air balloons

fungal fayre rides

feather duster there

      egg fried ricin

      rutting stags & hags

werewolf whistles

a turnip for the books

      leaves on the lane

      stomach acid rain

ghosts on toast

goblins & bats

      west winds, vest stings

      & woollen bobble hats

( author moans )

wordpress keeps cutting off my photos

it’s been going on for a few days now

i don’t understand …

maybe it’s the dimensions?

does everything have to be a standard size now?

fuck knows coz i don’t

but if you go on

you can still see the full images

… thanks & huff over ( for now )

auditing poetry

” yo … “

( a.b )

from the public footpath
on the corner of the page

or the pavement beyond
the imaginary fence

spot the words at work
see the rhymes in chime

forklifts loaded
with brevity on pallets

front loaders heaving
with weighty metaphors

verse smiths reversed
in poem loading bays

await the latest model
designed by muses

but built by milksops
& angry cat ladies

fly a drone over
the stanzas & the strophes

if the weather isn’t shite
( keep in line of sight )

film & photograph
all that you can see

they can film you so
– fuck security

bird poets

” never play leapfrog with a unicorn “

( roy walker )

homering pigeon

e. emu cummings

elizabeth barret brown owl

charles barnowlski

oscar wild fowl

john cooper lark

spoonbill shakespeare

shearwater de la mare

samuel taylor chaffinch

simon ptarmiganage

william crake

emily, anne

& charlotte swantë

carol anne ducky

saph sparrow

edgar allan crow

gone magnet fishing

” smoke me a kipper, i’ll be back for breakfast “

( ace rimmer )

gone magnet fishing
for tins of crab & mackerel

baked beans, sweetcorn
– blue fin tuna

perhaps a coat hanger
a ten p piece

a can of lemon fanta
from nineteen ninety seven

a tesco shopping trolley
from twenty fourteen

rusted like the kneecaps
of a geriatric robot

another magnet fisher
dragged in by their rod

swearing all the way
– catch of the day

a drawing pin
from last fortnight

the backdoor key
of your local mortuary

or an unexploded shell
what the luftwaffe dropped

so if not home by five
– call the bloody bomb squad

the ghost of billy milkinson

” kiss my axe ! “

( sláine )

the ghost of billy milkinson
still goes ten pin bowling
every tuesday teatime
he brings his own shoes

he cannot fly a plane
or play the vibraphone
& feeds the ducks crusts
from his kingsmill loaf

the ghost of billy milkinson
sleeps in a flat pack
cabin bed
he bought from ikea

& drives an unleaded
red renualt clio
like an old man
in a coma

but in the afterlife
with his dead cat, clarence
in the non-corporeal

the ghost of billy milkinson
plays naked twister
with the queen of sheba
& elizabeth the second

the jog on joggers

” let’s do the bongo-laced
twenty-second album “

( nigel worthington )

sneaking up behind us
like a randy cellmate

breathe in deep
& don’t drop the soap

as we plod along songs
hands in pockets

rucksack straps
dangle at the back

they of horsey huffs
the bringers of b.o

stinking as they go
in sodden lycra tights

creeping in the night
hunting in the day

ambushing pedestrians
their unsuspecting prey

they of phlegmy snorts
the jog on joggers

darting round corners
like a boy racer

chasing sound’s barrier
joyriding cheetahs

sweating like a nonce
or a rabid hare

pavement or park path
– beware, beware, beware –

harvest fest guest list

” if it’s me & your granny on the bongos, it’s the fall “

( mark e. smith )

cobb webster
missus q. cumber
miss a. corn
sergeant pickled pepper
si d’urberville
jam broadbent
jean-claude van damson
the creeping in knight
in his thermal tights
anyone who’s surname
is gardener
or farmer
a load of old tarts
the aga oven khan
a turnip for the books
brock olly
messr p. pod
william the conker earl
& tom r. toe