photography

mid-jan man

…

baroque in a frock
the devil’s chord calls

clammy jazz hands
on the brow & forehead

rafting on the rafters
mizzle in your underpants

milk ‘tache mishaps
gaps between each gasping

catching the drift
of a woodland in slumber

perhaps the bishop lied
& monday is our oyster

a postcard in the post
from the younger dryas

the morning was a hag
& darkness was her nostrils

the clouds still growl
if we try to feed them fudge

u-boats & u-bends
whitsun is distant

the tide is a highness
‘pon a giant’s throne

as us cabbages
pen in awkward rectitude

rectories rattled
’til the battle was a draw

we became the ivy
on a battered garden fence

gland ahoy & balls
the kettle still sings

…

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

…

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

…

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

…

( this little dedication )

~

( this little dedication ) a short made-up list by some twat on the internet

…




this little dedication

is dedicated to

susan, igor

jan & stu


peter, michael

rachel & finn

stheno

& gwendolyn


margot, hugo

eve 'n' steve

jenkins' ear

& leprosy


operation

barbarossa

barbara, offa

dave & otters



limestone edges

lecking grouse

plus saladin

the mute church mouse


april, august

then jodrell bank

gleaming great things

& wank

thanks

...