secret potters pottery on the sly they come home - hands tired stinkin' of clay in the sordid depths of night yes secret potters pottery unawares the other-half worries why they're not there if only it were as simple as another affair ...
Poem
shakespeare’s not dead – he’s in my shed
shakespeare's not dead - he's in my shed neckin' tennents super & generally misbehavin' he's messin' up neat piles of pots y' barred y' bard so please piss off you 4 hundred & 60 odd shed squattin' swan of avon ...
10, 000 grahams
there are always 10,000 grahams on earth since before the dawn of man it's all part of some plan with their magic name they maintain equilibrium is sustained if there were 10,000 & 1 then every goose would turn into a swan ( ... & that's just for starters ... ) ...
orangutans & morris dancers
like orangutans morris dancers are a dying bunch so you can now adopt one from just £5 a month this will pay for bells & ale neglect itself's a crime but orangutans make actual sense cheers - thank you for your time ...
monday is knob day
well all queue jumpers are subhuman scum especially that wanker in the bus sta-tion there's a system to this tedium we all hate waiting too so don't fuck the queue instead fuck you ...
… an ever-shrinking christmas card list …
i had a row about owls with my shadow last year so now we're quite distant when once so near i think he moved to timbuktu or was it skegness? it's lonely when the light's right & i miss our games of chess ...
put y’ foot down
a brownfield site among the shite on a wank december's night a sewage farm the bowels of hell a plague pit piled vile sights - foul smells a crash-smash drenched in weeping rain among the bits of plane meets train or a y'oldey war - those cannon balls nah, that's no place for a picnic at all ...
plods
let's plod these meadows leagues & yards the sunshine turns the sheep shit hard them hedgerows sing of bits of spring charybdis an opening the buttercups are yellowing the bluebells ring the nettles sting so let's roam this shat for bastard miles plus once upon a nackered stile i found a wallet with loads of cash in it so i kept it ... ( ... author nodes ... sometimes poems ... just end ... the don't end-end, they just end, sorry about that ... )
when cows lie
when cows lie under clear blue skies with not a single cloud at all is this a form of fraud ? ...
f*cki*g *oems, *astar* th*ngs …
they hide behind bushes then flash us unawares then leg it off in the nud somewhere over there they sneak into our gardens in the perverse depths of night then in the middle of the lawn they shit a massive shite they babble next to us on buses when loadsa double seats are free clothed but recognizable please stop bothering me & so i shout through the morrow mist as birds begin to sing 'SHAKESPEARE WAS A FRAUDULENT WANKER - FUCKING POEMS, BASTARD THINGS' ...
resarf poetry 