Poem

the secret diary of an amateur philanthropist (more stile over substance)





There's no need to even mention
divine intervention,
bother the Sybils
or call a steward's inquiry.





As without any quibbles
as one can tell from the scribbles,
this is clearly the diary
of an amateur philanthropist.




& part-time hamster-rights activist
& my-first-chemistry-set alchemist,
with all the wrong basics
but still trying to make gold.





Please don't tell a soul
...


x

The Crow, My Bastard Nemesis

The crow

where in the name of sweet shat did you go?

Black

like the view 

from a window seat

on the channel tunnel,

or

rather handily koz it rhymes

deepest woe,

& yet with nothing to show

for it

you fucking tit,

you winged bastard feathered shit 

…

(because you’re just)

All corvid & dark

looking absolutely nothing like the Cutty Sark,

pecking

on an ice pop

whilst perched in the park

…

Stay still,

long enough for me to shoot you

…

a wonky smudge & a head stuffed with dust

A wonky smudge
come sun or sodden trudge,
we're off-plumb on purpose
judge not lest ye be fudge.


& a head stuffed with dust
in the land of things & fluff,
slow worms are in fact limbless lizards
in odd we trust & it's never enough.


(so)


Uninsert the time & date
& stay unperturbed of rhymes & wraiths,
as all of these tea cups are storm proof as standard
but our rust contains traces of gate...

‘can’t get the stuff nowadays…

Dirty, laundered Monopoly bank notes

& erotic windmill anecdotes?

–

I’ll check sir

but I don’t think we have any of those

…

A tetanus cure & or lockjaw

now available as a cream or in handy spray form?

–

Soz, well sold the last on a Candlemas of yore

& sadly don’t stock that anymore

…

Well in that case just the spear of destiny

& the cauldron of rebirth?

–

I’m afraid a lady bought them both yesterday

& the moral is get in there first

…

NEXT!

feral & free

Words have a right to roam

feral & free,

& mass trespass 

throughout Kinder Scout

& further

…

Such as Mam Tor

or the mental world of thought,

whilst pretending to be an accountant

or if they like – a taikonaut

…

(because)

It’s all up to them & mean man no harm

beyond sticks & bricks they cannot hurt us,

however: Some words trample crops

& intentionally spook livestock

& leave gates open on purpose

…

Bloody poets

…

what happened to the other poems…

Well the first poem fell

down a mine shaft / well,

& withered within a fortnight

as all passers dismissed its yells

…

The next poem was gored

by a mob of wild boars,

in historic woody woodland

& then my homework ate the corpse

…

Another poem died from sheer sin

Sudafed & Benylin,

plus Junior Calpol – despite being an adult

the coroner didn’t know where to begin

…

& the last poem got lost in some mist

honest – I’m not takin’ the piss,

it may well have been abducted – by aliens or Alans

so you’ll have to make do with this

…

Dearest Summer,

Where d’you swan off to in January?

Oh where did you go?

You seemingly abandoned me

& missed all the snow

.

Because you disappeared 

to southern hemisphere,

& you didn’t even send us

a Christmas card last year

.

I did but I still fuckin’ love you

you fickle old part-timer,

eeeh – you cheeky sick note skiver

is there any chance you can lend us a fiver?

…

I’ll pay you back in a season or 3,

honestly

…