1.
Well I’m afraid a blank page
is always the first stage,
so grab a pencil or pen
& get jotting again…
2.
Part two,
a time to pause & review,
to re-examine the splurge
& to make sense of shed words
-yeh, fuck it, that’ll do…
3.
& lastly it’s part 3,
eccles cake & mug o’ tea
then sod it
& leave it edit free,
plus ignore all household chores
& instead nip out for early doors,
because it’s well easy
this poetry malarkey…
Reet,
cheers…
Where would balloon artists be without sausage dogs?
They’d have nothing to fold,
an unborn legacy
stagnated
deflated
sadly
never to be told.
Where would balloon artists be without sausage dogs?
They’d have fuck all to fold,
cos a cock & 2 bollocks
is a touch on the rude side
for a birthday party
when he’s 8 years old.
Can I just say that
I’m lactose tolerant
because you don’t hear about us any more.
We eat cheese alone
surrounded by our own
ectoplasm.
I’m a David Irving denier,
to many people
this
is a controversial thought,
but in my opinion
he never existed,
freedom of speech mate,
see you in court…
(again)
Pity
The Gloves Industry
in the Summer months.
They’d pack it all in
& just go home,
if it wasn’t for wicket keeping
& carpal tunnel syndrome
…
1.
I want to be ambiguous
like Julius Caesar
playing Monopoly
with an octopus
on a Berocca comedown
– but that’s ridiculous.
2.
I want to write free verse
but all too often it evades me,
oh well – it’s not a poem unless it rhymes
& at least then I’m not that lazy.
& 3.
I want apathy
but any time’s fine with me.
All that stuff...
Pathos I stay there once, 'shouldn't have gone in July it was too hot. The wise old chorus they tried to warn me: 'Don't go outside without you factor 43' But in an act of hubris essential to any tragedy, I ignored them & now oh the pain & oh the agony...
resarf poetry 