…
stranger than strange
mister vista’s jawline
it’s hairy over there
shrouded in cloud
the chinny chin chin
of some old god
or an otherling
maybe a monster?
depends who’s singing
we await your form
stroking hmmm anew
a moon for each sun
a soon in every though
blue dawn whispering
green death gleaming
whence in why ‘n’ there
wagtails wag
a brown hare legs it
let’s head west in vests
frogmen of the east
friends of phantom fog
…
…
morris men bailing out
parachutes & landing on
yesteryear’s merriments
enter the fayre
as their sunk plane explodes
with an orange plop
into the west’s horizon
so the foxgloves are off
let the bells knell then
let the barely legal
maidens weave
ribbons ’round a randy tree
let the ale keep it real
if the piss’eads insist
albion, the coffin dodger
is seventeen again
so this green & pheasant gland
de vere’s sceptred isle
mister blake’s jerusalem
is wistful like wisteria
while clematis climbs
like the ghostly smoke from
great auntie beltane’s
bonfire – the bardish
burks compose their verse
on greasy white chip paper
necking lukewarm cans of
dandelion & burdock
let anew resume
& a cuckoo calm us all
…
…
fergus in the ferns
frolics with francesca
furtively fumbles
…
…
scribbled sequentially
in a rusty cable car
halfway in between
the valley & the mountain
apart from verse six
which was borrowed from a dream
that your country cousin had
about your uncle’s chin
& verses one to five
which a gibbon improvised
on a dirty qwerty keyboard
from the centuries turn
then verse seven was flinched
verbatim from the back
of a pack of pork scratchings
in nineteen ninety two
then the rest just appeared
on the back doorstep
one frostless morrow
with love from trad-anon
so none at all hails
from my hinterland’s shores
but the english pigeons flinched
the phoenician alphabet
…
…
as a roundhead infantryman
hamming in the ranks
of the civil war department
in the sealed knot society
– i can relate
…
…
mozart went to mow
went to mow a meadow
on the moon
…
…
as a nobel prize
winning cryogenicist
– i expected more
…
…
glue a sinking boater
with droopy dead daffodils
& tulips as well
then hyacinth too
so red, green & blue
with yellowing edges
wrapped in blooming blackthorn
a crown from those hedgerows
fit for an archetype
goosegrass from the garden
( which grows sooner each year )
a smear of rabbit shit
a spring lamb’s tail
& their afterbirth as well
a handful of raincloud
a whiff of fallow musk
a purring willow’s catkin
& a shiny splodge of frogspawn
plus a creme egg wedged
in a rubber chicken’s arse
stuck atop the lot
…
…
actually the fifth
beatle was in fact –
peter andre
…
…
though the fat bastard
fasted half the hungry week
while the unsung heroine
modestly sang of her greatness
oh, yet the gobby mime artiste
never fhut the suck up
now the breeze from the south
is colder than a northerly
but the oxymoron seemed
quite bright in conversation
…
