…
stalking the corridors
she is dismal death
watching us like carrion
until we nowak
as we go about
business in this mad house
you are now tuned in
to radio broadmoor
fm & online
out the other – said the actress
but we’d rather be sleeping
on a bed, comfy mattress
yet the dark is a lark
& community is bright shite
bites in the night
but the bugs shall not become us
…
…
an odd love letter
from yer uncle’s milkman
a shopping list
from another dimension
a radio play
on broadmoor fm
the diary of yer long
lost country cousin
an open source glossary
of assorted bollox
…
…
i tching powder
t issue paper
e lastic bands
m ushy peas
s hower gel
…
…
how to bake a simnel cake
are there honey badgers on mars?
campanologists near me
is bradley walsh a lizard?
mozart tour dates
beethoven’s comeback symphony
diane abbott bikini photos
is rylan clarke a free may sun?
how to make a trouser press
latest elvis sightings
tomorrow’s local weather
…
…
r umble in the background
h uddled like clucking hens
u nderneath your sound waves
b labbering old cobwebs
a niseed singsong
r ambunctious redshanks
b adgers ate your birthday cake
…
…
wafting like a ghost
if there’s a draft indoors
– i am a cobweb
…
…
…
…
a boarded up shop
on a dead high street
of a breezless afternoon
sometimes the moon
can be seen in daylight
still up from last night
but not this x
on a sheet of graph paper
doldrum roll, please
where did all the traffic flow?
we stand statesque
under dozy duvets
of motionless blue
unstung by wasps
or mutant g.m hornets
no lightning struck
while the iron was lukewarm
or song was sung of
life as it unhappens
…
…
your tosspot narcosis
is not my odd osmosis
the sad sack lark supposes
as the human farm dozes
after night’s time closes
as the cockerel crows’s
then the rest is sneezing roses
head, shoulders, knees ‘n’ toes’s
the spare hip in hypnosis
the rabid badger’s nadgers
this flux – it juxpatoses
…
…
illegible, the message read
‘yer dinner’s in the potting shed’
impossible, the painter cried
to catch the scale of heaven’s wide
impeccable, the chicken clucked
a west wind blew, yer sister sucked
illusory, the curate claimed
& all the bots online were blamed
a hedgerow poet scribbled once
the abrahamic god’s a nonce
& other gods live in this green
the middle east is not my scene
industrious, the playwright minced
the breakfast plates are washed & rinsed
intentional, the milkman knew
a flying pig would scale the blue
…
resarf poetry 