upon awakening ken enning 'come on kenneth, get up' upon awakening ken enning he didn't like that much upon awakening ken enning he punched me with a low blow upon awakening ken enning so i smothered him to death with his own pillow -oh no r.i.p ken enning the end (ing) ...
Poetry
yadnus retsae
easter sunday is here no tinsle snow or mistletoe but sometimes these things get up-muddled then fuddled easter sunday is here it's the aftermath of christ's prank the annual crucified scamp with an empty tomb for all there to see & a chocolate partridge in a pear tree ...
the truth is stranger
yes the truth is stranger than fiction as in real-life black beauty was a kraken who terrorised the 7 seas with tentacles for centuries anna sewell's an equine wind-up merchant - that's what actually happened ...
multi-mickle-muckle-pile-up
many a little makes a mickle many a mickle makes a muckle many a many a makes a muddle fuddles - quibbles troubles - riddles (?) ...
charity shop man-mannequin
charity shop man-mannequin a penny for your thoughts or failing that i'll buy some geriatric cords in your store all for a good cause ...
everyday’s only a blank page if you dismiss the invisible ink
everyday's only a blank page if you dismiss the invisible ink the scribblings of yesterdays disguised quite indistinct the meanderings of previously the potterings of yore yes everyday's only a blank page if you manage to ignore what's been written before ...
bouquet
this poem smells of the delian league a week last-sunday & cauliflower cheese this poem smells of neptune's moons all 14 of the beggars & confused afternoons this poem smells of your uncle's first car the shipping forecast a candle maker's memoir plus this poem smells of the kitchen sink so when every scent has blended - THIS POEM STINKS ...
my hit list
patrick alternator jonathon crayon anthony histamine patricia liason marianna trenchfoot godfrey guineafowl william abstract-windfarm perrywinkle owl christina chrysanthemum tracheotomy smithe henry spinning jenny alexander tithe simon peter cathode whitstable june-whitbread are imaginary people or soon very dead x ...
a world within an onion & a place within a potato
a world within an onion but this this world is your onion yet man alive like this leek yeah fuckin' 'ell - it's unique it's a magical paddle if stuck up any shit creek. & a place within a potato this potato tastes of play dough plus the turin shroud's scrotum the arch deacon's arse crack & then i the young barn-hand-lad that takes us back x ...
how they make poets
take 1 awkward bastard child then fill their head with an intricate mess of ponderings of mainly men - long dead until they positively oggle at what was once pretentious twaddle. then give this bastard child a pen or better still a feathered quill add misery so they cure themselves witless thus pleasing an elite & boring everyone else shitless ... (author nodes... a touch tongue-in-cheek but too much truth too)