i left by the back door at around 9.03 in search of that time honoured nature po-et-ry. the meh pedestrian usual shite i'm sure you've read 'n' heard that no one nowadays really writes just jiggles the words. but by by 9.07 (ish) the weather had turned shit the animals they scattered fast the nymphs they were amiss. so amidst this bastard shat i decided to head back then went home & penned the usual gubbins in hindsight - thank fuck for that x ...
Poetry
boo!
when the original prankster-wanker first cried the word BOO they shat themself to kingdom come surprised themself too ...
consciously vague
it trickles in drips of drops of dribble whilst always just missing the tip of the tongue. it speaks with no language blank pages when written where once there was music old songs are unsung. but sometimes in places in daylight awakened yes briefly a twinkle a glimmer of inkle. yet never specifics lest what it all means i'm trying to remember last night's dream ...
maze tale
all directions they disappear all compasses are useless here. there are man-traps they're quite persistent all guides & maps are non-existent. no ball of thread for us to see the echoes are distractions no ariadne. then beyond the next left another dead-end blocks we shall demand a refund but for now we are lost ...
qqPkzhf&%””G^T~Vvry + Vtgf#~~n = Jhkhygtbdb.12JBbV~~~…? (a very old song)
halfway up a nosedive a bonnet in a bee inside hands are pockets encryption is the key. inside bats are belfrys where only the mute can sing within mendicants the wealthy beyond the end it's everything ...
vernal warning
if nothing else Spring has wandering hands it fondles these pastures gropes over this land it gets the unexpecting when they least suspect the dirty old beggar yes Spring is a pest ...
shapeshifter diaries
last week began as a bat echo location warm blooded flaps then became a merged toady-cat blending the familiar shades of witchcraft. then further from there to mrs. sinclair the m62 mount sinai a shrew plus random tangents yes many strange changes but all this week exclusively i'm you ...
them next doors
my new next door neighbour's from the 1690s a living artefact an antique. behind - the other side lies a retired roman legate the new one moved in last week ...
planet pantomime
there's no escaping pantomime wherever you try to run & hide be it up a rocky crag or in the valley wide they'll be a dame in drag a talking cat or magic lamp. aye at any time of its thigh-slapping year coming soon in june at the end of the pier this way ex-soap stars still have a career it's behind you - oh yes it is fear the panto FEAR ...
becoming poultry
restless legs lead to awkward struts trembly scoring encoring definitely wembley then it spread to both elbows inevitably kicked in so in the absence of a cure i sort of walk like a chicken ...
resarf poetry 