Snails race at great pace practically supersonic like an Otter on Berrocca or Billy Whizz but actually on it. Also rivers flow backwards Bats speak Flemish Bears shun all porridge Blackbirds sleep it's that half hour of the week & annoyingly some trees they fall in forests. Plus the Gnomes they compose Gnome-Poetry crude garden-based cantons & Magical stanzas when unseen - so free of man - no peeping & NO hidden cameras ...
Poetry
hum a music-thing
Hum a music-thing upon awakening as shite daytime punches y' face; the Radezky March or the theme tune from Emmerdale whatever row rows your boat - a songbird chirp or hurdy-gurdy 'n' bass. Hum a music-thing in shit-traffic & HUGE queues & whilst surviving the jostley pavements in town, hum a music-thing then every1 else might join in until atishoo atishoo we all fall down ...
pass it all on…
Nan used to tell me old Folk Tales & never-ever-ever-ever eat your own toenails only other peoples' that internet is evil the Hun don't like it up 'em & next door are in league with weasels. Plus it's only witches that get chickenpox twice butterflies are too nice always neat - no ice & sometimes wolves are sheep in disguise never double-cross a morris dancer - yes, she was wise ...
grab a pew…
Mildly unamused Libran Tree Surgeons, frenetic Phrenologists, diabetic Numerologists. Liquid Petroleum Gasp enthusiasts, Mesolithic Mendicants, all Entities great & sentinent. Including secret-mitten-knitters, Visigoth staticians plus the Venerable Lamashtu - grab a pew ...
may contain traces of seepage
I found a poem inside a poem inside a poem inside a poem well beyond & within its pungent oniony skin. Hiding between layers with Lord Lucan & a Russian doll whilst wondering am I the end of this or merely the tip of begin ? ...
shattoodoo
Check inbox for latest emails from Barabus & Banardos, squeeze avocados then FREE TERRY WAITE. Translate Milton into Pingu knock knock who's there? Igloo Igloo who? Igloo let me in I'll tell you not this side of gist, this is the middle of a list ...
in another reality, we ran
You 1st tickled my fantasy in History when I was sweet-lucky 13, as just when I thought that shite-squat could top the Vikings we went all Third Reich like - nice 1 Mr. Green. You were a true Aryan beauty with an air of mystery who had a thing for sweaty Austrian men, yet we're divided by time & capsules of cyanide but oh mein Eva Braun if I could love you then ...
hobbyist apocalypse
-
The Campanologists decided -
to end with a clang defy the essence of time in chimey unison rang. The Philatelists pored & ogled through their Stanley Gibbons books whilst licking the front of their favourites & shedding tears - with final goodbye looks. The Ikebanists they seemed to at last lose their powers so now devoid of their Dark-Witchcraft unarranged lovely flowers. Plus the poet-lot simply wrote on as all shit crumbled & evil winds blew oceans drowned & mountain ranges tumbled but their stray words dreamed of dawns anew ...
all geese are nazis when they walk
All geese are Nazis when they walk - no silly talk it's POLITICS not twaddle. Even if it's just another goosey-gander-waddle; webbed feet left 1st then right they're terribly Third Reich ...
have you seen my unicorn?
I don't suppose you've seen my Unicorn ? I've been searching high then low, I tethered him outside my local Happy Shopper - oh I wonder where the tosser could go ? Is he in the library studying Cuneiform ? I've scanned as far as my eyes can see, maybe it's poachers or invisibility as upon his horn is now worn the ring of Gyges ? ...
resarf poetry 