Poetry

routine inquiries


It was probably a Tuesday or Thursday

so let's call it Wednesday

as a form of compromise.





It was either evening or early

so now it's afternoon - let's follow through

with no surprise.





They said their name was Graham or Susannah

so let's say Grahannah

in the absence of objections.





& they definitely went off in 1 of several directions

& that's all I recall Your Majesty

any further questions

?

...

can i stroke your poetry?

Can I stroke your poetry?

Is it tame?

Has it had the vaccinations?

Is it house-trained

& almost tolerant of children

or will maim my face

all hate & nasty machinations?





Can your poetry

do any mad tricks?

the surrealsome 6, hex twig sticks & back flips,

or bury a mouthy pheasant

or perchance chase a bone

- oh please tell me is your poetry

sweet lovely's true epitome

& free 

to a fairly goodish home?

...

random noctbservations


The sleepless sheep

can flockin' count themselves

cos part-time shepherds 

skive indoors,

a puzzle book

teeters

precipice - wonky shelf

as woodland turns,

sleep-swears

then snores.





A barn owl has

a dipole moment

whilst pastures doze

under Moon Cheese Head,

but then a bike in the village

plus a priceless trowel

are stolen

- they were askin' for it really,

UNLOCKED SHED.

Tut.

...

the brown stuff

Every poem is a turd

& we defecate these words,

as certain as that murder

deserves our condemnation

so obviously writer's block

is a form of constipation.





Yes every poem is a pooh - it's true

be it haiku, sonnet or epic,

they make us cry, laugh, love & think

but please bear in mind

that every shit stinks

...

quite ominous stuff

A loud thunder cloud clapped

then some scaffolding collapsed

as an evil wind blew

so the Queen followed-through.





A 1-headed magpie

exclaimed a single sad sigh

thence flew under a ladder

as the lunatics grew madder.





Plus all the cats were howling

& the turtle doves were growling

until it was clear to all

so bollocks to crystal balls.





Yes it's unjoyously unsurprising

there's shat nastiness arising

& this shite might get tough

coz that's quite ominous stuff

...

what we already know…

15% 

hate A over C

& 2/17ths of them lot

would y'know,

blatantly.





Plus in the area of 18/41sts

of these

would tumble-ARRHG-stumble

into the dreaded bracket E

thus excluding superstitions & rogue-erratic Whitsuns

at a roughly constant rate

of fairly 2.8.





Further,

as per pie-charts

Byzantine whispers, vistas

& Skylarks

19.~ Tuesdays

would fail to correlate

inciting potential hill fog & riots

as their stats abominate.





Yet 2/3 of murmurations

are allergic to cress

so why this really kicks-off

shall remain a game of chess

- yes,

here-be-lie the FACT-SHATS

cold, hard 'n' bare

& a Nightingale sang in Berkeley Square

...

terms in contradiction


Poetry is practically invincible

like a tough young Buddhist cat,

a ball-resistant moth

or a warfarin tolerant rat.





As poetry refuses to die

like a relative

- well fortified & remaining unconquerable,

with the keep tower standing proud

its lofty attic in the clouds

but in many ways

it's still very vulnerable

...