Story

blubbering on

do not stand at my grave & weep

as i faked my own death

 i aint 6 six feet deep

there's a sack of maris pipers

in the coffin down there

whilst i live the high life

new i.d - elsewhere

so when you awaken in the morning shite

for me it might be evening, early afternoon or night

aye - so do not blubber at my graveside & that

instead fuck yourself rigid

you stupid fucking twat

x

...

offerings (how to try)

offer your plans

to the warm blue hands

of confusion

let it nurture them

let them feed off its odd

let it nestle them

let it be their god

then put this faith

in the obscure things & the details

like moss & lichen on a post

an opaque stain on the dog-shelf

the many traces of utmost

& the rest should look after itself

... 





(author notes; dog-shelf is slang for floor)

memories of hilda

Whilst Winter blue skies

improvise

& experiment

with abstract mime

I thought of Hilda

with her wonky eyes

her prosthetic chin

her resurrected grin.





Her distinct body odour

aye - it's definitely over

there was asbestos in her loft

there were cobwebs in her shed

yes - the curate tried to warn her

about the shadow of madness

but oh my Hilda I killed 'er

& now she's dead dead dead

x

...

the monkey in me


Whilst climbing trees

to feel closer to God

& perchance

clasp the beard

of the cheeky old sod

something simian stirred

from pre-human history

in its current Chinese year

- it's the monkey in me.





Yes, there's a monkey in me

there's a monkey

 in you

there's a monkey in the vicar

& your mother

obviously too

as evolution does its things

in regards to time & ape

but we're not that different really

'cause everyone's primate

...