imaginary pen pals made-up names & addresses the sillier the better yeah - keep royal mail guessing imaginary pen pals yes now the hours fly-by the slightly worrying thing though is occasionally they reply (?) ...
Stuff
secret potters
secret potters pottery on the sly they come home - hands tired stinkin' of clay in the sordid depths of night yes secret potters pottery unawares the other-half worries why they're not there if only it were as simple as another affair ...
orangutans & morris dancers
like orangutans morris dancers are a dying bunch so you can now adopt one from just £5 a month this will pay for bells & ale neglect itself's a crime but orangutans make actual sense cheers - thank you for your time ...
… an ever-shrinking christmas card list …
i had a row about owls with my shadow last year so now we're quite distant when once so near i think he moved to timbuktu or was it skegness? it's lonely when the light's right & i miss our games of chess ...
put y’ foot down
a brownfield site among the shite on a wank december's night a sewage farm the bowels of hell a plague pit piled vile sights - foul smells a crash-smash drenched in weeping rain among the bits of plane meets train or a y'oldey war - those cannon balls nah, that's no place for a picnic at all ...
science-shit
if that there archimedes had never-ever washed he'd have stunk to high-heaven & we'd be at a loss but he got in that bath then them waters got deeper thus inventing the word & moment - EUREKA ...
there’s a badger in my soup
there's a badger in my soup & i've no idea why the world's tiniest badger it's the size of a fly it wasn't on the menu i don't know what to do there's a badger in my soup - no, wait now there's 2 ... (author nodes; the plot thickens (again) )
wild flowers among castle ruins
wild flowers among castle ruins the head's a beverage thoughts-a-brewin' as life plods on & all that glibness they say here's haunted a wraith i've yet to witness apart from the headless ones consequences - quencecons a punished uprising but now most of the stones have gone as bricks for the local homes scattered yet abound like these wild flowers but the other way around ...
on the day of woden
a when-inclined breeze gently rustles the rowan as spring muddles on spreading green things in motion i wonder how old's birdsong? it's a puzzling notion but the sky is blue - like hidden clues on the day of woden ...
teamwork
in the evening garden there formed a sort of buzz a passing car an in-song thrush & other bits of now merged stuff as one sound collectively as one sonic entity it lasted a second - then left in a rush leaving only silence & the eerie hush of dusk ...
resarf poetry 