it's an overcast sunday let's afternoon stroll along the flat of the valley 'neath the dales as they roll by the banks of the river where the wild garlic grows suitably level but a delight for the nose ...
Words
yadnus retsae
easter sunday is here no tinsle snow or mistletoe but sometimes these things get up-muddled then fuddled easter sunday is here it's the aftermath of christ's prank the annual crucified scamp with an empty tomb for all there to see & a chocolate partridge in a pear tree ...
the truth is stranger
yes the truth is stranger than fiction as in real-life black beauty was a kraken who terrorised the 7 seas with tentacles for centuries anna sewell's an equine wind-up merchant - that's what actually happened ...
multi-mickle-muckle-pile-up
many a little makes a mickle many a mickle makes a muckle many a many a makes a muddle fuddles - quibbles troubles - riddles (?) ...
charity shop man-mannequin
charity shop man-mannequin a penny for your thoughts or failing that i'll buy some geriatric cords in your store all for a good cause ...
everyday’s only a blank page if you dismiss the invisible ink
everyday's only a blank page if you dismiss the invisible ink the scribblings of yesterdays disguised quite indistinct the meanderings of previously the potterings of yore yes everyday's only a blank page if you manage to ignore what's been written before ...
bouquet
this poem smells of the delian league a week last-sunday & cauliflower cheese this poem smells of neptune's moons all 14 of the beggars & confused afternoons this poem smells of your uncle's first car the shipping forecast a candle maker's memoir plus this poem smells of the kitchen sink so when every scent has blended - THIS POEM STINKS ...
my hit list
patrick alternator jonathon crayon anthony histamine patricia liason marianna trenchfoot godfrey guineafowl william abstract-windfarm perrywinkle owl christina chrysanthemum tracheotomy smithe henry spinning jenny alexander tithe simon peter cathode whitstable june-whitbread are imaginary people or soon very dead x ...
a world within an onion & a place within a potato
a world within an onion but this this world is your onion yet man alive like this leek yeah fuckin' 'ell - it's unique it's a magical paddle if stuck up any shit creek. & a place within a potato this potato tastes of play dough plus the turin shroud's scrotum the arch deacon's arse crack & then i the young barn-hand-lad that takes us back x ...
how they make poets
take 1 awkward bastard child then fill their head with an intricate mess of ponderings of mainly men - long dead until they positively oggle at what was once pretentious twaddle. then give this bastard child a pen or better still a feathered quill add misery so they cure themselves witless thus pleasing an elite & boring everyone else shitless ... (author nodes... a touch tongue-in-cheek but too much truth too)
resarf poetry 