Ploughed Cuckoo Land

every morning while I’m
jumping up and down
I scream out names of
those I wish good luck to.
do any of them happen to live with me,
in the same flat, house, bijou hovel
the same shanty town,
sewer, shop doorway, aqueduct,
inflammable dirigible, barbed wire mosspot,
slice they cucumber, lick they icicles…?
Or is it someone who aint got up,
left their shit bang smack in your way,
left the bog seat up, snores like a drain in the gutter,
had their cake & ate it intravenously,
talks endless pompous psychobabble…
How very surprising.

time for press-Ups & A
Jog to old Sarky-Poohs for pot noodle, aphrodisiac,
and jellied eels on blancmange before a
long day at the orifice counting ducks…


Faith (…or you fall)

saw her hard at it
hard at it now
like a pumpkin
up a frog or ferrets on a caterpillar–



you get what i mean?                                                                                                                                              being deliberately guarded                                                                                                                                     till epiphany mad sun breaks out —


just a few Nyankan huts left  only croissant Ivy remains

Hard at it puffing
Much like a frog
Up a pumpkin


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