Whooossh…
Theres a celibate sun
On the dry
Today
Trim Jim!
Clip your beard
Am I being heared
Or merely weird
What the Funken Garden Said
Please, I compost you,
Enrych my life!
Theres a celibate sun
On the dry
Today
Trim Jim!
Clip your beard
Am I being heared
Or merely weird
What the Funken Garden Said
Please, I compost you,
Enrych my life!
aftermath fall out heavy bleed—how heart estranged from freedom excited is —neigh terrifies suspends horse sense—beggars disbelief— roll on part: flexible hours; okay pay—nothing left to lose but loss itself: free food, need photo (portfolio)·roll offpart-time life—study Metamorphoses—Not written much this week — saddo riptide hits have surged—now why would that be?—No wiser come noon—took a path less partaken—Once bitten get fly —What’s going on here? Sunday afternoon telly—repeat: War & Peace with Duno—who? —Dunno—never heard of her —spoke slurs with venerable Aunt— on the mend from a bad dose —C Aubrey Scott pops by with a lamb bone intended for the dog: confiscated contraband — lethal fear for quadropeds—& while you’re at it: spatchcock chicken apart at two —all of this while resting between random body parts —Borodinner from Tolstoyevsky—plushly furbished dinnerfest—sly retiring flowerpot—minimalist orifice: set for quail not swan—technicolour yawn guaranteed come Minsk
See her swinging
Her stark agenda
Brenda the Bonzai
Smoothing lamb
Whistling avocado dips
through Aubergine lips
Punk pastel smoke grey light
Gives cover to vultures
Stuffing pitta pockets
Full to bursting
With faberge nosegays
Others grab shawls for
Obscene daughters
But Brenda
Agenda bender
Mate of Zenda
Stands firm
Gives no truck
Not a tuppenny fuck
To the down by luck
The money lender
Runs begging to Brenda
when he said to you
whomsoever you may be
feeling nothing much
staring into spaces
resembling going spare rooms
set aside for punishment &
broken suitcases

What would you do if
You could walk a country mile
In risible shoes ? freedom alone can turn worlds upside down
Rain, sultry rain.
Opaque grapes,
leaden sky fruit,
burst on copious,
oil dark
plush olive,
swooning,
spaded,
luscious leaves.
Three chirrup
kaleidoscope toucans
tenderly engage
a dopey puffin then
hunker down within
the livid dense canopy
to share a light
repast of slender wafers
over a convivial round
of knock out whist.
Tuesdays,
no matter the weather,
is Housey-Housey,
a rainforest favourite
throughout the ages.
Beastlings from yards
Around always
Attend
Where was the spoon?
The Spoon – the fucking spoon!
Water was running,
Loud and constant
running water
You left the fucking tap on!
He could just make out the familiar, nasal tone.
My eyelash is awash with milk suds
Not quite a froth
Clambering from the cereal bowl
Was arduous hard
Like pond weed
And gypsy tart
petrified rainbow
flaccid lambeosaurus
washed up in Bexhill-on-Sea
—aren’t men useless?