Category: Poetry

The Bog Road to Szechwan

Green mud I declare,
not to mention yellow air,
dragons turned to minnows
and mice to toothy tigers,
just because two toffs
got the chop
at precisely the right moment
Timing is everything it seems
when the wind blows backwards
and the waves return for one last lap.
I take time to observe the spots
on these bamboo leaves before me
And note they bear a striking resemblance
to the candescent snotter of dilettantes

A Fossilized Act of Disappearance

Snow disappears
Guileful children on a beach. Acropolyptic.
Hope and Joy At Christmas c 1947
seventy years later.
Wrapped up warm pockets, Fur. Athens.
Green Park black in snow. Black and white snap.
Tense audition: slow cello pizzicato.
Angelic wails receding. Haunting voices clamour. Ghost beach cacophony. Polperro parrot.
Densely uninhibited. Rosewood box sarcophagus; in saecula saeculorum.
Dirce row the boat ashore, allelujah!
Mehta and life sentences; brahmin breaths and tea tree branches. Caste system begets Vast system.
Grain. Verlaine. Purple pupil beater. Flageolet old bean.
Tap Water sommelier; aficionado of bruised chihuahua avocado.

Ten O’clock— Big Seven. Threepack Strumpet, Sir Cumstantial,

Phidippides takes the bait (bad day for peas); black pudding weather;

Blazes Boylan, venal baritone; heebie jeebies scatology;

Socrates in a basket; wax my slippers, Maestro please; abject please on bended knees; laxido unction up tuxedo junction; keep on plugin’, sluggin & sloggin’—get to hang Ovid one day; then u is milin;

Alice…hair flows like meadow waves;

Midday—no prime minister-no questions; stretching hams, fizzy up; paeans to beauty, mannikins of mildew; auto scribbles; no hard shoulder to cry on; heavenly ten ton truck;

Kersplat Morrissey. Old Tosh cops it. Amazon scammers fuck me round. Louis ain’t rough

Ninety minutes spent wisely in the organic community means death on a couch of sedge in the third world. Plague takes three million worldwide every second. Big numbers crowd sevbig books. Thor world fills ledgers thinner than most

Grey warm flat empty sandstone treasury of Petra in Sunday drizzle

Monday is the boiler fix, a dirty spoon abandoned , a muzzy morning nuisance caller, an offer to be sniffed at, a fresh bed of noses, an aqueous shower, and a tale of two leopards disputing a missing bone

Swallows & Brabazons

Feel compulsion comin on
Moon shines under curfew;
pub names seek out provenance;
swept up dog shit and fag butts;
morphing on shampoo;
gurning calypso whistles;
tailspins round on moccasins;
issues mystical whispers;
moon shimmers underwater;
lamprey medusa turns
bongos into boulders;
bleak cold war imaginings
old as drenched dépaysé hills

divine fingers flexed; sick of reflection; noises off confound; fucking radiators hum; mind drifts to arcadia; planets lost to soundbites; melancholy flower; limpid soft eyelids droop; molten magma tears flood in; fissure on the ocean; squinting barracuda scatter; flying fishwives bitchy gossamer; caught shoplifting by mantrap anchovy; collective conch shell ears twitch; beach fine tooth back combed sparkles; electrifying sighting; touch static ocean tingle; giggle nervily; end of media for twelvemonth; never on to follow fashion; mores to boot save a fortune; purchase rawl plugs clear of conscience; epistles replace missiles; dreamy brave new worlds; a sure solution to eye pollution; perpetual indulgences of the ear; waxing lyrical no doubt; blessed peace and quiet; profaned by preposterous plugs; fingerful of secrets; no go dip your wick; careful with that wax eugenie; dunno where its been; a butterfly picks its nose in siam--and wham; bob is not your uncle;



The Faber Book of Neurotic Plants & Fruit fell open at ‘Gallimauphy’.

Inspector Funk arrived on fire.  

The only witness present was a mute cook called Chum.  

The blinds were shut tight.  

The light a marsh gas lava lamp.  

‘This setting is singularly inappropriate’  

scrawled across the crudely artexed wall.  

Water dripped three-four time into a blue builder’s bucket. 

A neurosurgeon minced nervously from door to door.  

A fat man rested his eyes in the blind corner of the crowded annex.  

Chum was taken off for interrogation in the wet room.  

The clock was stuck at seven twenty-four.  

On the lawn red fungi appeared from the mulch of scattered yellow maple leaves.  

The silver rowan tree was barren.  

A youth on a black bicycle rode past. Blurred adamant and grey.  

She was fleeing the clutches of a thousand-armed family that dogged her every move.  

Belatedly the phone rang. It was limpid doomed Patricia, destined for the perfumed abattoir.  

Funk was lost for words. Platitudes are all he has to offer; he winces at his indifference   

The varicose veins were clearly visible in the low November light. They were hungry. 

A chicken jalfrezi and chapati were all there was on offer.  

His bane, Epimetheus, patrolled the galley like a hawk in times of need. Nutrition was rationed out like peter’s pence to supplicants, the law of inbuilt negligence was cited.  

Chum would be released on good behaviour by a Nightingale.  

He had done nothing heinous.  

The Faber book of Neurotic Plants & Food was shut and files sent to Coventry. Funk gave way to apathy and examined the food for truffle spores.   


warm rainfall in the liturgical woods:
plump homely droplets
out of old potatoes
–olive galoshes

how strong the hay smells
turn me into your shadow
progress is glacial slow
–love every second

Guff Awe

beast ill
king sighs

Plague Whale

Lost half the month already
to seasonable sloth and extreme frost,

torse spores shimmer in moonlight
two cats watch blackbirds re enacts a dogfight

Over the Solent
a robin watches on from the cankered sill
of a cedarwood pergola

The battle for britain is back to stay
with the plague world looming
how many more times can i respond?

Going the last inch at the drop of a hat
Dog tired at eight-thirty hurts

Plague Cell

Cracked pot next upset chair—
Out of upstairs window stare
Must have been a storm out there
A wind blew
A telling gust
And Nine Red leaves stand out
flamboyant in a cruel spring glare

The Spectacle has,
an emotional attraction of its own,
of all the parts,
it is the least artistic,
and connected least with the art of poetry.
For the power of Tragedy,
we may be sure,
is felt even apart from representation and actors.
the production of spectacular effects
depends more on the art of the stage machinist
than on that of the poet.



Neon lights down south prevent
naked dripping quills lament
bloated heavy vaper trails sing
pregnant lullablies brew ginseng,
(self-harmless charades, stone deafening elective boredom,
loose lipped mouthy toothless , upbraid misogynist gays)

manky moles crudely startle                                                                                                        lazy worms like
old man Moses rotting down                                                                                                        nice now deep down deep…

View original post 205 more words

%d bloggers like this: