Vibe changes sundown
Clustered scapples save the day
White wine weds olives
Anglepoised action stations
Awaiting further information
To impart to my reader
Zelda ‘Toots’ Zuchenslooper
A dogged fighter
Carniverous wolverine
Hypercyclically disposed
Tea and oranges
Fluted green fretwork
ominous picturebook snap
asylum records
abandon faith all of you who
enter here without permits
Look! gurgling gargoyles
grotesquely gurning gargling
blistering mouthwash
Cleaned up as
best I wanted,
feeling slumpish,
taddish offish.
Make a wishlist!
Worst it can do
is not come true
if you’re careful.
The glums are dripping,
grumbling swamp gobs.
I have just done
more this morning
than all weekend.
Ghost revealed his hairy hand,
trimmed his balded pate,
gave himself the willies,
curled up before liars on telly,
waiting on next second wind
to fumigate the fuggers.
Hew rugged slither
yesterday’s one tray pork roast,
suitably dried up
penitential fare fuels wet
parlous noonday situation.
Grey March murk supplies
the worldview damp dust thin mud.
Still I am glad to
Survive weekend onslaught
With my genius still intact
It came in fourth
The horse you said
Would win the race
There were three other ones in front
Of the horse you put your last sou
On while you snored and snored and snored…
Age: old. Status: inconsiderable
Lump of matter, more fat than water
Surplus to requirements
Inbuilt obsolescent
Thumb-sucker; bad attitude
One of nature’s malconcontents
Think: Brando in ‘The Wild One’
On a white pogo stick.
I know the type:
Mass murderer
Who never killed
Anything in his eventless life
Never harmed a fly on purpose ‘cept
When he made you cry on purpose.
radio silence
my favourite station blares
Pratchett’s greatest hits
No shedding today,
the ring is barren
twenty two winter sheep
pock the tufty meadow
Still grazing after all these years
Mutton full of vibrant lamb
Gabriel scowls, forlorn as a kid
Who never had a household pet
Still radio silence fills the barn
You can hear the hay
Insinuating rumours
Nits!
Breathe in octave,
in one voice,
the celebration of the fungus,
sharp light on water,
a trout called esther williams
has parasites on its whiskers,
they say: ‘shave this fish, shave this fish’
and slip under a fan dancing turbine
off for porridge & smokies.
Bacon, egg & jungle sarnie,
two bags ready, and an early banana –
that’s my lot, plus crash sleep
(an hour maybe).
Scrubbed scrammed black mirror hob:
Bit of ritual to settle my nerves,
my confusion at that van out there,
and that nagging
constant distant
roaring machine
behind the sky.
Wednesday afternoon
As savants well know
is never certain & could hang either way.
You never know, you just like to pretend.
