sheep
dipping
is wasted on
dipped
sheep.
Ron Fuschias
Just
as she opened
the gifts
Time went
Whistling
Trill
Lilts and Airs
Tingling
Fingering
Sneaking
previews – a scented
Complimentary
Card read:
‘Be not hurt by these
small tokens. Love
Jocasta.’
She
Convulsed
With warm lament
for one hour
summer’s
nitrous
salt rain
subsumed
in silence.
Some primitive chanting
Lightens my day
Considerably
Three approaches
The day’s ebb
The ebb of day
Could rest
my head
Go to bed
Writing about the agonies
Of others is a tad
Arrogant
Anyway I do…
No I will continue
Wracking
Corpuscle & Sinew
Come, come
That’s laying
It
On a bit lavish.
Like an old church
On a
Skellig
Singing
to
The Sky Light
Summoned by Ma Bell’s
voicemail.
The Judge is ill
till next Tuesday.
Keep pecker aloft, one counsels:
Assume gung-ho veneer;
Lacquer stiff upper quiff.
Tally-Ho
Outside is frozen angelica tundra.
Sun glints melt lucky buds. A hedge is
Razed.
How I love the smell of napalm of a morning…
Vigilante bands roam
Just lookin’ for some
Combing the land
Fine of tooth,
Grey of suit
Brain in hand
They are all in this together
Birds of a feather muck together
So the slogan goes
Creeping round
on tippy-toes
just like Savile
soon unravel
Whither the day, whither the morrow
Head full of pain, heart full of hollow
History stopped this morning at Ten
The Pinkos have got me corralled in the Pen
Biding my time, postponing the Craic
Till hell freezes over and heaven smells black
A Prial of poems
about giving
up
using cigarettes
as a metaphor.
Smart, uh! Believe me!
I’m a Vicar
The State is
Your friend
Embrace it
Warmly
By The Neck
Morrow
Whine
Concubine
&
Sultana:
Sultans
Pull on
Woodbines
Inhale
Passing
Clouds
In
Silk
Pyjama