Rabbits
scatter
helter-skelter.
Red risen sun,
Blue gun smoke
on an ill wind,
Sundays in Spring
Bag a Coney
for your honey.
Get old Tony
skin and gut it,
chop it,
jug it,
or,
quite simply,
let it stew,
like hate
and lentils.
everything
is
post…worthy
john peel mind rock
zest lime fig leaf:
See!
We quibbled,
she queried.
I squabbled, pram toys. Suck thumb
mendaciously.
Egg fried rice in best sock.
Crippling!
Enact plan
dusk time
As I kick up a fuss
thrashing about
in the undergrowth
on the boundary,
my furious petulance
amusing the dog-walkers,
Tony Benn is announced dead.
Five, ten to…
Poetry Please!
The sky darker,
rain and nightfall,
alone all day,
from others apart.
Do I want to see a picture of your brother’s damaged face?
No need to ask.
Friday’s rice and chicken stew is had,
now it sits on
three bags of crisps,
one ready salted (red),
the other cheese & onion (blue),
and a banana.
I have a funny taste in my mouth,
not bawking,
just savoury
salt belly draft.
Tomorrow a friend will find out how much
left foot he has, well, left.
Afghanistan beat Bangladesh at cribbage.
Gave up on Vertigo and came up here to die.
Another victory for common sense.
Failed again.
Descended:
queer, sad,
out of sync,
small talk
hard
and
porous:
Tumescent.
Filling time
Filling you.
Oberon
passing out.
Ate soft boiled,
flew a kite,
gargled, spat, and
ascended.
Wind whips rain into a lather, suds flop
coating the gunny sacks of chrysalides.
In lamb we trust, mint sauce spooned, vinaigrette,
in dollop, drizzle, cavalier splashes,
and in gravy swilled figure of eights.
Suds slip down in dirt, super, saturated
soil where rose and weed fear to bed in wont
of oblivion, just when you least expect
a dandy bramble jallops the windowpanes.
No rest for the wicked, it tattoos.
Yipes!
Either
the desk is higher
Or
the chair is lower.
One or both,
Or…
I am smaller.
Eek a squeak!
A Diva dives
A yappy, fledgling chirrups:
‘Where’s my grubs?’
‘Downunder.’
I call
From my eggshell
Midday…
Morseless rain all morning,
Steady persistent, ruthless, insistent,
Yet sometimes relenting
snide off-pisser.
So…
We Diggers curse this argent,
quick drip liquid,
call it a gluttonous mire hawker
(and sometimes worse)
Then…
Plangent noon sun stops play.
An early lunch and cribbage
Approaches from the West.
As Buddha flies over the cuckoo’s nest.
Hungry bard.
Tub of lard.
Ate the Shard
& Gherkin.
PC Mod.
Lazy sod.
Missed him.
He was shirkin’.
Bleak expectations!
Ready yourself for the big surprise:
There is no spinach.
Liverpudlians go shopping on the wireless.
The light dims.
Cheer up!
It’s not the end of the world.
Says who?
Am I talking to me?
No, thank Gawd…
just the voices in my head.
We sit and wait and write.
What is there to do?
Exercise, sleep, leisure:
the high life, or what?
Grimbeau 