Tag: Loss

Damp Squibbles

The road is full up
bold brazen alien cars—
fireworks party sleepover,
vodka cheeseburgers,
Haircut 100 (Boy Meets Girl),
Megadeath (Love’s Old Sweet Song)
—sailing metaphor
discovered cringing in
uncharted waters.

Early night after watching the box—
quiet as a sober xmas and about
as memorable
as a drunken one.
That time of year is about

After all that sleep I am up early,
cognizant of bowel, reminiscing all the time,
self-nutting, never the plaintive, always the pontiff,
he who must be dismayed at all times,
grovelling before the
altar of adverse opinion.
Waiting for my hat to be knocked off

Ireland beat the All Blacks in Chicago—
were they wearing Blue Shirts?
Always feared the Moor, the Bogmen*
And its bog weather down here in the Cut
Dross grey damp dank murk
Sunday in November

Glamorous brown tortoiseshell
bicycle clips seconded
make-do Alice bands
by stray myopic pedlars

*The bogman learnt to fear the Moor
when they left the quay of Baltimore
with a penchant for paella,
whitewash, and a wife and kids,
slave traders of the Levant,
sporting nubian pantaloons,
chain smoking ali baba camels
swiped them in the night

Cider With Nosey


Spring 2



walk out

in the garden

assume the olive chair

face the morning sun

mindful of the schism

spend awhile elsewhere

ten provides some clarity

go tear down delapidated

old tired chicken townships

destroy what is not needed

gig for stolen dignity

time to dig down deep

replenish nurture



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Timid house trained shrew

She sat sobbing silently

Crying in the loo

Teardrops splash on hush puppies

Reading bottles of dog shampoo

Praying that your bowels will move

Before you fall asleep

Listening for a hunting dream

What ever happened to

Sweet Baby James?

Flying Fishes Play

Aspidistra dashed

Off out immediately

Pressing engagement

Previously flagged up

On the road to Mandalay

As Jasmin wafts in Obtuse

leaden burden sighs

too overly familiar

onerous chatterbox

clueless lingering

playing at bewildering

fingering moonscape scar tissue

a farce of threadbare

sackclothed habit

starts me up from

overwhelming reverie





wave big






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