like a kipper.
Slow train fuming.
Touch light blue paper.
Electric smoke smell.
spunk in shade.
Dragonfly and scallion:
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang. Is that you?
Not got any.
Coalholed in one.
humming like a hawser
In a fall squall
Drowning in the noises of black sea beach,
Ruby boyhood daydream in the winter hall,
transported from dull to duller :
a February vacation.
Call them Martin and Matilda, twins with
no redeeming features, seven years,
staring out the tiny attic window
as the rain came down in bullet lines.
They peeped from the corrugated hay barn
across the weeded concrete.
In that black plastic was a mushroom of horsefeed,
ready to be given out.
They shared secret oilcake to settle the rumbling bellies,
gothic caverns, avenues blood lit and sumptuous.
I cut my nails and parts of me appear
to touch as if it were the first time.
They touch warm scuffed chromium, solid and secure.
A distant puck of patter,
and the churning buttermilk of linen stir and lapse,
contained by the shadow of muttercup.
Our Zero is back.
Back triumphantly from Nodl,
festooned with laurels,
smelling of spring fresh mint and lavender thongs.
– Have a cigar!
– Thunk yew muchly…
Wish like new comer: wash like an old comer
…say lurvee, say lurgair.
Life’s so unfair.
Get down, hep kat!
Pickled pumpkin head in a Pipkin!
Whatever will they think of nexty next…
jugged hair, lungs tongues in arsenic, potted wimp?
Waiting on pork sausage
We were forced to skelt
for mute sanctuary from
tampons confounded take on fern hill.
Tea was derationed today in fifty two.
Five eggs variously
boiled Mohr’s scale by Nanny Charperson.
Is it safe?
Can we come out?
Chai or Cha, your High Chairness?
We emerge and return
Waiting for pork sausage
Green and dying in our chains
Last Night of…
stark monochrome fluid,
freeway floral wallpaper,
rotting damasks, shillelagh,
almonds and formaldehyde.
White light, white sheet.
Jute wailing bunnies.
exhausted from the lie-in:
cobalt clear still sky
flossed with high flying drifts,
orchestras of demi-gods trail
We scavenge the tepee for beans,
celebrate love apples with libations of strong coffee,
and weep and fear for the band snakes,
Asian gators, and tigers on the fridge, hiding behind
the fabric conditioner, still ready to pounce on sleepy
Your runnin’ and
your runnin’ and
your runnin’ away
A cooling breeze
on the dark side
of the sun:
need a feed,
or do I?
float like a
sing like a flea.
in the mean
streets of heaven,
with the Inquisition:
‘Who hid the Remington?’
‘Peter the Punter.’
in dense desert
Terse nerval Ermintruder
Grunts and moves on.
Rambling yak cheviot.
Hear that harp!