Monday, 18 July 2022

sausage sandwich

 


on a chipolata for 10 / we quiz on the

panel / we squeeze in the

phonein / we salt up the flannel


we arrange the condiments to

keep onside as / we spy on the

stationcaff floor / a left luggage label

that states

no / it's not yours


unpackaged in the

slyproject / the human face of

animal byproduct / tested up in tubes and

served on 

white


but we ain't met saintpeter yet / we're all

sonsofbakers

right?


as we

flag in the fall / the presenter wets up with

the price is right / and the choice is yours


insource /

outsource /

or no source

at all


Friday, 15 July 2022

For Archie, a poem.



For Archie, a poem

 

There’s a nudging curmudgeonly family favourite with a

cocoa nose, who’s scratched his last, alas.

 

There’s a king crossed with Westie, springing his

ears to grinding gears in the Islington breeze, in a

cavalier cat chase, always with permission please.

 

There’s a polite and linguistic savvy Cavvy, a

tennis ball detectorist, with pride of lion style, all

clipper shy and nose-rub altruistic.

 

There’s a biscuit, in many a secret stash, for those

big old eyes wide, even when ailing, never failing to

prod your affectionate side.

 

There’s a Cavestie, a hat hater, a protective

dogternal circler of celestial mind, with a

jobsworth badge on his fluffed-up flank, in a

parade of snorefest days, ever-under the impression

that there’s leftovers, always. 

 

There’s a scaredy lad, a workshop snuffler,

on one, for an opportunity, a sawdust sneeze, to

persue some glue-based rapture. There’s a belter, a

heart-melter, perenially photogenic for the capture.

 

 

 

There's a bin-man wannabe, on a channel-hop for

doggy tv, a carrot loving rival to bugs bunny’s plot,

that couldn’t stick for one second that

one of us, he was not.

 

There’s an island tripping, wet sand skipping

enthusiast for the humankind but to his own, lifted a

nose or a cocked a hind, running in from the

outfield to soundly sleep with those in Sundial time.

 

There’s a daft old sod, that’s always been, from the

days of Squid’s guiding eye, that has always

invested and bested, however great, or

small our expectations were hidden or aligned.

 

There’s a mate, an ever-present, from ankle-biter to

sweeper-up smiter, with a bark worse than fighter, a

pure teddy bear, wrong righter, loving listener, a

grumping mini mooching mensch, a

couthy pooch and companion without compare.

 

Who was, and always will be,

forever just right there.

 

 





Saturday, 2 July 2022

Cookasnitch

 


I'll let the Prawns 

Inform until

then I'm Torn






1/2

 


ave a pop of

alf an idea of

alf inching me

bag son you'll score

poetry an bleach the

bleach is for the ants an

the poetry is for the ants


Thursday, 9 June 2022

one raiser

 


the planner asked for extra gluten on

His scones where'd my dream go wrong? 


which spangled tattsworth produced these

melons with barcodes on? he wore his


petty grief like a set of jailor's keys –

meditating on a mcdonald's in the 


fakelush park / fair'nough babies point at 

ruinous wrens – the feat of standing on 


your owntwo / it's all ducktape gloves and

glassbars to them / a basement pa


blows off trigger warnings at 180bpm /

a youthgroup pocket their fucks and shuffle


off for superfood / anannonymous unlocks their

plastic hanging basket in the fold clutching


at clocks awaiting the slogoftheseason,

rendering walls all dankn’dangerous with

 

pliered eyes and linished nails / ten two

clubs on the floundering floor /


the practically purple're wakened by the

knock of dull intelligence, carrying


pixels forthe resistance,

dizzyingly, sheepishly up to the loadingbay /


a ref's whistle peels a basement window / scales

the weight of liquid opinion / Burglars!


they're probably claiming furlough!

how's hamburg been this week? 


have youtaken himup thelane, therecent? /

alongside someother incedents of hugo


elise and thepolice, the stuff was drippingdown

his cuffs / the children sing incircles a microdot a


microdot! as donk man's tellertabby lucks a pizza –

older and snider than archway dayl


lost to the eyebrows






Friday, 15 April 2022

BoF

 


chinless wonders shadow the

brass / 6 bells' shorts n' dripping

jermyn / pub's all ears


horsey hairgripped / they

foghorn the

glint / we clock a

roll

over / oh aye










Sunday, 10 April 2022

core us

 





            hand in glove 

nailed on

               bins

                 tips he

posts thee man with thee

most annoying

             swings

about his golfsing