Sunday, 11 September 2022

LoverlyJuberly

 



GRIPGETTING

                          HEROES

LOSE

         DAYJOBS

COUNTING 

                          OTHERS'

ZEROS


Monday, 29 August 2022

Effluents

 


The tide is nigh and the sea

is wasted, bottling the message with

the shrapnel of sirens' songs.


The graffiti reads of effigies and

spent laments to Barnacles,

the god of clinging on.

Pastoral Crisis



pastoralcrisis


there’s a pastoralcrisis behind the oldblackbull / to the

left of the rustingtroughs ablaze with daffs / to 


the right of scaffboardplanters and the head 

ache of chipfat / with a hawthorn back drop to a 


starlingdrama / the clatteringshed and haynes manual diarama / the missing stork up the tele 


pole / a lack of superfastupdates for outreached climategoals / to the front the cuckoospit and the 


roastingday / a weatheredfence punts two shirts / one denim / sleeveless / oilynicked with some


duffeighties metalpatch / one jermyn street / all pinstripepink and cuffed the colour of 


ducklinghatch / bellows of incomers fan the

sterlingkindling of nouveaubatch / there’s gags of 


landworkers / v / air bandb upstarts / there’s

scrumpypint bets / prescratched / going 


cheekandjowl with the rosetattoos for this 

decider / a late and baresummer knuckle match

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