Wednesday, 26 February 2020

The Coping Tanka

Pictures of spitfires 
Pin-ups and bangers they were
All wearing marsks goes
The bowie mechaknife with
The coping sore of anger

Sunday, 23 February 2020

What Ploughs the Soul Could Ink the Best - A Book Title Cut-Up #3

A right rambling storm of 
dead sad boys happen by the lake. 

They drive round contained houses, 
In bad to the bones tattoos. 

They sing situationist songs of
broken female mischief and

reckless European football nights.
They read the stylists' paper, for the birds.

They paint single white Lolitas, 
having heard the fiction of 'How to be Pink'.

As the Howl Pig burns the unyun, 
We know that what ploughs the soul, 

could ink the best.

Friday, 21 February 2020

Tanka Grip

They kept on until 
The tyreless campaigner
Swallowed the final
Employ fitter pill a' La
Fabbrica Dei Pirelli

Draft Avoidance Tanka

To get out of the
Second draft he went into
A bar and shouted
Which one of you poets is
Man enough to take me on?

Thursday, 20 February 2020

Art Skip

(c)=Some front took a piss
behind the Art Skip

Empties for lampposts 
the bypassers head
shook audibly sad


The tin ace flew at
no. 8 no need
at any rate lad


Car park lads chasing
dragons stout beneath
the slender awning


The waggon in the
dance of rain would come
along one morning 


More than it wore imp
portent quick bounces
off Okocim tins


Moths onto shoes pole
ish to walk to be
sluiced off dry stone skin


Y' no better man
than me said he to
passers by the way 


Next day the lipstick
popped & they'd taken
all of it away

Not a Haiku #70

Someone popped a pill
In my bitter as I was
Looking at Twitter

Stasis Factory (Tanka)

The Hi-vis blokeflake's
At Club Graucho feeding his
Mind-gout cries Marxist
At Harpo don't wanna hear
You kick me out kick me out

Monday, 17 February 2020

Hatched a Tanka

He stirred the ice-stick
With an ice-pick hatched his brand
New plan was to span
The formula and to clean
Up more often than he can

Friday, 14 February 2020

Not a haiku #59

Ah! when the thrumbuzz
Is pref'rabble to skull numb
arsehole thuddery


Roses are chocolate
Violets are parma
In the marketeer's sweet fields
You are all farmers

Dutch Master Tanka

Conning muses out
Of online dress he thought he
Painted like the Dutch 
But scrawled and scabby portraits
Made with digi mucky brush

Wednesday, 12 February 2020

Fever Pitch Tanka

In the fever pitch
We appear all the same we
Love broken biscuits
As Nick Hornby said it's not
The smoking it's the shitness

College 'ead (Meet you in the Three Crowns in 1994)

That there, could be evidence.
So he shied it over the church low wall, 
before ducking in the licenced temptapory, 
for a bask, flask distract. 

Scarlet sparked talons stayed
way below the hillside tavern table. 
Afternoon off's rare sun, cracked cloud nines
over dry stone ear wet. 

Nails were hid from all as hard as
By a seventeen three six fiver. 
Except for Regal shortening and his afternoon shite cider grasp, 
They were Joe Bloggs curled and thrust. 

Pitches put, five bobs burnt,
pocket lessons learnt from. 
Pool refused as long hair grew, 
And only his resignated driver, 
Got a glimpse and gave a wink of trust. 

Tuesday, 11 February 2020


At the Elephant
Hotel in the drip of grink
His military
Memory face washed in the
Veteran inactive sink

Peak not a Haiku

The comedic peak
Went to his head as he grew
Faux beef in his online shed

Sunday, 9 February 2020

Cereal Modern Tanka

I heard a smartphone
Pop was just a kerb lad crack
King caps official
Missed the flop of confetti
Wet in council paving snaps

Thursday, 6 February 2020

What The Hotel Saw - A Book Title Cut-Up #2

What the Hotel Saw

On the Abstract March
He'd found Somebody's Diary, 
After being kicked in the Balkans,
by Mi. 

'Marriage, Fren
Is Selected Seasons' said
The Permanently Blanc
Emperor's Expressionism. 

'Why the Hell Not?'
Said the Painter to the
Other Revalueshanary, 
'True Faith is the New Dope'. 

Where there were only
Three Clicks Left in the
Amorous Heart of Radetzky
Caught Running Poems across
The Tomb of the Hampshire Suburbs

In the Darkness
Of the Cabaret Clubs, with their
Modern Ornamentation, 
he was Bard, 
from The Art of Discourse. 

The Weaver's only Crime, 
was at Weakeners' Night, on the Tiles,
down the Wires, 
Spring Gobbing Into the Savoy, 

Carol Smoke Tanka

Spine ladder maker
She's a fabric heroine 
Titanic try hard 
Reeler of deceit is the
Conceit in the underpast

Tuesday, 4 February 2020

Essekenplatz Rower in a 12 Tanka Story (Illustrated)

(Lichtenstein's Still Life with Red Wine) 

He was the sort that
Would carry beer mats in his
Covert coat pocket
For unstable tables that 
Would bump into him often

Borscht spat Benday dots
On badly lain flags by The
Absolute Friday
Nighters with Stazi barnets
He was tucked up to avoid

The down dent left by
Second story safe haul was 
The cheek suck of the
Bar girl's neat note for the numb
'er for ambivalence see

(DalĂ­'s Lobster Telephone) 

The sniff dog's nod not
Bread of expectation not
Stall tied to edge the
Clamourous bus burr was he
Quall to the fuss of walking

You bets whispered in
Two battered whiskers placed by
The strife eternal 
Diced and shifted gifted to
The nowhere not even odd

There not could provide
A new collar to button
He put his finger
Right the fuck on it tonic
And crossed the narrow road wide

(Bertelli's Profilo Continuo (Testa di Mussolini)) 

The memorial
To the dog with two dicks he
Passed the bronzed pigeon
Shat on statue to a simp
Pairing tit of the drool stool

Kinder scoots strewn as
Homeless folk's strewth dotted he
Spotted the libr'ry's
Shut as John's paper shop was
Like his cigarette rolled up 

He lingered fingered
For an excuse for a coin
Not choc lit he flicked
Through the poetry bit of
Sue Ryder's put out of sorties 

(Herakut's I got quite good at hiding the herd from those who kill beauty for fun) 

Crisp his soup head dreamt
Of rye bread but not that sort
Beyond caged whistles
And mirrors of his drying 
Window sun budget cigar 

Pickled plates a cream
American Frank furs the
Diner's sound soured at 
Psycho records on plastic
That jukebox lent him in thin

He judge watched narrow 
Eyes and James Dean smiles so snuck
The doorway dark as
Fuck to hear imagine ary
Women there misplaced for luck

Sunday, 2 February 2020

Wrestling Modern Tanka

When I needle 'bout
Your trite swipe-right poetry
'ave a pop haystack
a right fucking go Lee sure
Bruises from falls from crab trees

Saturday, 1 February 2020

Jorvik Bar Tanka

The bog's all Jorvik
Viking centre the bar set
Low could finish this
But pretends the stench is a
Message they never sent ya