Bots - A Tanka

The data needs now
Machine-gunning where there are
Cyclical sickle
Dreams that hammer the sleep of
Those who you can't figure how

Flaxen Klaxon

Slánte

Across the

Key to the 

Flaxen klaxon 

Tin tin's

A certain red

Blacksmithery

A red that's hot

That cuts as locks

Hot through
Tin tin's

Snowy bits within

Save Me Gravy - A Tanka

The pious pie us

With custard hangovers mash

With liquor thicker

Than the tie-knots of auction

Corpses by Christie's vicar

Pound for pound

The person spits the

Person eight

Stones throw from there

The change

Never comes

The crater in

The mini

Roundabout's 

The sound

We cannot

Wear

Pickle This

A day to remember.

Pickle this

Freezing cold weather.

A custom

To preserve this onion

In Baltic jar or

Gurkenglas.

Use for soup

That sits

That's klass.

One score n' eight

Ingredients used as

There's an island

That wants

The cream turned sour.
We're told,

Dill with it.

It's pickling hour.

Curtains - A Tanka

Cardsharps twitch in the
Hermitage practicing the
Darks arts of online
Gammon paper backing and
Putting rents up summat harsh

From these Spines, Aloof - A Book Title Cut-Up

The Moonstomp

is clean. 

Communism, 

the dream. 

Brilliant be the poems, 

on Alternative Street. 

Against the Mann

with the 

personal smile, 

these prison happenings

have an 

orange affair 

with the truth. 

As we tango

like penguins

in the darkness, 

a two-bob freedom

is best selected, 

from these spines,

aloof.