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

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.

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?

Art Skip

(c)=Some front took a piss

behind the Art Skip

Empties for lampposts 

the bypassers head

shook audibly sad

(c)

The tin ace flew at

no. 8 no need

at any rate lad

(c)

Car park lads chasing

dragons stout beneath

the slender awning

(c)

The waggon in the

dance of rain would come

along one morning 

(c)

More than it wore imp

portent quick bounces

off Okocim tins

(c)

Moths onto shoes pole

ish to walk to be

sluiced off dry stone skin

(c)

Y' no better man

than me said he to

passers by the way 

(c)

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

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

Not a haiku #59

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

Valentoss

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

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. 

Millitanka

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

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

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, 

Direct.

Carol Smoke Tanka

Spine ladder maker

She's a fabric heroine 

Titanic try hard 

Reeler of deceit is the

Conceit in the underpast

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

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