Barnacles

 

orange sauce

 

december descends as a
sitcom spiv / a fluffeup duck on dogends / allegrobrown / addictive

straighter?

 

the taxi shouts growth, prospect, in a

well fed font as the councilpavers speak.

he's stunted. hides his tins in bins by the

magistrates' thinks

rumthoughts and his scousedream of a

pitchedroof where he was slickhaired n' flying.

an overstock of pigeons round the flattyre of a

delivercycler outside the frenchpatisserie. see,

this chain is very far from a hérmés scarf on a

fourinch calf. moving on.

I will not be watching the highlights later. I will not

be attending church. In this age of

scruffvegan, we'll be suffering, st stephen, at

highbury kfc. in the plunder he licks lips at

mannequins, quarrelcots and bijoubins to piss in.

a neatly tied bag in the caress of dewy wings

on the corner by the bizzies, twitches. still

some cats call this living.

LoverlyJuberly

 

GRIPGETTING

                          HEROES

LOSE

         DAYJOBS

COUNTING 

                          OTHERS'

ZEROS

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

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

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.

 

 

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

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

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

core us

 

            hand in glove 

nailed on

               bins

                 tips he

posts thee man with thee

most annoying

             swings

about his golfsing

(small)

 

WHATCHA GONNA DO?

      READ THE

           GUARDIAN         

                                        ABOUT IT?

Coat (пальто / pal'to)

 

It's 1987.

I sit glum-faced and nervous in the world's smallest village school.

Debbie Green gets the instruction to

show me where to take my

standard issue orange lined and shiny blue.

I wonder what this future will do.

I laugh.

Kiss chase 37 years to a

small boy on the Polish border all 

glum faced and nervous in the

world's largest village school,

wondering what the future will do.

The volunteer asks Can I take your coat?

No, my mum says to I have to

keep it on, in case

we have to run.

I will never laugh again.

absolutely after the belarus free theatre

 

absolutely after the belarus free theatre /                   you can do a lot in two and half years / you can walk from here to parliament square five thousand and seventy eight times over with the coffee cup you can keep / kings side castle has to be the best move from here / you can drill through the forest deep in despair of given figs and election rigs / you can vodka / you can listen to public enemy's fight the power three hundred and nine thousand eight hundred and thirty three times / if you never sleep /            you can pickle / for twenty two thousand hours or a hundred and thirty weeks / you can drop / you can sheep for ten months / counting the dead while you bin your lids cease / you can sink / you can think that a blink is a long day in politick / you can circus fleas and smell the gas and tear up at wikipedia dates from the twenty fourth of may twenty twenty to the twenty fifth of march twenty twenty one / you can properly weep /          you can play / you can survive the lies for a two hundred and fiftieth at a sneak / you can act / you can flag / you can think on brinkmanship and puff your chest till you steep your hollow self in benzina / set alight your hair and throw yourself into the territorial creep / you can keep europe radio free / you can brine awhile / you can hand in your two thousand words probably next week / you can feed the tank / name your pet milistra / salt your slices / gve it a pat / kiss your love / set off on the incline / have a dranki in the breach /                  you can watch the dismantle and shelve the counter / you can underbuy a quarter of bitter sweets / you can tweet the protest / flounder at the voting booth / listen to the great leap forward on repeat / you can half inch a card that states dream / wish / sparkle / you can burn unknown in a vacant lot debacle / you can hip-hop / you can leap /                 you can have a will / have a beer / you can do a lot in two and a half years / you can talk to your mum all tucked in hair all thumb luck smooth and neat / you can write a tale of jail of alexander schevtsov for going to a protest / that will take an eighth of a life / or you can keep /                   schtum

 

 

 

 

 

CIRCULATING

 

VULTURES 

     NARRATIVELY PORTION

                     FURTHER FEATHERING

     THEIR OWN NURTURED

VERSIONS

the usual suitors

 

on the take / the usual suitors / these 

bentbadge reaming stokers / skyhigh on

additives / down the drapery as per /

shearing up the narrative / the

atrocious cloth / uniformly unthinking

scaling trains / tropers all

tailoring

Jobs for dogs #1

 

Nicholas was self-decorating. He'd collared a Dulux discount on "Royal Correspondent" for the words he meant and said. With wisdom and Crown Paints backing, he rollered a feature wall in "Leaf Blower".

There was a compliment.

valiant times

roses are red

said the faction

proposing a

motion of

direct non-

violet action

Alpha

zealots' scarves under coats ditch rozzers

for good kickings pass by we morph 

you try and qualify equally lozenged

for inertia is exiled very joyously over north

utterly lost job boys daily incite qualities

tossed when zipped fully cagouled and gaolsome

my reckoning exhibition yearns unity

spoken poorly over expressionist half nelsons

my zebra youth shows too unclear

a contempt qualified down exacerbated routs

lamentations for havering generations in kinetic years

past verbose jobs wither out

Limerick

The was a young fella called Kieran,

Who invented a limerick serum,

One shot in the bum,

And your ditty was done,

Except mine 'cos I got it from some bloke down the pub for a fiver and

Syllables just kept appearing.

postmodernhaikuseries

 

class plan on haiku 

out the window

halfsixdark

 

the nip of thecigarette

plays hell with thestructure

 

crashing ideas

postmodern quill

electric onheater

 

getting over a new year’s

syllablemyth

john says is very diffic

 

why kneel the

tasteof rain?

puton yer karowacs

 

the sound of the frog

basho jumps in

the oldpond

 

januarywind bothers

a thinningbird

the bitterpool of ideas

 

the artschool wintershows

a row of popart picassos

 

fuck yer baretrees and fallenleaves

this series contains

all you’ll need

 

onscreen seeing your ownbreath

qualifies its own poetdeath

 

 

ode to the carhorn

ode to the carhorn

 

what skittish mess you cause

what british sense of politeness

you crush beneath your paws

 

of rudeboy heightness expecting

applause or a fight, day in, day out

to the depths of night, your rakish

 

presence feels like a keen bairn at

christmas, robbing the sense of

expection of a still-lake-ish calm

 

for your barmy driven down little lane

thinking’s just, sinking your teeth into

that little gap while the good folk nap.

 

the sirens, agreed, bare square a

response time understanding that

lacks in your hooter time-lapse blast.

 

for all the world’s an ass in your eyes

pluralised when frustating through

the day to days’ glittering prize

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

of yards, mere yards are your kingdom

but sing them you will through

shrill and unexpected yet

 

entirely predictable vents of spleen

unseen by the resident eyes

cutting trees and pulling up bikes

 

by the dozen unseemly low tone

notes from your trumpet of arrogance

your flute of unbearable shalowness

 

in a game of tiny gains, your sky team

tour-de-france mentality may frame

this petty victory as some kind of podium

 

spot by an angel in lipstick with tulips

and prize money and a change of jersey

where two lips supply a tattoo of red that

 

says both look at me and I’ve got what

you’ve not on the champs-ellisse of life,

an extra five minutes to peruse some

 

supermarket tripe.

 

cat 'erd

the rock to which I'm wed / left politics is

all northerners unanimous / on what

to call / those rolls of bread