Monday, 24 January 2022


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.

Monday, 10 January 2022



class plan on haiku 

out the window



the nip of thecigarette

plays hell with thestructure


crashing ideas

postmodern quill

electric onheater


getting over a new year’s


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



Monday, 3 January 2022

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.


Saturday, 1 January 2022

cat 'erd

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

all northerners unanimous / on what

to call / those rolls of bread