If you go down

to the woods today

you’re bound to

bump into

some trees

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Napoleon Blownaparte




fizzing about the ether,

fizzing like a googly,

or Mugli’s eighteen herbs

with verbs

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Of Sonnets,

One net son,

Stone nots,


Onset tones,


Soft font







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Mad Ithaca


Chronicles of an endgame sour the day,

the last cormorant glides home half-asleep.

mauve tapering headland not faraway

Is darker; the treachery still indiscrete.

I trail past the quiet, dark caravan,

chest pounding with sorrow; tried to walk it

off but it don’t go – a woe-begotten

rotten vixen’s smashed my fragile heart.

On the rise, I make up the chintzy night scene

of Port Ithaca’s tourist hostelries.

Thronging poached Grockles being obscene

Python Lee Jacksons in a broken dream

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Lucky Little Lady


The Tamarind dropped anchor and despatched a

purple emissary

who announced the fate of the sweet, eyed,

lovely Maiden

from the coast of Malibar

to the swelling throng on the quay.

It appeared that, for once, the trades had been kind:

the Pirates of Somali

were vacationing in Bali

English: Balinese stone carvings found in Ubud.

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08801 Grand Canyon Historic- Fred Kabotie Pain...


Lopsided head, dead on the sloping strand.

Smooth, sea polished shingle sizzles around

The victim of a mindless, callous hunt.

Transparently, he was born a mutant runt

Misfortune dogged him from his strangled birth

Until annihilation put an end to Bert

When it came the blow was random

His assailants worked in tandem

And cornered him beneath the pier

And despatched him swift without a care

The denounement was not so smooth

As they kicked him in the ocean crude

Tefal sank but not to the bottom

His killers thought he was forgotten

But he was borne by longshore and by rip

And in Pevensey he rested in deep silt

That is until a passing fisher digging for lug

His preserved remains out he dug

‘What’s up’ said Tefal examining his head

‘You’ with saline brevity the fisher said

‘These twenty years I have been there

Dead and happy…

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On the Passing of the Pioneer Spirit…


Liver Buildings Evening


He was known to live life dissipated:

Gambolling in crazed buffonery,

Guzzled half a modest brewery.

When his liver, bored, emigrated.

My Uncle Head was steadfast and insistent:

‘Feed me!’ he yelled ‘Til I’m wild euphoric.’

For a pint of gin, no tonic: chronic.

So immaculated homeward: distant.

Ten Afton and a quart of Barleycorn,

stern tea and two, too loud radios

Unwelcomed him the very next morning

as he dimly recalled Jack de Mannio,

gave up on a shower and yawning,

levitated outsidewards to soil the patio.

Back inside he trawled in his shotaway head

and dredged up from its slum, the aviator,

Louis Blerio, who, a century and

one day ago, fetched lobster thermidore

and ate it for breakfast on England.

Head sloooshed a tuft of dog and considered

The perilous return voyage while his liver withered.

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Tempes Fugit


king zog's door

Hilda Hogg bit the bullet and set herself to flog her figurine of ole King Zog bequeathed by her fabled auntie Dora who held a candle for the old despot. Times was hard, there was a duck at the door with a hat on, Bailiff Bernard dunning a bill.

‘Adieu, old chum’ she whispered through a final lucky lick on the pate of the china chappie in her trembling hands. If she had really had a candle she would have lit it and muttered a homily to tractor production in Albania.

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Moby Dock



We are whaling, we are whaling, call me

Ishmael, the lucky bugger who found a tree

trunk drifting in lukewarm Horse Latitudes

and fashioned a canoe: sound, swift, bit crude;

but still, given the hairy circumstances,

he avoided the Fish’s necromancies.

Sat here on blustery Selsey Bill, chill

blasts of wintry Solent swoop the feral

groynes, sloppy creosoted and duned

with mounds of heave-hoed pebbles; propelled

from an ocean of discarded dying hulks,

Trainee corpses for the breakers yard: shelled.

This leviathan could not give tuppence worth

with his Moon and Sixpence and an old hair shirt.

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One for my Baby and one more for the Toad



‘Wassup, Cecille? Have you got a problem with Nigel’

‘He’s such a slimeball, Don.’

‘He’s a natterjack, honey. That’s just the way it is!’

‘ And he’s so toady’

‘That’s because he is a toad.’

‘ You’re kidding. Toads are sexier.’

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Exhausted by the dumping I stole away

aboard the Lardy Cake for far distant

shores of Nark, where bumble bees put their feet

up after a hard day’s humming &

talking twaddle is a hanging offence…

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Sesame Street


Sesame Street

Boring blinkered motorist –
Crashing bore!
Drivels on about
Egregious ectoplasmic
Fantasies of forever fading
Ghosts and diseased
Harlots & sirens screaming
Insults at curb crawlers: merely
Jockeying for

Lamentable Sugar Loaf
Mountain climbers pepper the
North face of the Eiger,
Oddly dangling &
Posthumously posturing with
Queerly doomed eyes,
Redolent of summer seaside
Snapshots of Blackpool. Tastefully
Titillating playmates from dank
Ugly cotton mills and the
Vacuous halls of toff’s houses.

Residence was slavishly taken there;
Stolen scraps & slurps for skivvies: wages
Too meager for a human soul to
Undergo without vivacious
Vindictiveness: so, transport drove Lillie and
Wastrel, the footman, to play
Xylophonic heavy petting games at
Yeovil railway station after the ‘Prisoner of
Zenda’ was over.

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Maud in Weeds


Thigh-deep wading in the river, a band of
Fading lilies in her hair she whistled into
Cool air as the black night rested among
Its retinue in St. Cuthbert’s belfry.
This is not the dawn of last year, nor more
Than it is another night of wonder.
For there, beyond the railway sleeper
Love is rising

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Found Myself



Suddenly alone



Long pig slurry

Just me




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Sanguine Time


Bin Dong

The first of the few,

the last of the many,

the next or

the runner-up,

the second last bar none

the rising of the moon

at the setting of the sun

under cypress shadows

wise chrysanthemum

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Family Resemblance



Seven brothers owned

seven separate farms:

while related,

they found themselves in quite

different fields

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Little Woods


Denis Griffiths, tenor, publicity shot taken f...

Trying too hard; put simply,

can’t decide where to start.

As you mean to go on?

As good as



So here we

are again.

The square one.

A saying that comes from



so that the


could follow on a grid

in the Radio Times.

But where was the square one?

The middle, the corners,

In the net?



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Billy the Kidney

As small beer gesture
Please accept this sparrow box
A token of depreciation—
pink handwoven creole tissues
ah, you shouldn’t have
eitherway no matter what…

Go love life the best you can
&c. and the rest
Blow hard when tears
come falling.

Rhesus negates
such lofty whoppers.

Never ever try to make
a monkey out of me again, Scartender.

just take these hollow trinkets:
jade ephemera in the main,
you must have heard it said:
big minds never measure
jewels plucked from one gifted horse



Stoving Tobacco

Event horizon out of sight

In dusk dissembling tobacco ochre

standard light.

I cannot see what is or is not to be.

Only others see hour hands slow down and catch

a halted final glimpse of this afternoon

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Chisholm Trail Dawn



Join me as I slink to twig the silver

dust away from the campfire’s embers.

See the fire glow: teaspoon it to flame,

Carefully perch the tall, crimson pot  atop,

askew atop that is, and dig the day’s

latrine with that small yellow plastic spade.

We are on the outskirts of the craic of dawn.

Scantily clad tidings of cheap skates and

Square war-jaws, cousins to sleep’s hazel

snacks and myxamatosis of your mind’s eye.

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daylight robbery



dawn breaks on the bough

replacing weary night;

werewolf and dogman

return to their lairs;

and, we ride out

to snatch Tyburn’s necklace,

and plant it deep in

undiscovered clays

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Mutual micturition
& Adrian Mitchell on the wireless
Let’s let bygones be bygones
Bury the haggis
After all is said and done
It’s just water under the fridge
Were you just taking the piss
When you asked me why
the box of frogs I promised
was not for keeps just swops?
Mutually unsure destruction
Is not what it’s cracked up to be



A giant slug,
six inches long,
Herefordshire resident;
Lettuce pray!
4.43pm GMT
I became old,

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Olympickled brand land lies oozing
gold from every orifice except mine.
Yours too?

Grab bronze & silver, and what you can.
My arse and sides contort in Hysteria.
Yours too?

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My old man’s a dustbin,
He wears a dustbin lid:
His sister’s name is Binbag,
And his brother’s name is Sid.

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Phew, that was close run race.

Nearly did something worthwhile

Till I came to my senses.

Let me tell you straight

The terror was tangible, tangerine, terrible.

Now it is over I can

return to Furplefarple Land

rest easy better in my bed

than this red sweater does

but cobalt and magenta

are in the wash

and so is

a frozen chicken

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Break Out Day


Vibrant dawn dazzles

Pitch bone slate lamp nightdreamers

Eyeblink shadows flit

Earlybirds dart brisk alert

Incanted day arrives

Perfect golden light

Rakes tree leaf and bark

Hope springs all prisoners

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Tone of Voice

Every time you go
(which is increasingly

more frequent of late)
Johosophat gets very jumpy
It is a good thing that
I will never tell you that
You might do it to disturb
Him just for the sport
I know what you’re like sometimes

The devil makes work
For bone idle hands

bloody sociopaths,

boorish prats, the absent-minded,

& those who observe the worrying demise of  rubber tree plants…


Bring me moonshine

In your smile



In my hearth

O hearths!


The paraphernalia of open fires—

Scuttles, grates, tongs, clinkers,

ash shovel, hatchet

Rickety kneebends

Scrunching up the Sun

The News of the Screws


Picking good cinders

Hatcheting sticks

Three matches to light

Always three matches

Crackle & slow collapse


Juvenile flames keen to jive

The timing of the bigger sticks

Critical mass

The placement of the first coals

Put the heavy front on



Shut the little door

& hope real hard

Offer up a silent

prayer to the firegods

Every little helps

Last refuge of a scoundrel

See it caught at last

Wind Up




It read

Rustic Lama


prone alert god

basking scrumpled in seed grass

melts gold leaf sun

dreams of the run

scampering last evening

dumb flounder, scoundrel stray

easy busy summer antic hay

wild dreamscapes frolic

buzzball spangles make mad play

pause scandalous figary

gathering bright ideas

crazed dandelions

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Beachbum (For Bronwyn)


Last night

a golden orb

in midnight indigo

lit doggo beach ball

candle splash automatic.

Start! Jump frenzy. Up!

Just a skylark in the dark

A shadow grounded

In belief and dreams drowned

Peer group laughing

definat bogus

Empires of deceit


Shirtless in Tazar

they galumphed

 eatraordinary warmth

Melted in sad succour

Marshmallows on toaststed souls

gazed on panoplies of zonk

Breathless sanguine

gross turpitudes

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Flensed moonstruck vivid

Carcass oozing midnight oil

A scream breaks within

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Trance Dance


Uproarious desires

keep on moving,

bobbing and weaving,

ducking and diving,

slipping and sliding,

eel and ostrich pie

and jugs of foamy gush.

Lip-smacking jallop!

Arabian guillemot

Skulling curvy dunes

Pooh sticks and runes

Popular tunes

Rippling quick,

quick slow sand

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Plummeting Skywards

having a hatwave
a topical hatwave
overtures over
white cliffs of dover
you certainly cant, cant-can’t


Barbirolli more swaggers than minces

over like D’Annunzio balling crazed

Avanti Italia!’

I am struck dumb by her swan neck

veins taut rope glisten.

Recoil in horror.

You bet I did.

Where’s Duran Duran?

Off busking with a Pink fucking Panther.


Sitting on a mushroom cloud

Buddy curls up neat

now waiting for a kiss.

Hurt goes on and on.

Walking like a sumo

quince in his nappy.

See I remember some bits.


The Dixie Whistlers vanished without Tracey,

I consoled her briefly and moved on

to Fenchurch Street to chuck some bricks around.

This is what I’m like.

Impossible: an impossible person.

Imp. Vip. Rip.

Rest in peace very important, impossible person.

Not moi! Not I?


Here lies big gob, gargling blocked drain

I slept in once in Newmarket…

Wake up, Norman!

Dropped off, must have…

Hurt still on the wireless.

Barnard is risen.

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& le living


Away from chaos radio and noise gadget

I try to hear my own voice.

It is jumbled, jerky, muddled.

When it hears me listening it shut’s up.

Intruder, it whispers and hides.

Another voice comes, other than mine.

Abrupt  jibber jabber.

Dissonant buzz

It stops


Shadow boxing:

the shadow leads two points:

it is southpaw, dogged, cunning, experienced.

I stand firm, steely jawed, granite eyed,

bleeding, unfeeling, waiting.

Rope a dope, Ali called it;

or, was that Angelo?

Zap, I’m downed


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A Fiery Flying Rolle


So that’s all that then

What was all the fuss about

Nothing important

Estranged anarchic adepts

Compose new obscenities

For richer and for poorer

Forever and ever mayhem

Count stones at midnight

Click heels crisply come the dawn

Of grave blue Heirusalem



Rainy day runaway

wild raspberry soaking wet

sodden eucalyptus

light damp fires

squatting hunkered

grounded primal musk

eyes whitened

scouting dense nature

alert to predator & prey

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Dry Auden

McGillicuddy Reeks!
tell him to have a shower
soft or heavy one
it’s all the same to me now
rainy day dream away-o


A struggling writer: a writer struggling;

a beaten brow: a brow beaten.

Quandaries. Sundries. Tuesdays.

Sunday’s Just like Monday’s is…

let’s call it straight, Joey

(not that old crap again!)

you gave me a one way ticket to Pookaville!


urghh, don’t interject, I was emoting.

Yea sure you was.

On the waterfront there ain’t no latrine duty.

Cryptic as McGillicuddy,

Manhattan wept, just like Jesus did.

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turbulent times engender

end of days notions—

today I will go jousting

follow the chivalric code

sort out sheep from goats

incidentally  did you know

swan and goose offspring goes by

  the name of


O animal world

that has such creatures innit

all clamouring for

piles relief; cut price toupees;

fifteen day weekends…

holidays in Cambodia

camping in utopia

asylum in dystopia

That’s Entertainment

Any day of the week


Sue, Grabbit, & Runsun-clothed women cuss
worlds ashamed to address stark
naked truth in silk disgrace
enrobed purple people
look good hanging on a wall
antick lewd hobgoblins prance
as satyrs hapless
cabalistic dance




Showered & ranted,
Ridicule rip reprimand
overbearing customs
such root treatment twangs
raw defenceless nerves
Made safe my escape

Whassup! Asylum seeking?
heard some smokes about,
grub waits in the fridge,
bread is sliced and
ready for toaster,
fresh eggs attend hens largesse

Yet what to do today
tugs away at me.
Slippery old customer,
hanging around the deli
without a ticket,
waiting to be asked
what he wants so she
can say, ‘What tastes nice?’



Black as night at five

as I rose and chose a coffee

from the selection of available liquids.

With this I had a cigarette, which I made myself:

harvesting, drying, processing leaf,

making paper in a big blue pail,

extracting gas from my bio mass.

An exhaustive process

often interrupted by the need

to release toxic waste from the corpus.


On arrival upstairs in my lift

the day was revealed as misty

and the streets sweat wet.

I dropped my lighter on the floor and left it,

vowing to retrieve it later

with my extended manual claw.

A cursory take on the news

clarified the extent of yesterday’s huge explosion in China.

Jim Al Kalili showed me around Sellafield

nuclear reprocessing plant and availed me of a

brief history of nuclear energy.

He looks very like a frog.

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Chatanooga Chu-chu

add your thoughts




There we are.

Banged one out, as they say;

never mind who. They do.

Whomsoever this they is.

I do not know…

She fibbed.

And she knew that I knew too.

If you want to find out, like I do, call her at:

Pennsylvania 65000.

I can’t get through.

The reception is dreadful

in this carriage.

Perhaps I’ll try the caboose

after luncheon.

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Chainsmoking cheroots

Looking down the gunbarrel

Maybe she wrote me that letter

I will never know

& if I did what difference

Would it make these days?


I will never know about

That either I suppose

so imponderables go


Image you crouched over

 See you fret hard over every

word until beaten brow snaps


furrow yields up  fears

beads come tumbling down

petrify snap splinter speck


pulver turn to dust

much as chimney sweeps

or this dry pressed iris





saw life turn on a sixpence

that’s capitalism for you—

a bar for every drunk

a church for every bishop

a place for everything &

everything in its place

all turning on a sixpence

Poyson Iffy


Frog spawned & cuckoo

spat out dyspeptic gobwash

pink dogged rose over hangs

verdant biscuit lawn

Bomb full of  bull corruption

Writs flee shrunken ships


Generall straine

Anguished wayes & windings

Honeysweet oyle smoothe poyson


Beghards & Beguines

Heretickes & libertinoes

Encrypt curse words upside down

Underside worn felt lapels


Pantheistic eucharist

munch one get three free

down the Pig & Whistle

Drastic No-No Band


all we’re saying is

give war a chance again

fefore it’s too late

penis fly trap

Bee enjoys the wild flowers










Stars & stripes striate

my eyes

come to rest

on this

moribund fieldmouse

by the dog’s luminous red plastic food bowl

sun blinds me as I make my deft approach

One point four billion miles

From the planet jupiter

Nearly six hours after midnight

Blue skies shining on seas

fleeing genomes off to work

With a sound packed lunch

Gift Horse


English: Detail of a painted figure of a caval...

greygray windlessness; car doors pound

indonesian summer supper

for the liberal party on the road

to greatwar to end all wars forever

hoseasoning homeward after crickets

over land and treeless villages

redsails on the lampshade sundown

silently through the porchway

eavesdropping evenings gentle snore

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