monthly digest twitterpoems....
.....
the crosses which we found
have no nails
only in the searching
were we bound
....
in this wind the rain will pass
quickly as the sunlight has gone
and I flinch at the trees
in which a robin clings to song
...
ice cream in the mud
cone spike in hand
the lip trembles
at the temerity of a second
the vaguery of sugared wafer
....
give six bob to superman
chucked it in his bucket
I don't know what he was collecting for
kids or dogs or starving poor
.....
he drinks whiskey and milk
through a straw
in his catheterised throat
sighs
triumphant because he didn't give in
....
it's really pretty simple
not deep to comprehend
I seek to live a goodly life
in hope it will not end
.....
the yellow bicycles
say come back
like you like us
....
marry a novelist for money
though a poet will bore you less
it will just be more often
....
how can children eat chocolate
on this morning of blossom
do they not taste the sweetness
of the snow on the sunlit hill
....
let us read the carved names
with our hearts
let our soul free to sing
wing'd and soaring
beyond the wall, the river
....
the tree has seen it
before you say you know
let us root ourselves
...
I must shake you awake
to read rilke, again and again,
not to express my love for you
but the love we share
....
dear lord
can we. for once all want the same daily bread
and save on the washing up
amen
....
it is hard to be blake these days -
sitting naked in my garden
the angels came in stab vests
....
the ducks did not fly
the day stan died
as a million knee-borne teacups
wept with hilda at the spectacles
without music
....
love is in the snapped silence
in things we remember and choose to forget
when years later laughing
....
I need the house to be still
the boiler to stop
the tap not to drip
my feet not to smell
I doubt they will
....
I have sold my children for poetry and my art
the missus bought the children back
they were much less work
.....
like that moment when you sit and sigh
and say 'oh that hits the spot'
at a cake or the first sip of tea
like that moment
just like it
.....
in the last gaunt vestige of poetry
where darkness looms, death prevails
I took to painting the Sistine chapel
with a 000 brush
....
riding on rails
on cold misty evenings
washing of tea things
flash past reflected
soap opera
viewed in square window panes
....
today just is - tra la
not fat not middle not thin
nor chump nor rump nor chop
today just is - tra la
.....
One day I shall write a poem on a train
that captures in aspic the bypassing refrain
of house tree house horse pylon house again
....
Polyhymnia the doctor said
take two Barrett Brownings
and stay in bed
....
you're not as clever
as I think you are
someone is insulted
but i can't work who
so we shop for handbags
eat sushi
count pi
....
in the final furlong
it's coffee cup
from cigar
with
emotional metaphor
tucked in behind
and here comes
sunshine on the rails
....
Music is the art of numbers.
Poetry is the art of stillness.
Film is the art of middle management.
....
In the post-Ferguson world
they really must do something
about the shooting,
someone needs to put their hands up.
...
up and down
the street
they strike
three minutes aside
of every hour
wound in the morning
checked at night
synchronized
by the World at One
....
My father's shit
was sour as pickle
He apologised
'Don't mention it'
I said
'It's the tumour'
Still the blackbird sings
.....
She whitemaled me
oh for the old days
of blackmail
when
stuff was extorted
in private
and
without
police consent
....
It's an odd feeling for a bald poet
to perform
at a fringe event
Sexist.
No woman
has to justify
her fringe status
at the main event
....
If I knot my hair:
you will,
effulgent
with sweat,
indulge
the entwined
fingers
of this moment.
....
If God does not exist
then
who
can
save
us
from
those
damned atheists.
....
A rose by any other name
is still
an expression
of past ascent.
....
I am the very model of a modern minor criminal
I smoke dope and I shoplift
and declare the damage minimal
....
Schoolboy dressed
as Christian Grey
learned
to
scare
the
girls
away.
Dinner money's not enough
when making adolescent snuff.
.....
The Graham I knew
had glasses
spied on Tuesdays
drank at the Bophey
and never wore t'at.
I fancy you're not Graham.
.....
Here lies Jimmy Savile
who's arse we had to kiss
weary traveler, rest a while
to show respects with piss.
....
I'm crossing the road
with scissors
sticking to the side streets
avoiding the stitches
and feeling
suddenly high.
....
"Silique sod" she snorted
leaving a persistent partition.
"Brassicas" I replied.
....
peace:)
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