Skyward Paws

tired dogs rest belly up –
paws cast smouldering shade after
walking on the sun

Chicken of Despair

Every dawn I romped with the chicken of despair.
Afterwards I would roast it and eat it hot.
The dinner dance often clucked ‘til dusk;
fat with chicken I was a stout but happy fellow.
Now, your diet pills, taken with cold water
(because a fat man must never dance outside)
make me hate even the smell of chickens.
I am not thinner.
Nor am I empty.

I’m a wicker man.
Virgin fear clucking in my belly.
Alight, we could roast together,
but I must let it peck and claw my insides;
eat my cornflakes and cheese sandwiches and smile
(because I know it will want a dance after its tea).
I say I like them and you say I’m better.
I am better.
Better at hiding chicken bones.

Rules of the Bag Lady

Oil and water don’t
need separate bags
not like a dead badger.

And a prawn sandwich.

Those don’t mix well.

They don’t tell.

How to bag up
your things right.

You have to learn
who’s good company.

To live on my street.

Outside your home,
a hungry fool is
just another stiff.

Dead body wearing
my new dry shoes.

Keep Fit

manicured lawn –
seagulls dance on the heads
of juicy worms

Passing of a Nut

I am a nut upon the ground
where broken husks lie all around.
Squirrel teeth have cracked the shells
and chewed the life from all my pals.

My crisp and shiny skin stands proud,
I will not hide within this crowd.
Soon my rodent chum will eat his fill,
but greed will make him take me still.

I’ll ride away stuffed in his cheek,
he’ll jump here and there just like a freak.
Spit out into a hole and stamped right in,
I hope to lie here deep, and totally forgotten.

Chirstmas Gift

Christian ethic –
will you let me burn in hell
by taking your place?

Insider

Behind every democracy,
one that’s dodgy or great
there lies an evil dictator,
zipping his fly and
kissing your vote away
with soft salty lips.
As she adjusts his tie,
she whispers your fate
to the smiling front man.

Ice Cold

dark icy river –
suns warm touch wakes
tormented waters

Multiverse

From the bottom of the garden
with my head tipped right over,
it seems like the yard is vertical.

There’s this theory that for every
choice in life you didn’t take there
is another universe where you did.

Continue reading »

The Last Mile

wise feet know their path
through threadbare carpets –
last sip of hot tea