monday’s tongue


monday’s tongue ( a quatro-nonrick for all seasons & cheeses )

the car alarms as grey dawn slurps

on nettle tea as puddles chirp

an almost song

of dawdle on

as monday's tongue - it tastes the dirt

the cow remarks in terse excerpts

fluorescently as knee pads jerk

the blow blows free

as bus stops sneeze

& old goats float as leopards lurk

the sun is dark as acorns burp

incessantly & shepherds smirk

but still the swans

they slide along

with shiny ties & ironed shirts

the dog's all bark as curtains shirk

collectively yet blind perk

as bumble bees

they clutch at keys

so possibly - things just might work

( ? )


( as the crowbar flies )


( as the crowbar flies ) ( a re-winging of an older post )

there are moors that sprawl

beyond dry-stone walls

where the heather tones

& the lonesome roam

there are fields that gleam

neath the sun's gold beams

where the ragwort hides

& the blank verse rhymes

there are treetops tall

where the woodlark calls

& the oak tree moans

as the old wind groans

there are streams that dream

as the weasels scheme

as the crowbar flies

far within my mind




critique -fodder ( a short poem about motherfuckers )

is this a poem?

how about now?

milk the wild thistle

& tickle the cow

is this a poem?

squint as you read

stroke your chin bristle

& wobble your knees

is this a poem?

what do you think?

blow your tin whistle

& lick at the ink

was that a poem?

how did it fare?

did it ring fizzles

& why should we care?


that dream again


that dream again ( some sheet )

feathers for fingers & cat flaps on mars

wanders on venus & clogs in hot cars

florists on calpol & vikings in jars

badgers are strumming on bastard guitars

bishops in crystals & whale song in shoes

bagpipes in black holes & yetis in trews

monday in sunday & tuesday in lieu

saxons are flaxen to addle the muse

light in my left hand & shpherds in bras

strangers in mangers & dogfish in stars

troughs in the peakland & barn owls in bars

march hares are marching through barmy bazaars

voles in old coal mines & cowslips in moos

darkness in sundials & clocks in cuckoos

pole vault the scots pine & tickle the shrew

what does it all mean?

we haven't a clue




plod-stuff ( a true story )

our elbows glowed where noses shone

us muddled bunch so bumble on

through fields of green in sways of still

there is no breeze today upon

us squelchy sods so yon we plod

with thoughts of warts & peas in pods

as badgers burst & gardens groan

whilst on the road - a toad's skin's shod

our ankles itch - is this a gift?

we look to lunch as pollen drifts

we follow paths & fallow deer

as sieve-like minds they gently sift

when all is spun a tune a is hummed

the back door calls, the walk is done

the annals wait to hear of tales

beneath a montomic sun




noted ( some o’ that )

isthmus shuttlecocks

puddle ducks

christmas socks

citrus speckled logs

paper cuts

chippy chops

aspic pigeon coughs

addled stuff


drastic hoppy scotch

monkey nuts

rabbit hops

listless suckled ox

honey pots

money box

witness muddled lot

lucky shot


mastic kitchen pots

tangled knots

fuck the what

bat shit chickenpox

scuttle off

that's shallot