All olly-topped, the zippy freebed
With ogles in its chack And then it tuttered by the worg And orped beneath the clap.
Now, unbescotting to our ploff
A camanoogle hocks. It’s piffing round the floofy jicks And blonking round the sox.
And oh alas! It poops the zip
And timpers like a moosh As meanwhile unbejugging pocks The zip beneath the woosh.
The camanoogle corky licks
It’s pishy pallerclotts And then it gammerpangs the zip And flots its waller off.
And so no more the zippy blogs
And no more shall it gliff Because the camanoogle plonks With zippy in its wiff.
Had worn her heart on a sleeve.
Had hid it when she’d had to grieve. She’d cried for much less since for every unworthy prince.
A moat of tears had flooded her moat.
Her draw-bridge had buckled under the messages she’d wrote. One winter morn, the snow had settled, and lay where she would a following summer’s day.
America loomed large, as Ireland became a speck
in the distance, and on deck. She drank to the emerald isle and fell asleep with a smile.
A grandmother she would be
over years and years, over that sea. It may last for just a minute, or at its own pace but if it’s the latter, fairy-tale tellers will veer from liqueur to lace.
The parents hug their children
While their children cry
As on the ship out of port
‘Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye.’
Grow up to be a good girl And look after the little man. And as she says those words She lets go her little hand.
At the thought of that, she thinks her thoughts.
Years later, she lets go a sigh. As a ship comes into port. ‘Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye.’
After bottles, vases and jars
Off they go to get smashed in pubs, discos and bars. “If you blow it, that’s it, you see” Confided one glass-blower.
The factory carried on
but survival wouldn’t be long. Redundancies got higher as productivity got lower.
Laid off workers sank
to the bottom of their bosses’ aquarium tank. They cut it so fine their once diamond vessel turned into a shipwreck that had lost its shine.
Finally, what was there from its beginnings was clearer.
How the coldness had been hidden behind an hysterically hyped up veneer. A scientist opportunist conning peers. A philanthropist grave-digger snatching moneyed sneers.
I’m not going to judge lest I be judged.
I’m not going to hold a grudge lest they begrudge. Nor march to the next century to just trudge. Nor pose for a still frame where to budge Might mean blurring a Victorian image into muddy Georgian sludge.
The delicate little ones
Turn upside down Inside their fragile little homes Gravitating over the earth.
Trees, uprooted, lie.
Monochrome televisions flicker As the delicate little ones Put price tags on objects of no worth.
The delicate little ones
Pass on their viruses And die little deaths Before their defences can react.
Lollypop ladies stand.
Constellations fade As the delicate little ones See family heirlooms ransacked.
New collection just finished. 12 new poems and collages from lockdown (in menu above)
When you’re at your all-time low
you want to look cool. No longer need to worry about what you don’t understand or know ‘cos you’re no longer at school.
Swallow the keys to your cell to hide them.
Then throw them up to get out. Worry about where and when but who to avoid is what it’s really about.
Songs that get in your head forever
pop in from time to time like family and old friends. You know you won’t be leaving anything of any worth behind but it’ll have been worth it when it ends.
at 7.34 he stepped out
at 7.34 he closed the door behind him at 7.43 he stubbed out a fag and bought a newspaper at 8.08 and 20 seconds, he left the cafe at 9.09 and 3 seconds, he was snapped smiling on the street.