30 April 2018

Tomorrow, if it’s sunny
I will take me to the park
I will get up nice and early
At the chirrup of the lark
I will make a lovely picnic
Stuffed with sandwiches and pies
And I’ll take a hat to shade my bonce
And glasses for my eyes
And I’ll take my orange blanket
And I’ll spread it on the ground
Beneath the willows by the duck pond
Where the corpses can be found.
I hope that no one’s dug them up
And that I’m in the clear
So I can come and visit them
The same time every year.


29 April 2018

Every time Archibald shits
His followers have purple fits
Some out of joy
But others, oh boy!
So would you when that acrid stench hits!

28 April 2018

If great discontinuity is just
presented to you as if nothing’s wrong,
there is no rule that mandates that you must
say anything or make a dance and song.
Or even necessarily that you
should notice what is going on before
your eyes. Just take on trust the fact that you
are in good hands. Keep mum and say no more.
In fact, of course, there are no rules to say
that poetry must happen and that I
must add a new thing every single day.
This is my project; I don’t owe you ‘why’.
So just be glad I’m going to go on
for one day or, perhaps, for more than one.

22 Apr 2017

A slice of toast
And marmalade
With cocoa too
And farmyard laid
Hen’s eggs
And soldiers
Plus cornflakes
And tea
And apple juice
And cake.
Yes, cake! And croissants,
Ham and cheese.
And it’s not even breakfast time
And I’m allergic to wheat
And the soldiers are real soldiers. And for some reason there are owls.
And everything is on fire.