Archives for category: Audio

You bob out of bib club and there stands Big Bob,
Chopping blubber oblongs into cubes of wobbling flub.
The flub-cubes are bulbous with bubbles and blobs,
So Bob fills the flub-bubbles glibly with chub.

He pipes in the chub from a hub near the club;
It barrels down chub-tubes to a vat on a hob.
Bob broils up the chub on that oven of cob
And into flub-bubbles does Bob channel chub.

Asks Bob of you, glibly, “What bid you for flub?
A cube of chopped blubber de-bubbled with chub?”
“A bob, Bob! A bob!” you to Bob doubly blab,
And you slobber your chubbed flub-cube over your flab.

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Drivers, drivers –
They fled camp, they shacked up
At the flea market, stood stolid
Amongst the groundlings
Where angstroms hide infinities,
Gaping like gutted guppy.

A star is glimpsed disappearing
By a filthy youngling
Who has traipsed and traversed,
The dire masses wired inward,
Upsilon omicron epsilon yelped
Into a polished crock dish.

Tramping the ridge Thursday
Against a glassified skyline,
Walk sentient! and sleep insensible!
Is the sum total of my –
Shit, Carl,
These slippy planks.


Enwrapped in a sable, flopped
Over a table, the
Grande dame of ping pong is
Out for the count.

She’d wanted her fees paid in
Caviar, cheese and the
Husks of old coconuts,
Stippled with grout.

In light of this madness, this
Ennui, this sadness, the
Ping pong committee has
Swiftly convened.

They’d wanted to give her a
Functioning liver, a
Token of thanks for her
Decades of good.

But now they look foolish at
Best; at worst, ghoulish: the
Grande dame of ping pong so
Misunderstood.


1.
Whatmough fell jotting on the blindspot.
He plunged his club into bloppy aspic.
He spake whereof he knew —
Nowt else would do.

2.
Maastricht went acrid at the equinox.
Uptown smelt of sported socks.
The Central Business District:
Cocks.

3.
Back to Basics with Basquiat:
Boxes stacked back-to-back in the annexe;
Birds flock to an oxbow of Botox;
Bricks block the crypt off.

4.
Look in the bullpen: a livid Smedley!
Round his neck, unburnished medals
Hang from tatty ribbon
Like flowerbed toddler junk.


Swinburn, Chappyfrangs and Glatch took me out the back for a slanging match.

I chucked Swinburn down a hatch.

I built a gallows from scratch, over which I slung the lungs of Glatch.

Chappyfrangs attached a lit match to my soul patch, and I went up like thatch.

Jonty squaxed it.
Squaxed it white and black.
See his heaving thorax
As it squaxes down the track.

See Jonty’s axe.
See how his knack for negating the squax
With an axe
Turns the clocks back.

The fact is he squaxed it,
Yet look!, it’s unsquaxed.
With his knack and his axe
Jonty banjaxed the facts.


Northropp popped to the shabby shop to fetch a Webbox chub for his boxy pooch Wanchope. Wanchope was a maniac who sported the parish’s slobberiest chops. He never chewed or chomped his Webbox chub; instead Northropp would administer it by posting it lengthways into Wanchope’s slobbery chops like a capsule of legal bumf into a pneumatic pipe.

Whenever Northropp popped to the shabby shop, Wanchope would pull a strop, shred the sponge of a Vileda flat mop and lollop off to the bus stop, not cottoning on that Northropp’s shop trip spelled the imminent postage of a Webbox chub into those uniquely slobbery chops. Wanchope was a maniac.

On this occasion the maniac Wanchope lolloped beyond the bus stop, galloped past the joke shop, hopscotched across earmarked grave plots and tore up the tor to the top.

Meanwhile back at the sharecrop, Northropp saw no sign of Wanchope. Posting the Webbox chub into his own floppy chops, he shed a single teardrop, opened his laptop, stuck on some bebop and cracked on with his agitprop.