Archives for category: Verse

There was Angela, whose legs were one short.
There was Bhav, the Junior Minister for Sport.
There was Craven, the head guard at Gupping House.
There was Daz, a music teacher, diminutive, Scouse.
There was Ethelbald, a grumpy, obsolete king.
There was Farid, a lumpen oaf with a sling.
There was Gert, an insalubrious old lush.
There was Hera, in certain light the spit of Ian Rush.
There was Ingmar, heir to the Bündethrashet billions.
There was Jasper, the bastard, in the red by millions.
There was Kaspar, a Norwegian marksman on a sortie.
There was Little Les, a local favourite with an IQ of forty.
(There was me, of course, for quorum reasons.)
There was Norfolk, the Duke, a man for all treasons.
There was Oyvind the butcher, who went to school with Neil Stuke.
There was Pavel the goat, and his goatminder Luke.
There was Quackins the dwarf, symbolic head of the treasury.
There was Ronson the DJ, compiling a bestiary.
There was Simon of Athens, erroneously invited.
There was Timon of Athens, so rarely recited.
There was Ulrika, who I met on a bench.
There was Vern Fisher, munching a delicious tench.
There was Wendy, from Bourton-on-the-Water.
There was Xerxes, with his ruddy licentious daughter.
There was Yorick, alas.
There was Zoë, pissing in a pint glass.


Earth copped a moon boon
As if chopper-parented
Rough-hewn and porous
Loose chips colluding
Year length chosen by dice roll

What becomes of rock
After suns depart?
Radio activity
Night-vision goggles
Infrared panic
North east west south empty threats
Going nowhere fast

Rapidly cooling
A grand exothermic waste
Deposit paid back
Aeons in the black
Red a fever memory

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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.