Peterborough to Norwich (Rail replacement bus)

Grumpily we roll bumpily along the frozen grey river
flanked by bold political placards issuing directives in primary colours.
Lungs turned inside out are scattered on the landscape.
Rising from the fading evidence of a snow man massacre,
android giraffes, buried up to their necks, stretch high to avoid potential accidents.
Behind them giant metallic monsters, their 6 arms weighed down by invisible shopping,
queue into the distance.
The giant torch, on full beam, makes everything spill its ink.
Above the paused explosion on the horizon
crystal clear water is scratched by the trail of upside down ships.
Clusters of deep 3d arrows point upwards
as a crowd forms to cheer us along
their thin little brittle brown arms waving in the air.

While the fallen ladders lay unused and rotting.

If Pippa were a glass of wine

If Pippa were a glass of wine,
I would sip her face and swish
her round to test her body.
I would inhale her gluten free
aroma, allow her full bodied
personality to grip on to my
nasal hairs and send an alcoholic
tingle to my brain. I would take
her conversation into my mouth,
gargle it, taste it at the back of
my throat then swallow it
down. Feeling it’s warm
goodness gently caress
me like an inside out
hug. I would swallow
down her smile,
her eyes,
her lips.
When
my
glass
is
empty
I would
Refill
and
repeat
until
I was
drunk.
The happiest drunk there ever could be.

Perhaps he's a pagan

“Perhaps he’s a pagan?” she ponders
Coating Adam’s apple with ambrosia.
His dry tongue like a tepid tree traces the
Rumbustuous road to where
Her indigo imp waits open armed,
Conducive, but not to conversation,
She blows hot and wet like a kinky kettle.

Great Yarmouth v The Rest of the World

Gliding, gilded, through the grey gap between
Great Yarmouth and the rest of the world
that is, ironically, much much greater,
we cut through the damp dark drizzle like a
bullet shot slowly at a spray of mist.
Trees approach and fall away from windows
agitated now they dream of moving
perpindicular rather than parallel
to me. In the distance they congregate
out of reach, plotting tactics rallying
their branches on the boundaries of fields.
Nearer to Norwich the shots of nature
are smaller, stronger, the industrial threat
is planning to finish them off, but not quite yet.

Writing a poem at work

At work I tap keys and look serious, professional.
The scratchy roll of the mouse on wood
seems frantic, eager, hard working.

When the important people pass
I open a half complete spreadsheet
And reach for my pondering eyebrows
Like a spy wearing a false moustache in a bad movie.

I look through the screen,
Ignoring the numbers imprisoned there,
My peripheral focus the authority sharks
Stalking my work space.

Still watching, with hammerhead eyes,
they leave and,
in my head,
I count to five.





Before carrying on
writing my poem
at work.

My Girlfriend

My girlfriend
says I am too competitive
But
that’s because she’s not as good as me at things.

My girlfriend
thinks that I am indecisive
But
I’m not really sure if that is the case.

My girlfriend
thinks that I am a miser
But
I spent £6.32 on her last night.

My girlfriend
says that I am a wonderful man
But

No
I have to agree with her on that.

Sexual Promiscuity on the Circle Line

You are like a circle, you get around.

Staring blankly up at my thoughtful face
Naked, exposed, embarrassed, she blushes
As my eyes intimately probe her space.
Slowly I touch her (no poet rushes),
My carbon pressing gently on her skin,
Stroking her with my creative massage,
She relaxes to me and we begin
Our whirlwind romance, with her entourage
(The muses, creativity and fate)
Dancing over her, reaching out for me,
Connecting my thoughts to this new soul mate.
When I think I have her she struggles free
For now, filled with confidence, she wants other eyes
To feast on her form, kiss her rhyme and taste her sighs.

Some rolled up cancer set on fire

Resolute with a sense of optimism
I throw you binwards
(I don’t need you anymore
I never needed you
I just wanted you
And now I don’t).

My lungs sing protest songs as
I pound the floor with pure will power.
In my running shoes,
Recently redundant but now required,
I am a messenger from Marathon,
I am Haille Gabriel Salassi,
I am The Duracell bunny.

On the phone, despite trying to relax myself,
My girlfriend questions how good our romantic weekend will be
If she continues to smoke and I continue to behave,
kind of
sort of
not on purpose
of course,
manically.

In the night
In the pub
Drunken resolve holds out
Through teeth gritted with conversations
and despite my fake smile
when the fun and my friends “pop outside for a while”.

After all this stress, mess and messy stress,
why on earth do I still desire
Some rolled up cancer set on fire?

Cup of tea (and a biscuit)

Captivating calm cup
tantalisingly teasing tea.

Milky Molten Mug
Wet warm wise
Soothing slurpy sighs.

And a biscuit.
Please.

A Sunset Orange

On the dutch horizon
Carrots are on fire,
David Dickinson's permatan cracks
like a rustic earthenware pot.

The sky is wotsit powder,
Guantanamo Bay uniforms,
the boiled flesh of a sweet potato
and Roast Chicken flavour crisps.

Meanwhile, on the ground
(fired clay, the inside of a hot air balloon),
vibrant traffic cones seperate:
An orangutan dipped in hot peri-peri sauce,
Prince Harry bathing in Lucozade
and the Krankies flying on Easyjet.

To the sound of a fox hunting marmalade,
the smell of a hamster eating a Satsuma,
William of Nectarine rides a tiger into the darkness.