When I was fourteen
I had a skiing accident
Abroad

The one thing I missed about England
was Ken Clarke MP

Come back early or never come

Now I sit alone, drenched
in your sister's sweat

Today, we found two mixing pools
But there'll be no prosecution

Don't hit my cat, Daddy

Molluscs in Felpham
on a humid June night;
these are your friends
and this is your village
and I'm sweating more,
since you lent me this lotion,
Clive Anderson's Brut Romance

Knock, knock, on my porch window
And I will invite you, "swallow-down
gentle my "frere j'accord dans l'hotelier".

I can move any mountain.

"Don't think of me;
this moment, blot
out
this voice of mine. These
looks
irresistible to me though you are
avert your gaze from mine.
Consider, instead,
A Memory in Teakwood
Magnolia Wash;
voices ring down a corridor,
rising, and fading,  
fading and rising;
or the spiralling diaphanous mystery of childhood",
I said.

She said, "Ooh,
You don't half talk some ****".

I thought I'd be spear-heading
A literary revival

Instead I'm in Rugeley,
Splashing the rain caught
Underneath a loose kerbstone with my foot

Where is my banksman?

Fast-walking past Timpsons',
I hear Attic Dithyrambs
In eternal rhythmic voyage
The Adjectives of Ancients
Crowd my senses, deliciously:

Artless and cretinly, everyone turns away
Quite leisurely into the bus station,
And I alone walk among these
Uninquiring minds
I will shell out for an unruled real faux leather notebook

Uncle Harold, you don't know what Poetry means;
otherwise, you might have got me a quaint old anthology
dense and esoteric, with Spender and Ezra,
for my twenty-third

And not the Readers' Digest Word Power Dictionary you sent off for with coupons:
sure, I know what quixotic means
and how to spell weird, and conceited,
but name two ways they apply to me? How will I confront
the unremitting suffering of my existence
with a list of Celebrity Anagrams?

True? or False? Poetry is Dead,
and with it, the bespirited core of commonman:
I will submit my first volume as a .pdf