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Nov 2014 · 784
Little Green Ghouls, Buddy
Dennis Lancet Nov 2014
I am pleased to tell
you that
we

Can pay you Jobseeker's Allowance
from 10 October 2014.

You will get £57.35 a week.
This is the title poem from my forthcoming anthology, Little Green Ghouls, Buddy, co-authored with fellow up-and-coming British poet Billy Kipper.
Nov 2013 · 1.1k
Nucleating Jasmine
Dennis Lancet Nov 2013
Under crisp and deathless winter mornings
Ensconced in hollows in ash-grey burrs
Wassail godhead de proprietate probanda;
Here I left your voice last

Supine
In fog.

A challenge; memory affronts in
Spirals, sifting the useless to the
Apron somewhere at the crown.
This, rather, is where I left you.

The rest is seasonal.
Aug 2013 · 474
Hit Miss or Maybe
Dennis Lancet Aug 2013
The brilliant stars
sing
my mystery eyes,
and
I am the Man Eater
of Poonanai

Sail away,
Sail away,
Sail away.
Dennis Lancet Aug 2013
We put them into the microwave to dry out,
That midsummer. The air cooled,
High over the Chilterns, and we met
The finished product
Hit the North
and Hit the Arcades
Aug 2013 · 438
B&B Five Miles Outside Wem
Dennis Lancet Aug 2013
Everybody knows
Badger likes
Mashed Potato

Makes them into Shapes
And Eats Them
Every Day

Why did you leave me behind
Aug 2013 · 1.6k
I want to see you sweat
Dennis Lancet Aug 2013
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
Dennis Lancet Aug 2013
Looking out of the kitchen window
Stirring decaf all vaguary-prone and listless
To the lawn, where, this morning,
George, the Alsatian now deceased
Frolicked amongst brambles.
Before he went berserk. Before,
Alas, I had to kick his head in;

I am suddenly eight years old
And lost, in Whitstable Castle.
Around me, humans traipse
And march their aching infants around
Unknowing that I am lost. I cry out:
"Father! Your child is missing,
Father! Do you not notice?
Can you not see?"

My father, however, winds
An unending reel of film
On a now long binned disposable camera
With his thumb. Raking through
Fresh memories, a combing sound
With never a click. His is absorbed,
Cannot hear my cries.
Dennis Lancet Aug 2013
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.
Dennis Lancet Aug 2013
"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 ****".
Aug 2013 · 397
Song of Myself
Dennis Lancet Aug 2013
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?
Dennis Lancet Aug 2013
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

— The End —