Spiders in my basket
spiders in my soup
spider on my eider down
spiders loop the loop

Spiders on the ceiling
now crawling down the wall
there's a spider on my pillow
someone hear my call

Spiders changing faces
never far from ear
scrip and scrat the little feet
tell me spiders are too near

I sleep with my mouth open

Betwixt the shrub and hubabubb
'neath bracken's shadowed scowl
came a Wren pop-hopping when
arrested by a yowl

He spied another grovely bird
chattering with the gloom
realising it had been observed
it screeked with spittled spume

Stay back, stay back
alack, alack
I've nothing left to give
and should you shake the life from me
unhappy you shall live

Like him the grovely had a one leg
and too the veshy eye
and when he flexed his deeker wings
he knew this bird must die.

The unctuous Wren popped back and forth
as did the groveley bird
and there they stood 'twix shrub and earth
exchanging not a word.

Just this once I'll let you go
announced the cautious Wren
he turned his fractious beak to blow
and was never seen again.

There’s a crack in my mug
There's a hole in my mouth
There’s a share for the drug
That’s pulling me south

There’s a spot on my side
Below my left arm
There’s a bruise to my pride
That’s causing me harm

There’s a thought in my head
That won’t go away
Before I am dead
I must have my say

When Mr Manfred shopped for clothes
he always sought the best
long johns for the winter nights
and a stringy summer vest.

His Chevy was his pride and joy
he used it on weekends
and drove it down to Illinois
to hook up some old friends.

To neighbors he was the perfect gent
who never raised a fuss
so happy was this malcontent
he drove the high school bus.

But Manfred had a secret
it kept him so discreet
his captives couldn't run away
because they had no feet.

Moody Manfred kept them hid
force fed them through a straw
he wrote in chalk upon the lid
disappointment number four.

An empty farmhouse
Hemmed in by wire
Blackened by history
Blackened by fire

It draws me in
I clutch the fence
Squeezing my fingers through the gap
But the air is just the same
Cold and dead
On both sides now

Home farm

Sitting round a camp-fire in the middle of a wood
I spied a dozen vampires eating treacle pud
Upon their bloodless heads they shrugged a ***** cowl
While pacing werewolves at their backs let forth an eerie howl

The setting moon was empty as was their heinous bellies
Before them lay uneaten heaps of pies and sweets and jellies
‘It is no good’, said one, ‘I am sick of this malaise.
What this pudding needs is a spot of Crème anglaise.’

There is nothing cleaner
than a freckled spotted hyena
drinking warm retsina
outside a Catholic church

There's nothing more obtuse
than an educated moose
running aboot the hoose
looking for a shoe

There is nothing more verbose
than a really exceptionally long line of prose that didn't quite rhyme at the end

Initial impressions of my first week at the warehouse, well, controlled chaos. And so much paperwork you wouldn’t believe, everything has to be checked in, filed, copied and passed onto accounts for the Big Guy upstairs. I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it, the others make it look so ****** easy, but some of them have been doing this since His birth. Most of the time I sitting about waiting for someone to give me something to do, I must look like a right tool. Anyway, mustn’t complain, I was lucky to get this promotion, could’ve spent my entire life cycle in the bowels, or kidneys or some other monotonous department, count your blessings I say.

The mornings are the busy time, when he wakes up and all those nocturnal ideas and dreams come flooding in, it’s a real job to keep up, everything has to be logged in and stored away before he’s aware they exist. Someone; and I won’t say who left a sub; that’s a subconscious memory on the front counter and it was ages before anyone realised it was missing. We eventually cornered it in block F12, by now it had grown to nine times its normal size and was making such a racket there was the very real danger that He would notice it, I’m told that these things are locked away for a very good reason. Occasionally one escapes but I’m told it’s very rare.

The night shift rolls in when He’s settling down for the night, they have a lot less to do but I don’t think I’d like it much, a colleague told me it gets very scary here alone with the dreams and nightmares, not every sub from His childhood was accounted for and they’re said to roam the corridors and levels looking for someone to *****. I was given a guided tour of level five last night, there’s a huge vault at G5 and H2, its’ never been opened since day one. If you put your ear next to it you can hear a noise, a sort of rhythmic thump, it’s been growing in volume since the half life, no-one knows what it is, it isn’t a happy sound if you ask me.

Anyway, it’s been a good start and I hope when I get my review they’ll keep me on. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten, anything of interest be sure I’ll let you know.

The Letter

Memorizing words
Yellowed paper preserving
A love now faded

Disguise

In the duel of love
Many things are left undone
Like my paper mask

*****

Vacuum of your smile
Has made the bag wet inside
Saving the last gasp

*****

It’s clearly a drink
To make you think of nothing
But the kitchen-sink

Crash**

Delivered still warm
Out of the wreckage we hear
Another flat line

Us we Trolls
Who never met
Who never met?
Thus we Troll

Us we Trolls
Who never loved
Who never loved?
Thus we Troll

Us we Trolls
Did all but hide
and all but shied
From us we Trolls

Us we Trolls
Did nought but lie
Nought but lie
Thus we Troll

I knew an old stoat to relieve his throat
drank custard from his fungible boot

Be mine dear Prunus, be mine
He sang
Never mind dear Dulcis, never mind

And as he drank and sang, and sang and drank
I began to thank, and thank so hard I nearly sank
too depths so depthed too deep to see
the rolling mood washed over me.

*Let’s link arms dear Prunis
and turn our noble gaze
and together ride the ocean swell
until the end of days

Loud the banging door
Loud the banging door
Loud the banging door
So softly tread the Angels
Here and now gone
Like the snuffing of the candle

Hush the tumbling leaves
Hush the tumbling leaves
Hush the tumbling leaves
So softly fall the Angels
Here and now gone
Like a feather on the breeze

Whisper was my dream
Whisper was the dream
Whispers from the dream
So softly hush the Angels
‘Come play with us’
Here and now gone
Like something leaving

He had no reflection
Such was his need
Theirs was the karma
On which to feed

And the river ran red
The river of dead
The river ran red
From bed to open cask

Such was his mask

Mr. Crimple shaved his head
brushed his teeth and went to bed
and in the morn upon that pate
another pair of teeth mutate
a second mouth with tongue and lip
all required to smack and sip
the heavy rain now falling down

'I need a hat or else I'll drown,' said Mr. Crimple

Leave it all behind, drop the latch
take a breath, make it ******
turn the blind eye to the road ahead
cross the threshold
now it unravels, the thread of life.

I saw that crow one misting morn
scrabbling low with beakish scorn
his tailored coat splat dappled grey
the beading eye he cast my way

The plumage pale yet marks him out
no brother to the dark and stout
for mourning coat he'd gladly trade
the stabs and pecks of darkling babes

'gainst weathered rug of autumn mush
this feathered lozenge amidst the brush
knows his place at margins bare
without a friend, without a care

Upon my word
a settled ****
came forth the bile
from mouth absurd

Did make the crush
of this mooly mush
came forth the bile
a gregarious flush

Collecting is an illness
We can all recover from
Things thought unique
Are devalued en masse

The Endless quests for
Meaningless variations
The infinite minutiae
That no-one finds interesting
But it’s never enough. . . is it?

It starts off innocent enough
Two items nearly similar
Then two to complete a set
Ten more to complete the series

And there’s always the ****** awkward piece
The ‘sort-after’
The 'must-have'
That’s so ******* expensive
But you've got to have it
That’s collecting for you.
‘It’ll be worth something someday’
Yeah, not in my lifetime
Somebody else’s maybe

Collecting is an illness
It makes us secretive
It makes us sneaky
It makes us blind
It makes us greedy
It makes us needy
It makes us poor

I am a collector
And I’m on the road
To recovery

In 2009 I caught my breath
And held it in my hand
Carried over to the New Year
And released it on the other side
But the breath had gone
Dissolved like a waking memory

In 2013 I held my breath and
Gathered it up
I carried it over to the New Year
To release it on the other side
But the breath of life had gone
Dissolved by the heat of my hand

In 2017 I held my breath
And stifled the ache
The ache of time wasted
Cradled from year to year
Released without care on the other side
But the breath of life had gone
This I had to accept.

In 2020 I held my breath
behind my mask
I dare not carry it over
we have seen too much death.

In 2025 I held my breath
who knows when it is safe
to breathe out

If quizzes are quizzical
and bibles be biblical
are mystics too mystical
for passing their physical?

So does that mean
Tests
are just … short examinations ?

‘Cough please.’

When I see in your loving arms
all that’s made with your loving charms
then for to keep from worldly harm
When Winter Comes

In private warmth we lay a while
out of the world came forth your smile
then for to keep across the miles
When Winter Comes

Hark not the clatter of the guns
still now my heart the beating drum
end not their world has just begun
Then Winter Comes

Look see
Farther still on crowded hill
My love stands against the storm
A soul undone for ever after

And should we fall asleep
And never wake
We'll walk the path of ages yet

And should we find each other
Waiting around the corner of time
Treading on precious memories
We'll link hands
Laughing into darkness
Like giddy children

Absent is a hole left waiting
Absence is my heart still aching
Absconded with my wildest dreams
Abstracted from my darkest schemes
Abscess hewn by surgeon’s knife
Abstaining is a way of life
Absolution I must suspend
Absinthe now my only friend

I know you’ve seen my load
My bulging treasure trove
Stacked on the check-out belt
Shiny corporate logos showing

Yes, I can afford branded goods
Why pay less
When you can have the best?
No white labels for me
No generic boxes that scream
I am poor
I wouldn’t be seen dead
With three day old bread
What, recycled toilet rolls?
My ****!

Truth is cold, destroyer of dreams
truth is cruel and not what it seems
truth is blunt but cuts like a knife
the nature of truth is a fact of life.

Truth implodes when ideas are sold
truth is contrary to what you’ve been told
truth resides where evil fears
truth departs when trouble nears.

Truth is dark when scrawled on a wall,
insist on the truth or nothing at all.

Truth my friend is rarely kind
Seek this truth and you may find
that many truths are born of a lie
Why that is?
Don’t ask me why.

What a dream I had
hunkered down in Paris
dodging Russian bullets
stomach empty
eyes watered from the smoke
fingers too numb to grip.

The snow outside is corrupted
of mud, blood and bone
the proud tanks roll through
without pausing
without sympathy
without drivers.

It is for our salvation
the army came that day
we could no longer be trusted
to govern ourselves.

We know the type
those soft worlds at the edge of sleep
those fully rendered scenes
that you're allowed to keep

Upon waking
I log each one
carefully recorded
so they transcend the idea
and become real

A frog is granted an audience with Zeus.

Zeus: Oh, it’s you again

Frog: Not me, your magnificence, that was my great grandfather.

Zeus: (thinks) They all look alike
And yet, here you are.

Frog: Here I am

Zeus: And the reason for this. . . interruption?

Frog: It’s about our King

Zeus: Your king, what about him, has he been behaving badly?

Frog: No, your wondrousness.

Zeus: So, you’re here to say he’s doing well?

Frog: Not exactly, your malign bigness.

Zeus: Not exactly, I hear the echo of a complaint on your lips.

Frog: He’s neither good, nor bad. In fact, he does very little. Sits at the edge of the pool contemplating nothing in particular, sinking slowly into the mud while we manage his realm.

Zeus: And yet you still complain. I can recall what your great grandfather asked of me. Send us a king worthy of the frog pool. A king who is firm, stout, never raises his voice and is slow to anger. A king of robust personality, fair of mind and sound judgement.

Frog: Yes, yes, your God Head, he is all those things, but…

Zeus: But?

Frog: He may as well not be there for all the good he does. We need a king that commands respect, never falters, inspires courage and strikes fear into our enemies. He needs to be exacting, clever and ruthless.

Zeus: Ruthless you say, are you sure about that?
Very well, I have heard your plea, though it doth anger me that you have spurned my benevolent gift of stewardship. Release the king to the centre of the pool and there, let him sink without trace. Before the next moon you shall have a new king.

Just before the dawn, at the turn of the new moon a beautiful Heron picked its way through the reed beds looking for the frog pool. It stood at the water’s edge looking at the multitude of frogs clamouring to get a better view of their new king.
He was very hungry.

He just wasn’t ready to step out of the door
He wasn’t ready to work in the light
He wasn’t ready to acknowledge his team
Though they had been knocking a lifetime
He wasn’t ready to bury his ego and embrace the chaos.

The blank page screams at him
The art that won’t come
The art that is fickle, teasing
And just out of reach

And what emerges from this struggle?
It is his ego splattered across the canvas
No spirit
No depth
No love for his art
Just compromise.

The old man stirred on his death bed
Looked back through time
Onto another road that he never travelled
And, summoning all the art that he would take to the grave
Breathed out.