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~
February 2025
HP Poet: Lizzie Bevis
Age: 40
Country: UK


Question 1: A warm welcome to the HP Spotlight, Lizzie. Please tell us about your background?

Lizzie Bevis: "Hello Carlo, So, my actual name is Elizabeth, but I have always been known as Lizzie since I was a little girl. Elizabeth quickly became my naughty name if I got up to mischief! I was born in Lincolnshire, England a month early in November 1984, I was meant to be a Christmas baby, but I did not want to wait! That was a smart move on my part. I have 2 brothers and a younger sister. I am the second oldest of the brood. I also celebrated my 40th Birthday last year quietly with family and friends.

I also love unicorns. My best friend Samantha often tells me that I should have been one because I am just too nice. Oh boy, I am going to try my best to condense this down as much as I can because I can write for England, Carlo! I have not always lived in Lincolnshire, I lived in Yorkshire from the age of 1 until I was 8. I was sad to leave my friends behind when we moved back to Lincolnshire to be close to my grandma who I adored. My lovely mum is sadly not a particularly good cook, so when I was 10, I told my grandma that my mum overcooked pasta to mush again, so my grandma discreetly taught me how to cook and bake on weekends. I quickly became the family cook, and I think that everyone was relieved!

I was independent in my teenage years, I got myself a paper round at the age of 14 and got my first proper job at the age of 17 in a shop and started saving up my wages. I was also quite sporty growing up, I enjoyed playing football with the boys, and I eventually became an FA-qualified football referee. I also discovered archery, and I became a Grand National Archery Association Archery Instructor. I also wanted to climb mountains, so I did. My first mountain climb was Mount Snowdon in Wales, I then went to Aviemore, Scotland to take on the Cairngorms and fell in love with the outdoors all over again, I remember seeing the Northern lights for the first time and they were breathtaking.

At the age of 19, my adventures took me all over Europe, and I visited Italy, The Netherlands, France, and Spain. My travels eventually took me to America where visited the Rocky Mountains in Colorado and I climbed up Pikes Peak; I then changed direction and toured New England. I enjoyed New England so much that applied for a 3-month work visa, and I became a head archery counsellor at a Summer Camp in Rhode Island, what a fun experience that was!

Going back to my childhood, my mum’s family hail from Yorkshire so living there meant that I could visit my aunts, uncles, cousins, and my grandpa. My grandpa used to work in the coal mines so naturally his lungs were in a bad way, and he was in and out of hospital most of the time. This was a life-altering moment and at the age of 4, I decided that I was going to become a nurse when I grew up. I would visit my Grandad at the hospital dressed up in my nurse's costume and help the nurses on the ward do the little tasks like filling up and distributing patients' water jugs and chatting with the patients. Grandpa would always give me his strawberry ice cream, he said that he didn't like it, but I could never understand why?! I have many fond memories of those days.

Ironically, I learnt that some things are not meant to be. I enrolled in university to study Adult General Nursing in 2015 but made national media instead for all of the wrong reasons; In July of that very same year, I had a cardiac arrest when my mum's little dog Daisy was put to sleep at the veterinary surgery. After surviving my brush with death, I spent 3 long weeks in hospital, and I was diagnosed with Long QT Syndrome. I also learnt that stress kills and that Adult Nursing was probably not the best career choice for me! I am now Employed as an Adult Care and Wellbeing Advisor and love every minute of it."



Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?

Lizzie Bevis: "I have been writing poetry since I was 11 years old, I was inspired when studying my English Language & Literature GCSEs at Secondary School. I remember the first poem that I ever wrote, it was called My Dog Sam.

My Dog Sam

He is as fast as the wind
Running through fields of green,
He is the smartest dog that I have ever seen.
He is black and white, an epic sight,
With eyes so keen and a mind so bright.
My Border Collie, my good boy Sam,
My loyal friend who understands
Every whistle and all commands.

By Lizzie aged 11.

At the age of 12, I had my first poem published in the National Poetry Anthology and I have had many other poems published since. Writing poetry has become a refreshing pastime, and I am often writing about something daily. I have been writing new material and adding my poems to Hello Poetry since September last year."



Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).

Lizzie Bevis: "Inspiration for me can be as simple as an experience or emotion, it can come from a joyous occasion with family, feeling sad, being in love or from something far less complex; such as when reading a book, looking out of my bedroom window in the morning or walking through the churchyard. One of my poems ‘Epitaph’ was inspired by walking past a worn gravestone when I was visiting my grandma to lay flowers on her grave. I am fortunate to live in the Lincolnshire Wolds and be surrounded by history, rolling hills, farmland, and picturesque countryside."


Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?

Lizzie Bevis: "Poetry, personally for me is an outlet for creative expression. It is healing and it is cathartic. I find that I can write about anything on my mind and feel like a weight has lifted afterwards. I can convey my feelings and emotions freely. Poetry can be emotive, startling, inspiring and thought-provoking. I feel like I am giving my readers a little sneak peek inside my very vulnerable soul. I also like to experiment with humour, it makes a nice change to try something different sometimes and I enjoy making people smile."


Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?

Lizzie Bevis: "The first poem that inspired me to begin writing was a poem called 'I Am Very Bothered' by Simon Armitage. Being from Lincolnshire and living a hop and skip away from the birthplace of Alfred Lord Tennyson, it would be rude not to include his wonderful poem - 'The Splendor Falls.' I have enjoyed reading and have been inspired by many of Maya Angelou’s works in the past, I recall reading this poem to my daughter when she was 5 years old – 'Life Doesn’t Frighten Me.'  Alice in Wonderland was one of my favourite books to read growing up, here is another one of Lewis Carroll's splendid pieces of work - Dreamland. I was also a science geek at school and was fascinated by Physics, Chemistry and Biology. I love the work of Sarah Howe, and this is especially one of my favourite poems - 'Relativity.'"


Question 6: What other interests do you have?

Lizzie Bevis: "I am a woman of simple pleasures, I enjoy spending time with my family, and games night is always a blast! When I am at home and not working, I often listen to music or watch a good documentary on TV. I adore my cats Timmy and Sooty, Sooty is a sleepy old boy now, but Timmy is such a rascal and there is never a dull moment at home, he has recently learnt how to open drawers! I also like to pass the time sitting in my armchair (usually with a cat on my lap) next to my log burner to work on the occasional embroidery task, and I do of course, enjoy cooking and baking lots of delicious treats, which I usually share with my family, friends and neighbours. I love being outdoors, I often go on long walks, breathing in the fresh air, and clearing my thoughts."


Carlo C. Gomez: “Thank you so much Lizzie, we really appreciate you giving us the opportunity to get to know the person behind the poet! It is our pleasure to include you in this Spotlight series!”

Lizzie Bevis: "Thank you Carlo for taking the time to plunge me into the February Spotlight! I would also like to thank everyone who has ever shown me kindness, support, and encouragement on Hello Poetry. You are all a wonderful bunch of poets, and I feel truly blessed to be amongst you. Keep writing and keep your visions alive because, without our creativity, the world would be a very dull place indeed."




Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed coming to know Lizzie a little bit better. We certainly did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez

We will post Spotlight #25 in March!

~
On Christmas Day we wake up
We've no stocking on our bed
We've got a plastic kit box
taking up space there instead
You see, we aren't at home with you
Even though you wish we are
We're celebrating Christmas
Over here in Khandahar

A big Merry Christmas to friends and family
of Cpl. Mike Cannandale of St. Louis, Missouri, USA

We have our turkey dinner too
Stuffing, taters, pumpkin pie
We all sit here telling stories
And it's hard just not to cry
so, we do, because we're not back home
Having Christmas like you all
But, we're over here in Khandahar
Because we all answered the call

Merry Christmas to all friends and family of Liuetenant James Mc Caskill
of Great Grimsby, Lincolnshire, England

We have a snowman by our tent
He's made of plywood, painted white
Thank god, we made no snowballs up
We'd get splinters  in a fight
We go to church and pray for peace
And wish we could go home
But, over here at Christmas time
There's just no where to roam

Merry Christmas to friends and family of
Captiain John Watson, PPCLI, in Greenwood, Nova Scotia, Canada

We made our videos last week
To send you our best wishes
We'd all love to be back with you
Washing up those Christmas dishes
For now, we are one family
Joined in heart, and soul and mind
Having a Christmas meal in Khandahar
The best meal of it's kind

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to friends
and family, of Marine Master Sgt. Tim Wilcox, Plano, Texas, USA

Next year we will be home with you
Having Christmas as we should
Praying for peace, hope and prosperity
And all things that are good
for now though, we are over here
missing you this Christmas Day
We just hope you're thinking of us
As we keep the foe at bay

Merry Christmas to all the friends, family, co-workers and supporters
of all the soldiers in War Zones everywhere, who can't be at home this Christmas
May they all get home safe.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year
John F McCullagh Jul 2016
From their farms and their villages, they answered the call;
of King and of Country, to the great game of war.
They drilled and they practiced to work as a team,
then were shipped to the Somme, July, Nineteen sixteen.

A film of their training was made to be shown
to their sisters and mothers and lovers back home.
It was screened one time only, to standing acclaim,
for the unwitting widows who carried their names.

Like ripe wheat at the harvest felled by the scythe,
the chums led the assault and half paid with their life.
Lincolnshire wept when the casualties were read.
That first day at the Somme saw twenty Thousand dead.

Those that returned to their village or farm
Thereafter oft woke from their sleep in alarm.
They were changed men and broken, who returned from the fray,
and who bore their survivor guilt to their own dying day.
The sons and brothers of Grimsby in Lincolnshire enlisted together, trained together and on 07/01/1916 they died together in the first massed attack at the battle of the Somme. Their loved ones attended a screening on 07/04/1916 of a patriotic film made about their training for war unaware that their men, shown on film, were already dead.
Rupert Pip Mar 2022
Sunshine lights this endless day;
I swim amongst the lake above,
walking round the flat terrain
of Lincolnshire’s spring, in love.
Jack adjoins my roaming mind
and Allen sings aside the birds;
I walk n’ walk with woes behind,
so marry up with the Mother Earth!

I bless my hands with fallen leaves
to feel the way they’d hug my skin.
My eyes expand in disbelief,
this leaf and I are one, akin.
I need not find another soul,
for all the love and what it’s worth,
is out there now, outside the hole,
so marry up with Mother Earth!

The clouds part quick;
a wanderers dream.
The grass grows thick,
enveloping me.
Flowers dance with helpless joy,
as I have found another birth,
insects smile, a bubbling boy,
so marry up with Mother Earth!

Travel home, and all things close,
as slammed doors shutter frames.
My phone lights up for one more dose,
and I burst out in flames.
I miss the sky, the summer rain,
the grass, the birds and endless mirth.
Indoors I find a stomach pain,
I miss the ******* Mother Earth.
Edna Sweetlove Nov 2014
Scunthorpe is justly famous for its ugliness
And the rampant lasciviousness of its inhabitants;
With what horror I recall encountering a gent there,
A seriously senior slapper, widely acclaimed as
The least inhibited pensioner in northern Lincolnshire.

In my gilded youth I'd wandered into the bar
Of some grotty hostelry and got propositioned by this old ****;
On the pretext of offering to gift me fifty quid
He dragged me upstairs and ravished me totally,  
Showing his elderly anatomy 's most private parts
In prurient abandon. Afterwards, I wondered how long
Before the myriad love bites on my buttocks would fade?
You are a summer sky on your own.
Funny as the stars.
Handsome like the moon above.
And in your eyes, there are a million little windows;
Bridges to all other worlds that I've never known.

I saw pearls and diamonds in your hands;
And your skin shines like one thousand starry nights.
Ah, perhaps I am being too deeply overthrown
by my own fantasies,
Fantasies that deceive and are just full of mysteries;
I am like a young little nymphet that craves for your stories.
But if I have trust in you, would you be my love?
My darling that hails from heaven and twin delights above.

I have never been to Lincolnshire at all;
But these feelings are again too strong.
There may be another maiden in thy heart, anyway,
For your love was nowhere and unseen to me.
I could not grasp it, for it was not there;
Although I stood and watched out for it everywhere.
It was like a lost story that had been told;
It was around me, but one you did not allow me to hold.
Perhaps your love was in your words;
Yet I could not see it--why anyway, when I should have seen?
I am a literary lass, with poems on my tongue;
With braids of love perched deep in my lungs.
But if the ivory rainbow emerges again tomorrow,
Would you wait for me behind the shady snow?

I'll look for you now, again, and again;
You whom I told my heart was a darling best friend;
But in whose soul dwells an idyllic nest of love.
I will pray again tonight, as you softly asked;
But I will think of you again and dream of you once more.
Perhaps I have been dreaming and all is not true;
Ah, Sebastian, you took all the answers away with you.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2020
i was aiming to sort out some computer
details outside the realm
of the corporate world of hierarchy...
something like that...
talking to a 56 year old kazakh in
romford: about the turks and the mongols...
about giving up smoking (not really):
and how i am addicted to carbon
monoxide while he is bagging big chews
from the nicotine gum: fiddly fingers
and something akin to peeling carrots
and power-tame-toes!
fiddles for foreskins...
in this one instance i am... beside buying
into... "the narrative"...
a crown descends...
   a crow is the equivalent of crown:
phonetically: in greek... amore...
                  the rest of the day completed
itself... with me walking from
Chadwell Heath to Romford...
marking my feet on a shortcut through
the green belt...
the traffic noises died...
i just stood in a middle of a field
the vikings might have envied...
no no no...
   the blistering azure piercing breath
and making me embody a loitering of a soul...
three birds of prey...
how is it... that birds of prey rarely
flap their wings... they... just... hover...
impossibly perfect...
they hone in on something...
circle around and around
like a vultures' manifesto...
     i was waiting to see the dive
but i didn't see it: not out of impatience...
i was in a secluded partition of england
yet i was still attempting to buy a bicycle
in Chadwell Heath -
i looked at myself not looking at
anything prior...
this solitary whitey:
i don't mind the remark...
thank god the slaves of colour want
to either see no colour or... too...
the hues of copper, cinnamon...
      teases of cacao...
                           a cuban ****...
                so much was poured into
a runic revision -
    best: an invigoration...
                    toothpicks for words:
an arithmetic of my teeth...
        i am beside myself welcoming
the intrusion of "minority":
perhaps in little ol' removed Swansea -
i am the lord mayor the city might
need me...
   in somewhere like Chadwell Heath...
buying a lion white chocolate bar
is perhaps sub-cultural -
the same old pauper of what-a-load of
violins bundled up on a bench
by the church... a last imploring gesture...
drinking that gorgon's blood
of a dutch equivalent of carlsberg's
spezial broo (or -ew)...
          on these isles: these bright and beautiful
isles:
you can't "sell me": the irish are still
speaking... english?!
the irish are not speaking gaelic -
my god... this terrible hammer from
Lincolnshire -
     when and as to how...
the Welsh took it upon themselves
to become this sacred heaven of bilingualism -
so much for learning Dutch -
or... Bel-ge-an -
  Flemz? Flimsy Choc-a-Block...
       choke on a tired rubber of a tire...
stage a newbie ***** flick from
the dungeons of **** Bruges...
or some ***** / wide my pony: rha rha rho...
that the Welsh still cling to a tongue:
spirit pairing:
of the Polacks under the geography
of the third partition...
of the czechs under the habsburgs -
          history as a fetish...
no... more... "natural selection" beside
the already prescribed antics of ape ****
and meteor... and time impossible...
to have... selective historicism...
naturally?
             that "we" are at a stage where
something is deemed necessary - otherwise not...
but then again it's not...
since: who the hell will remember "us"?
i drink... but i also write...
i guess the writing is more of an exercise
in amnesia than the drinking -
the drinking helps: in that i am more blunt,
boringly honesty:
un-spec-tac-ular for the best...
  i just can't imagine myself writting anything
worse than a journalistic tabloid
palette will allow...
    sure: no rhyme no river for a narrtive:
concretely focused on an (a) through to a (z)...
pay... i guess the concept of
pay is showing through...
          well then... my whittle hobby:
my whittle: it can become impossible -
that the secular niqab
   will not protect you from the stench
of old goats' **** in a public toilet -
the solipsism of farting in a cogested
public "picturesque"...
to have to believe in both narratives:
the mainstream of lies and these -
offshoots of the best / better informed...
my little paranoid agenda is no
agenda... but enough of my beard
shackles a: thorough "through"...
red is longer a bull pointer antagonist...
up could be a down...
but it's not that: well... it is...
that people made a constituted forward:
towing - best kept replicas...
how could it be possible to procrastinate
a diminishing of transcendence:
that freedom is already a pork-pie glutton
and constipation...
"think-tanks"...
      tanks... ego rifles?
      shoot the dummy... play the cerebral
palsy mannequin tossing...
the utopia of hyperhondriacs...
a diaspora of polacks and the greeks...
that the machinery has been
well established... that the machine has
been well oiled...
and is "econimally" sound...
     gentle rub rub gentlest rubbing rub-up...
and down...
and my flesh this least copernican
crux... which has not orientated
itself around either sun, star...
earth or moon...
          
            expanding cycle lanes will
not bring about a new dutch republic...
nor will i sell a pancake for
the purpose of levelling the himalayas...
this brittle conundrum of bogus...
two narratives:
alter-alter -
what-if and... what-if...
                but red's not red:
there's no shawl for a hemmingway
for sooner last:
for a Catalonia...
to romance the world afresh...
but now there's a McDonalds in
Stockholm: future knowledge...
a globalist ghetto -

how the joke that  was once
Sweden is no longer...
this same... cyclops of culture mantra...
of lore: Sveeden: "so tolerant"...
and now the world and no...
this is not a world...
based on the focus of scrutiny
of a world: no... there's
no heidegger's dasein:
there's...

the magic trick for the masses...
which is much more spectacular...
and how willing there's a dulling of perception..
i am of the custard pie...
i am the custard pie...
            
              hiersein: "there" or "here" of...
ahem...                wohin?
that word comes with a question puncture...
you don't actually use the word:
where... without a question mark... no?
you can compound a complexity
akin to heidegger's with: here-being
alias "concern"...
well then... the solipsism of: "over-there"...
a pointer... it's a lack of reconciling the masses
with any ontological... "scrutiny"...

plus up: ++++ pardons for:
blistering of and this leftover scab of narrative...
before the double knee of
b.l.m. and beijing -
now... best left with fighting the nazis...
i'll say it outright...
best left with fighting the nazis...
best fighting a well attired SS-man
in some hugo boss suit...
of pristine khaki... grey or black...
but no... not now...
dulling of suits...
              
   now i'm on par with the argument:
i want nazis! i want to fight nazis!
oh... wait... they're not blonde...
or german or... believe me:
they could have hidden in the Crimean
peninsula...
             but no... but not now...
i want to fight: the *******: good-luck
joke of history...
but this evil is so bland...
it's so terrestrial...
   the same mundane evil coupled
with my own terrestrial existence probing
of conversation / no argument...

the Welsh still speak: "Welden"...
   Velsh... in a climate where... the union
jack is looking up the h'american *******...
but the scots but the irish don't retain
their ******* gaelic...
good for you:
like a nuanced slang of the english cricketer...
tourist... hello... world...
tourist... hello world...
               my now new reality:
legal immigration this little ******...
this no burden of a Ruś -
a warraring burden from a scent in the air...
that there's no concrete:
sulphur stinking zeppelin ruining the skies
at: come night... come lazily this lost day...
this lost day...

once more: when st. patrick met up
with a mule that became
a farce and a ghost-face
of sitting loiter:
anti-saint: humpty-coŁal-sky-
             dumps a truce...
valiant against the propaganda cogs
and blockages...
the retorts of the salvaged plumber...
my new authority: my lost authority...
F'f'f'f'fever pitch for a hannibal...

Carthage must counter: euthanasia...
me best sold "neuter"...
that there is an unconvincing this:
bias this base...
******* on a whiskey soaked
cigarette...
that a guinness can only be drank
from a glass of a measure of a pint...
don't blister me with
this and these details of a gargantuan
t'is... i want a poetry on the basis
of future: dead...

            ****-soaked revelation
of a brick willing: to sell a "hybrid"
sorta-glue: a congestion...
           this my sacred ****...
my tongue this lesser oyster -
      a skull that cannot fathom
   the jaw line...
      witness my own very little...
my leisured attention span...
no new no wriggling of index
as the best pickled earth-worn...

              habitually: a shirt worn
to expand upon an objectivity for
the tow of a shirt with...
creases...
this lesser ambiguity of
a prompt that preserves itself
with a: lost project of ambiguity -

that we somehow accepted
a new, a nuance... a blister and a heaving...
catterpillar dues...
count! count the arithmetic per-take!
back in the ***** of mother russia...
little people do little things...
big people do: crab load of ****:
this sort of philanthrophy...
because: aghast...
the mistantrophe is the next
best fang...
like chewing gum and mawler
of a fake tooth:
my best kept bones...

              heritage of radio and a ******...
but, once upon a time...
my little overt detailing...
romance mr. marshall this little
casablanca and my own tunis -
chasing shadows with
a little insy-winsy spiders to tow...
my own cob...
my own prague pangs of summer
that they are still:
the cobblestones to resound
with horse hoofs...

the last... lost... project...
to have to rejuvinate the revision
of the roman empire...
that there was no james joyce's ullyses
from 200 AD...
there was an old greek in
the new greek in the byzantine choral
chant...
     goody-goody-fwyfays
2020 my lost year...
the year when i begged for a slack:
a diminished point of a pair of *******...
how sober somehow worked...
that drunk was no new sensible...
doubt and its plethora of all the least
possible jargon of emotions:
a McDowell a McCurieal...
   a Dot MacKenzzies...
a lord assumption of surnames that:
there was no ever...
Hogwarts of the choicest of godfather
names... when this blessed babe
of the agony srap..
this tendering of bones...
          my little mongolia...
a variation of Kiev that could expand
into Ukraine...
                       but: ah... now...
a little chisel of england or...
aa bandage off...
this whittle hinter of big bypass flyover
most pristine:
utopia h'americana...
                          Boston bleeds:
Chigaco sort of... fakes...
on the cackle of a letter...
gate? i say... Gate?
      shique: cack: ago: co: go...
no "lord assumption"...
my lord this same ***** diary
this rusty panser..
                                 and i have
to somehow embarass myself
with a "belief" in a... god?!

                  of the non-exisstence of
a god among "sensible" people...
this little deity of transcending...
my quest for a satanic project
gorgon...
         stashed up conjure:
of.. the death-litany...
my own explanation...
            my own little wording that
has to arrive at a...
******* and a variation of hues
that borrows from green...
blue... and the mediating...
              hard-world-of-grey...
this my loosening of tendons...
the easing of muscle to tow
some fat...
my new: hammering...
chicken shackles...
rummanating the lost
ordeal of the perpliexing *** ordeal
of catholicism -
time to *******! time to!

my best pointers:
corpus christi:
we did start off with cannibalism...
we did start off with cannibalism...
metaphorical?
was it ever really a posit of
images that were only read by braille
sooths?
christianity is a cannibalism...
it's so hertbreaking that:
there's no god or an infinite man
of the little things to make
a composition of polyphony...

i can't read into a jesus when there's
the cannibalism:
a "metaphor" for a metaphysics...
a death of poetry: hell...
**** me for the necessary death
of rhyme...
            now "jew" like any basic
posit of a yew...
    prior to the real established
scrutiny of a nation-state...
which has to be fathomed
with Israel...
the hebrews have finally found
their: woke and roll...

           the jews were excused from
towing along to the crucifix...
and when all was done...
and this new camel jockey prize...
king crimson...
isn't cited: unless in the spanish circles
along with portishead...

i have desired this blatant death
that it might contend with Barcelona...
or a sequence if a brothel
from Bulgaria imitating throttle Thailand...
my little ex-girlfriend...
come 5am... and it is still
oxford st. and a flagship wake-me-up...
this old leveraging London matters...
i am but the sharpnel of words
that cannot possible reproduce:
brick-top sensibilities...

my litter interludes basket of futurist "what if"
existences in the Bedlam of epitaphs...
i might have been crowned the prince
of Anjou...
   i might have cradled the thirds
of the third crusade...
i might just as well be the beggar from
the annals of history making journalistic
progressions... to sow: death... to tow...
belittling creases of lost
adventures... creasing the skin prone:
proof... a detail of a scalp that's not...
  em... retail... wigs...
                          you wanna make me a glutton:
fist based... there was no turmeric involved...
the "convenience"...
yes... a bone-ah-tomahawk...
  my best attired cannibal...
it's such a taming project...
i want to be chemically sedated by disproofs...
but then... i am...
squandering what little i have
of romancing russia...
or thereby greece...

  this is the part where i try to borrow from
a differentiation of...
second from last:
stream of borrowed cocktails...
or...
my best screaming streamer -
i nice unto you...
you...
no... i very much like this cul de sac
of: i nice unto you...
why? the work invites no
technicality that can be
detailed into a trans-generational...
my last Epicurus joke...

crease a child an ultimatum of
competition...
conjunctions of grief...
not biggest thank you...
i thank you as to why
i... not because i wanted
to drink...
sober people are splits and
just plain boring...
towing toes to tango:
no game of twos...
sober people have no...

   my best tomato ketchup fake
blood load of argumentation...
bias / basis...
generic *******...
cause no happy bride:
was ever to be prized...
or prided..
my little gimmick wonderland
of a shtick...
no thank god i never married...
thank god i toiled around
with...
bread-knit...
and... cuneiform woke...
best kept islam: a foretold
variation of agriculture...
the plantation ridicule plumber of
eastern european choice:
****-dumbdumb...
dies with... incorporated
neu-Birmingham...
******* polacks...
too proud to think they could replace
us *****: first prized Pakis...

ahem... yes... what?!
this be Westminster...
tax haven collector's bias?
do i have a face that might coincide with:
i had...
but right now?
no... i couldn't give a tonne's load
of ******* to mind
it being a copernican: first invoked
sort of... affair...
savvy?!
Antony Glaser Feb 2022
Troubadors sing their hearts out
Surround me evermore.
Spirits caught in castled ruins.
Frangipani wait to hark.
Poppy dogs with sheepish eyes
lost in the dark.
Happy as Larry in Lincolnshire fayres.
Dragons Tooth flowering late.
Ordinariness dressed in leitmotifs,
starts to fade
Antony Glaser Sep 2021
Caught in November
Troubadors sing their hearts out
Surround me evermore
Spirits caught in castle ruins
Frangipani wait to hark
Poppy dogs with sheepish eyes
lost in the dark
Happy as a jester in Lincolnshire fayres
Dragons Tooth flowering late
Ordinariness dressed in leitmotifs
Antony Glaser Mar 2022
Spirits nestled in castled ruins.
Frangipani caught in the rain.
Poppy dogs with sheepish eyes
Happy as pie Larry in Lincolnshire fayres.
Dragons Tooth flowering late.
Ordinariness dressed in leitmotifs starts to fade

— The End —