Poem #13

I am going to live to 150;

No one believes me, but I will.

I’ll see my great-great-grandkids born

And squeeze the sprites into my will.

I’ll fill with letters an escritoire,

Each signed by the hand that scratches the toosh

That sags upon the royal throne,

Like parents into Mulberry Bush.

I’ll visit the deathbeds of all my chums,

And bid them fair adieu!

‘See you in 70 years my friend,

And sorry about the feeding tube.’

Poem #12

Theme: anything for a dollar bill. Setting: south-south London, Über-territory. Two, three jabs of punch and a pastel John Dory. Restless thirty-thirst, seeking mutual thrill. Idea! We know it’s drink talking, but drink tells good stories. Follow our liquid raconteur out on to the grass; Instant blow to seat a weaker man firmly on his arse. ‘I’m sorry but I’m so angry,’ recompense, freeze. Not freeze like stand-still but freeze like damn cold Freeze like sounds in the drum solidified like raptors in the fold. Back inside giggling with our paper cash prize, Informing every ear what it missed with its eyes. My own ear, for now, bust like a lip. For another dollar I’ll swallow that tulip.

Poem #8

Things to observe when you next go clubbing:

 

Pre-cooked boy with the python eyes.

Reptilian man tastes pressure.

Gay friend plays the boyfriend disguise.

Ascents like an M.C. Escher.

 

Pretty girl shirking with a cheek,

Too meek to stamp or claw an eye,

He cradles into her tired week;

Three hydra heads are standing by.

 

All this you’ll see and waive, because

Mate, honestly, I was so waved.

Poem #6

Hmm? Oh yes, he does love Clara. Don’t you remember he bought that Zara jacket with the taut hood? Made her look like Kenneth McCormick, no zip. And his passcode- on his phone. 2527. Her name, if you allow for the alphanumeric kowtow.

But her name has five parts, and his passcode just four, spelling Clar. But if it had one more, it would spell Clara.

Besides, 2527 is quite unambiguous. Nothing else is tailing Clar. Except maybe Clark. Or Clarence.