Poem #56

For quite some time, and rightly,

The associations of poison gas

Were stable:

Conscripts from ol’ Blighty,

Panicking through gas masks as best they

Were able.

They even dubbed the thing mustard

(Which makes sulphur sound benign as Devonshire

Custard).

But now a Salisbury bench

Seeks to suffocate that scene from

The trench,

And the children of Douma,

Basemented, know world law might prosecute

Sooner.

Poem #54

The most beautiful woman he’d seen,

Dead or alive

(Or, at the very least, top five).

From the wheel of his Cooper

He wanted to toot her,

To evoke winged Cupid

And have the blind boy shoot her.

He needed her like new tenants

Need a wireless router,

Would gladly be neutered

To denude of her of couture-

One problem.

This goddess, this starlet,

Companion of his future,

Was a grown-ass adult,

Riding a scooter.

Poem #52

2018: A Love Story

He was a baker,
She was gluten-free,
By all accounts
Their love
Was never meant to be.

Each day the baker
Felt keenly her lack;
Why, in God’s name,
Did he
Love a coeliac?

But then the baker,
Sick of being glum,
Baked a new bread
Of brown rice flour
And xanthan gum.

She bought the whole loaf,
Dispelling his woes,
And ate it unbuttered
(Being, as she was,
Averse to lactose).

But now the milkman,
Ostensibly coy,
Makes his own play,
Stocking,
I hear, ten pints of soy.