Summer

Beneath the leafy eaves,

We three:

Me, hayfever-free,

He,

And he,

Within the lee

Of a weeping tree.

We sip its tears

For fear our laughter

Will disturb the day;

And swallow its sighs

To better disguise

The reckless mirth in all we say.

Harsh Marker

The kind of swine

To round 9.5

Down to 9.

A Peculiar Man

We met a guy outside Oxford station,

Whose accent, by my guesstimation,

Synched cockney and northern Australian.

From behind his grill he wore a permagrin,

Vending a limited menu therein

(With the odd translation in Mandarin).

When, at length, I enquired about these

Infrequent Hanzi, he replied, “If you please,

They reconcile my commercial needs.

If all were translated, people might see

My humble grill as an outlet Chinese;

So to preserve my name as a barbecue,

I determined only to gloss the most select few.

But, because I orientally spell some,

My clients from China feel always welcome.”

Unsure what else I might feasibly say,

I nodded,

“Understandable, have a nice day.”

Some Thoughts on My Poems

Some readers prefer their

Verse with gilding,

Others gelded,

Others spilt crudely

Like that thing that Shell did.

I just want mine

Bittersweet

(Like the The Verve song)

And to go the extra —

If not mile —

Then furlong.

Bop is Cancelled.

Pathetic.

Effort? From Entz?

That “theme” was (obvs)

Never going

To get past college —

And now my birthday

Bop is cancelled.

Tea > Coffee

I strolled from Wandsworth to Ealing,

Sipping upon a Darjeeling;

Coffee, I think,

Is an inferior drink,

Which I can never taste the appeal in.

Adults Who Ride Scooters

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 her of couture-

One problem.

This goddess, this starlet,

Companion of his future,

Was a grown-ass adult,

Riding a scooter.

Home for a Night Out

I once travelled from Oxford to Leam,

For an evening of drinking with friends;

I felt my gut flutter,

Puked in a gutter,

Then headed to Oxford again.

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.

Some Things I Like About You

Some things I like about you:

I like that in the past

We’ve probably crossed paths

And can laugh about that now.

I like that you’ve roved

To the other side of the globe

But build your Hadrian’s Wall

At Newcastle.

I like that you don’t stroll

Without a definite goal

In whose direction to direct your sole.

I like that you compare it to skiing.

I like that I smile before seeing

You, and all the way through.

I like that you look like Oona Chaplin.

I like grappling with you on destiny

And knowing you’ll get the best of me.

I like that your eyes dilate with late light

I like

But to like more would be treason:

I call them Shorter Poems for a reason.