The owls are a crazy bunch of kooks,
harping out their melody of hoots,
their beak-ish bonces curling like
nestling among shrubs, sprouts and
Bug eyes bursting like berries, wide
they twitter lullabies, guard mice
The owls are depressed by the bright
strong sunshine ruffles their
They befriend darkness instead of
sipping from a river’s moonlit cup.
Deep in the forests, deep with the
holding their banquets where masses
Man with the Tarantula Tattoo
Clotted in a spider’s web
and I feel I cannot get out.
Tustle… and you get tangled!
So trapped that you scream and shout!
Sepia singes photos,
a dust halo on your head,
your favourite food I still buy,
even though I’m underfed.
Money-spiders are good luck,
they riddle every cranny.
My luck is hibernating:
locked in celibacy.
Spiders run up the bath’s side.
Your hair lodged in the plug-hole.
I always start, petrified,
and hope they carry your soul.
The pretty Petals pivot,
plum-pink plumes pirouette,
blotting the skies like ink splots,
on the plane’s left swirly jets.
A ballerina’s balance,
the Wind: the Petal’s partner,
embracing in Nature’s trance,
drunk in the loss of Winter.
The Petals prick the stratus,
blue and white, cloud-clot backdrop.
Puce hitting blue like a bus,
above a bowing corn crop.
Then the partner lets them down,
as dusk slaughters,
this dancing queen stripped of crown,
they sadly sail to mortar.
“Blow out the candles, see what
wishes you can make!”
We’ll claw back those falling years
like leaves in a rake.
A beacon of brightness blights the
candle’s wick head.
Yea! Another year closer, until I am
Candle perforations crack the crust
of the cake,
and after I’ve blown the flames out:
I still see red.
Plaguing me with possessions and
printed in empty shell cards, printed
Party guests fake smiles, fake
and turn up to raid the buffet
because they’re hungry!
Balloons bowing with strain of the
oh, how I hate this pseudo
Am I the dirty, old man in the pubs?
Who is too old to disease the dance
I stare at my age spot spackled hand
The classic way that I have my hair
and the way I still wear a shirt and
I wonder if I should just age and
Yet every weekend I go home
They see my sweet soul and past my
Some men want more than jagged,
I sip wine in a sex-strung bed as
When they leave I strike on a
Bars bask, a bounty of maturity.