Deliciously Ridiculous

 

This is not my work

This is not my work

It is stolen

Stolen

Let me begin…

 

My auntie has two cats

My disembodied face looks down from the sky and weeps,

Gillyflowers and sops-in-wine

My sister always checks her shoes for earwigs

Every morning

When we are little.

 

One Halloween evening,

My friend bursts into tears

Because there was a toad in her wellington boot,

Which she'd left outside my house.

She thought I'd put it there –

I didn't,

But only because I didn't have a toad to hand.

 

It’s me, it’s me! I want some tea!

Roll back the hearthrug!

Someone is trying to get in.

Who's that in your wellington?

Bluebottle lives!

And Nigel is not dead.

 

I am up,

I am down,

Deep in the vortex

That accounted for the last Dodo.

Icky tack dock.

 

Importunate publishers

Peruse purple prose,

Pretending prescience.

To what avail?

To tell the tale of life and death,

In Ebbw Vale.

Jewels and binoculars hang

From the head of the mule,

Indeed.

 

The preacher, his hands in back pockets

"Repent, Harlequin!" says the Ticktockman

Clocks tick,

Empires rise and fall,

Fidelity remains,

At most, questionable.

 

And when the tray is silver

And the butler wears gloves

What does it matter?

If the railway is golden?

For they are cup-cakes.

Raining on a skull.

In a leaky ark full of furtive halibut.

A hovercraft full of eels.

My Aunty has a cat.

Why do Anarchists use tea-bags?

Because proper tea is theft.

 

Revel in freedom!

I am not the vagrant!

Out in the cold

A Chinese takeaway for one.

Shot full of holes

A banana ice lolly in one hand

And a feather in the other

Oh Topper, Topper.

Little Frilly one.

 

The skies were not lit by moonlight

Stands he, or sits

Inwardness is indeed a gain

Good-night, sweet Fish

How do the little Angels rise?

As many red herrings

As swim in the wood!

 

She spoke of me, the guttersnipe, the common kid.

Join the Underwater Motorcycling Federation now!

We're benighted, here upon this bank and shoal of thyme

What rhymes within your face and pain?

What thing of beauty is a burning bird hide,

Beneath the limpid waters of the fishing lake?

 

A fig for the listeners.

Clapping with both hands

This thread is not Zen.

Indeed, it is the Finger not the Moon.

This is not a Fish

This is not three points.

Catpeed

 

Penguins assume nun-natures on a Tuesday

If it falls on a weak day

Before the sun reaches its zenith

 

Dirty habits.

Are they nuns?

The Penguins on Lakey Hill!

This sentence is in Latin,

Except for this clause

(Which is in Dutch),

While nobody is looking.

 

Soap on a rope

The shower of destiny.

A big she-bear

Living the timeless life.

Prayer and fasting.

A lowly amoeba

In the pot

A slipper in the bicycle stew.

Will come home to roost

If I am not mistook.

 

I think I am a carrot in the casserole of life.

A scaly, watered-down episode

When onions are rising in the East.

 

This not a chicken.

It’s not a message,

Ce n'est pas un poisson