Warning, Warning!

Warning, warning
Warning, warning
I wrote two nonsense poems
this morning

whats that
everything I write is nonsense
how dare you my good man

In shades of Golum Blue

in shades of Golum Blue
the little creatures for you
and he follows you
with his big sad eyes
as you go out with other guys

In shades of Golum blue
in the caves of Braken Blud
he stares into a brackish pool
and rolls his eyes just like a fool

In the shades of Golum blue
early in the morning light
The Gorkies from the Splender Fell
Jump the high point and take flight

While the Golum eats his pies
and cleans his eyes
of limpet mud
and runs around
in the sulphur mist
wondering why
he’s never been kissed

In shades of Golum Blue
the grave men
come and torture him
they put him in a recycle bin
and roll him off a cliff
In shades of Glum Blue

and after Glolum Blue
was squashed in the head
All the Romanians
went to safely to bed
The Slavics and the Croats too

Oh the slaves of Belgrade

Oh the  slaves of Belgrade
they obeyed
the rubber maid

Oh the slaves of Belgrade
that the Romans flayed
with their golden blades

oh the slaves
of Belgrade
they fell in love
with the Indian maid
from Buffalo Bills
travelling zoo
and the slaves of Belgrade
Told rodeo Kinkade
that when he leaves
they’re going too

oh the slaves
of Belgarde
had a music hall
built into a wall
when the music played
they danced and sang
especially the one
they called King Saul

and one young man
passing through the town
fell in love with a maid
hanging upside down
above the stage
as she played and played
her accordion

oh the slaves
of Belgrade
they were ruled
by a vocal cat
and when it mewed
for a drink of milk
they brought it a gallon
in a policeman’s hat


There’s a man

There’s a man who walks in front of a pair of scissors.
As he walks down the road they cut the road down the middle
Raw red blood cells ooze out of the wound
Doctors run bleeding behind him trying to stem the blood.

There is a siren sounding in the sky.
It is made from a round tin with a lid and a handle to turn.
Inside is a cat on heat.

In the room next to mine a group of giant grapes are angry at what god has done.
There’s a continuous echo of a working-class Sunday morning without enough love.
The grapes detach from the bunch and jump about.
A tiny man runs after them and smashes them with a hammer.

Light from the short winter day trickles in thru the window.
I rub it on my skin like a salve of everlasting life.

There are places amongst the stones

There are places amongst the stones
Where I sit on all my legs
Counting the little starfish
And cracking the skulls of small fry

There are places amongst the stones
They call the Seaweed dance-hall;
I tie the seaweed around my shell
And sing Rule Britannia

There are places amongst the stones
Where my headlamps  shine
I crack the bones that drift from yachts
I watch for predator restauranteurs

I wark across the stones
To find my burrow in the sand
If I drink too much of the storm tonight
I will slip into the sandal’s quiet

There are places amongst the stones
Known only to the spirits
Rockabilly eels will chase their tails
And sing lullabies to stranded whales

I am not turned on by windmills

I am not turned on by windmills
I do not rush up to them moaning
To ask for the trade winds
To caste me adrift in distant seas.

Windmills made of crackling shells
That Sail across the gossiping sand
With little green eyes in the windows
Making clever wisecracks.

As porcupine giants uproot them
From their chessboard flatland
To find the pearly dice that run
Through the laundry baskets

One begins to cry aloud
Or is it the soul of a seagull
Out of the ether, there’s a bodiless voice
that says it’s time to go up to windmill land.

I had a beer on Monday night
I ignored the windmills turning
On Saturday night: the Final Score
But I listened to Sergeant Pepper

That was my thanks for living
That was my relaxation
That’s my lonely hearts club fun
After a week being on the run

Giant windmills approach me
Now they’re up too close
They swipe at me with pliers
They pull out all my teeth

I’m not afraid of windfarms
With their dragons tied on a leashes
As Mona Lisa waves goodbye
From the ships gang-plank

I’m not afraid of windfarms
But you have to pay a price
For writing words of fire-wind
For carrying over the difference