ponderous poetry for the hoi polloi


The sharp-witted teeth of my

Hair comb,

No friend of the foppish flop of a


Think less man and more

Maine Coon,

Who gives a toss about


To catch a kiss in spring

Take me back

To the fizz, whizz and


Of her popping candy kisses,

Caresses of a dragon,

How the smoke detector’s

Defective, defunct, and dangerously lacking,

In an ice chamber

Built for



Yes my lips still crave the

Burning breath of her


È più che perfetto!

(I’ve taught myself to say),

This pistol, plume thistle,

Please whistle me down the wind,

And I’ll hope to catch

A kiss in




Let me enjoy the sweet taste of revenge,

And steal a kiss from the




Miss Goody Goody Two Shoes

Miss Goody Goody Two Shoes,

Bootlicker, spaniel,

As pure a nun’s two level feet,

With no heel to aggravate the earth,

Soft-soaping, unsullied sop,

Blowing bubbles with every word…


“Oh my what clean teeth you have!”

“All the better to sweet talk you with…”

But how sickly sweet is the cloying smell of worship,

Working up a lather at the back of your


White amaryllis,

Am I right in thinking?

That only silver queens pass the test of time.

Prince Billy

Who says that it’s all doom and gloom

For Charles’ son and heir,

Since sleight of hand at noble loom

Can recompense for lack of hair!


Oh sweet love,

Please lend me your lips,

So  I can taste the

Bleeding heart of a nectarine

One last time.

Polly Chromatic


Where be my rainbow wonder?

(Do I even dare to find her?)

Tie-dye bride, Diana,

Holographic splendour,

Waving at me from behind the

Seckel pear tree…



She’s a technicolour knockout!

(And I’ve the bruises to prove it),

The girl with the smile oh so prismatic,

Multicoloured kisses,

You can almost taste the tulips in




She’s that slick of oil

In an otherwise spiritless puddle,

Post-war downpour,

(What is it good for?)

Absolutely everything!

Of this I’m sure…


Pow! Bang! Pop!

She’ll make your heart stop!

Gee wiz, gee golly,

That girl’s a zap lolly,

So stick up your brolly,

And shut your trolly,

And just enjoy the rain in


Mr. Lunches

Please, spare a thought for

Old Mr. Lunches,

Who could never be arsed with

Bottomless brunches.

Cinnamon Roll


And for my brekkie,

You can be my cinnamon roll,

Pocket revolver and

Saccharine soldier,

Doing battle with my wisdom teeth,

Too foolish to avoid,

The freckle-faced ammonoid,

Which washed up on my

Schauss pink shores.

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