ponderous poetry for the hoi polloi



Indian summer

How cruel is Mother Nature,

So happy to stop

The beating heart of the winter clock,

When instead she decides to

Abrade the ebullient whispers of summer,

(Importunity is distressing),

With such abruptness and dispassion does she

Slash the lacquered cheeks of

Yellow Jasper,

Who eagerly hurries to reach her bed!



And how cruel too is the English breeze,

So heavy-handed with everyone he meets,

So ruthless with his daily approach,

To wipe the tender smile from

The peony’s lips,

With only a trail of milky flesh left behind,

Blushing beneath wearisome skies,

Never to laugh



I’ll dream of an Indian summer instead.

The Knife

A sharp-tongued knife on buttered toast,

Her lips so flush sing jam-soaked notes,

No there’s nowt more rich, nowt more grandiose,

Than the sharp-tongued knife that does sweeten my



On such lonesome nights as these,

When the joyous pendant of tourmaline yellow

No longer drips from the sky’s neck,

My mind does seek abstraction,

A momentary distraction,

As my heart wanders through a

Crowd of fireflies,

Those nightly buttercups

Which do turn their eager heads

In search of kisses

So cruelly postponed,

Yet so carefully recreated in my

Febrile brain,

As my thoughts,

Dancing behind closed eyelids,

Like the coiled tendrils of a

Citrullus plant,

Turn to your mouth,

And though miles may separate me from you,

And you from me,

My face does still glow gold as the

Sun on your



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


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.

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


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.


You’re the toffee apple of my eye,

Crystal iris,


Manning the wheel in that woeful sky,

How blessed I am to be by your side.


You’re my milkweed butterfly,

Stained glass window,

Glacial spy,

With looking glass wings fresh from Versailles,

How blessed I am to be by your side.


Yes, you’re my polysaccharide,


Half bottle of rye,

But enough to make me pumpkin pie-eyed,

How blessed I am to be by your side.


You’re even my silver iodide,

For every cloud

Has a silver line, in

Case you didn’t hear me first time,

How blessed I am to be by your side.


You’re the saint that drives my tides,

Roman goddess,

The sunshine’s bride,

Games divine without design

And how blessed I am to be,


By your


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