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ponderous poetry for the hoi polloi

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Canterbury bells

Keep your eyes peeled for Canterbury bells,

In purple whirlpools that’s where she dwells,

With kisses as light as feathered tails,

She’s all I could ever want.

 

So loyal is she to the springtime breeze,

That I’ll never part from her basal leaves,

Ensconced in sconces I wish to seize,

She’s all I could ever want.

 

With redolent breath she whispers to me,

“Six more days, my love, and we’ll be as close as can be”,

And I’ll wait for the chimes to end this misery,

For Canterbury bells are not just what I want,

But all I ever need.

 

(and more, and more, and more…)

Couleur Cardinal

Oh amore mio!

(And more and more I do love you),

In darkness unnerving I hang here and struggle,

But I carry on trying to

Cling on to the end of a strawberry lace,

Lost in sugary space,

How I long to tickle that

Stick of dynamite between your teeth…

 

Oh amore mio!

(And more and more and more I do love you),

But while I try with all my might,

To taste that dynamite,

It feels like donkey’s ears since I lit the fruity fuse

That trickles from the Couleur Cardinal

You so vexingly pass off as lips,

Oh!

If only time would shake a leg!

The Nag’s Head

In my moments of desolation,

Expectancy is the hand that cast

A thousand heartbeats,

The cigarette,

Which so often drips from her lips,

As wisteria does weep tears of purple

From country cottages,

Oh how she turned the nag’s head from

Granite to poultice,

Which once did whinny with grief,

But now sings songs of summer and rain.

 

And while obsequiousness proves fateful for

Those who follow the wrong heart,

I would be foolish to mar my breath with

Complaint,

When it breeds such joyousness and relief,

For one man’s prison is another man’s paradise,

Oh! How blessed I would be

To spend my final living days with thee,

Behind the castellated walls of your love.

The Lungwort

Against my will, my love,

You shall compare me to the lungwort who,

With nervous breath,

Welcomes the reluctant anthems of spring,

And sings a song of her own that she hopes will

Stand the test of time,

But upon opening eminence eyes,

Sorrow walks in like rain uninvited,

To send shivers down her sorry spine,

With aqueous hands,

Wrapped around her neck with all the sternness and intent of a

Marble lion,

Whose silent roar renders her ears

Hopeless, useless, pathetic,

Much like the veiled sky which mocks the English

Sun,

Blindfold and desperate,

And she’ll pray for the deathly grasp of the closing year,

So that she can be reborn,

And feel the warmth of your love once more.

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!

 

Oh!

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

Again.

 

I’ll dream of an Indian summer instead.

Dionaea muscipula

Femme fatale of the flowery world,

Mother Nature’s Mata Hari,

But no matter how hard you try to

Convince me she’s bad news,

I spy with my little eye

Something beginning with ‘v’…

 

Venus! Wow what a beauty!

In her harlequin jacket,

Giving me the green light,

And luckily for her I’m not one to

Beat around the bush,

No!

I wanna head straight for the good stuff!

 

‘Come in, come in!’ her carmine-coloured feelers say to

Me,

Forty-one pretty fingers,

Beckoning me over,

Bringing me closer to my dea-

 

Stop! Don’t ruin the moment!

Instead, just let me dream of her

Sticky tape lipstick,

Firebrick Pritt Stick,

Tricking me into

 

Her lair, where

Her syrupy tongue awaits,

So deliciously, inauspiciously, viciously viscous,

I love her lava, her lava I

Love.

 

But as you wouldn’t stare into the sun,

Don’t look too closely into her eyes!

Rose

Overrated Rose

I’ve seen prettier looking

Goldenrods than you!

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