The Exchange

Her face, and,
Her eyes, her lips,
Pagan life and light and flame.

Gazing through me into her impossible beyond.
Transfixing me with those luminous jet rainbows,
In Timeless Everything.

Christ, I wondered,
Am I doing this to her?
No. She is.

Nothing else to do.
Hearken the tightrope to heaven.

Her lifeforce tripped me,
And into her light I dove.

And the morning after?
I offered to do the dishes.




* This poem subject to change as I'm having real problems with it. Sorry.

Cosmonaut Empurples With Chopstick Aerials

I eat poetry,
It tastes like paper.
Some sentimental poetry tastes like cards.
Blank poetry is good for dieting.
With haiku, you eat one,
then, inevitably, want another one an hour later.

Nonsense poetry, I drink with spoons.
And spoons, like forks, taste moose.

The Cappuccino Captains' Buzz

They're such cowards,
That's why they hide amongst their own,
Firing rockets murdering civilians,
From the rooftops of their homes..

So grab yourselves a coffee captains,
It's time to launch a couple more drones..

The Balance..

between individual liberty and collective security..

That's The Balance.

Look right look left look right again.

The Balance between individual liberty and collective security.
The security individual between collective liberty and balance.
The individual between balance security and the individual.
The and the individual
Thee and The Balance
Security of the liberty individual
Thee and Balance The between security.

Oh when I hear invocations of 
THe Balnce I flichn.

You Tube Debates

You Tube debates:
It's like watching blancmange wrestle toothpaste.
Welcome to humanity's slug-face.
Heavyweight philosophers pow-wow in the super-dimmest reaches of hyperspace.
So tag-team ringside as blancmange wrestles toothpaste.

You Tube debates:
Blancmange has issues with toothpaste.
Decide - whose side are you on:
The ones who scream cunt,
Or the scholars of the riposte ad hominum.

You Tube debates:
Read the fondue-brained-flamers sumo in the Argument Air-Guitar Corps. Superstore,
A fistful of looking-glass makes through the floor.
War is what they are fighting for.

Apparently,
Toothpaste rejects everything blancmange represents;
Subatomic nanomusings flex, gob and vent.
Goblets of giblet lobbed by hobgoblin boffins,
Doctrines of idiots fling apropos-nothings,
Empathy duct-taped, jealous ferrets stab dolphins,
Starfish are circled by screeching cyber sea starlings.

You Tube debates:
Air bags deconstruct car crashes,
The foaming worms won't eat crow,
Jihadist penguins are torpedoing the ozone layer no?

You Tube debates:
Fang mouths drip-ventilate the crayon-commmandos with invisible-forked-face;
The shafting one-eyed lambs wander the hills of their skewed Jerusalem,
Like blancmange missiles in the wind,
Like some song...

You Tube debates:
Bucking razorblade tongues suckle on their owned bon-mot demagogue's beef - 
Rampant thumbs up for the mutual hand shandies;
As their saliva in clover gushes over poisoned slipstreams..

You Tube debates:
Toothpaste or blancmange,
Whose side are you on:
The thumbs ups or the cunts or the ad hominums?

So sign your squirted jazz pro forma,
Declare whose side you are on.

Haiku

Is poetry
the music without its words
outside its silence?

Office Goddess

She wafts chocolate truffle candyfloss scented skin,
Her fathomless eyes shimmer limpid pools I dreamily drown in.
Her complexion: olive cherry asses milk satin silken porcelain.
She's stratospeheric, serrates the class of Dietrich,
She sashays mesmeric,
She's with a bastard called Derek.

She's the hallowed office goddess mermaid angel siren vamp,
Her hair shivers waterfalling rivers,
Celestial beings bow, hold her lamp.
Her swishing swaying graces and amazes
the trolls, Clarkson's, loup-garous and gargoyles of the office floor,
Grown men awe-struck blinded weep,
Stick needles in their eyes, yet want more.
That's deep.
The rainbow is her staircase,
She rides the unicorn on the subway,
Golden fleece wash over her umbrella,
She's with a bastard called Derek.

Derek is in HR.
Two bling screens flash on his not-hotdesk.
Derek does my annual appraisal,
That's the Derek I hate the best.
So, moving forward, where do you see yourself a year from now?
What skills do you need upgrading?
What added value are you..blah blah and blah..
I stare into distant space,
Where she floats swirling above my fishtanked face.
My brain is an impoding toupee,
My brain is an imploding toupee..

This Eden of tumbleweed plastic plant patsies,
Dry-blown biscuit phlegm and other tea point nasties:
Stinking microwaved day-glo pasties,
Herbal tea used condoms,
Bubonic plague used hankies.

Phosphorescent Guantanamo curdling strip lights,
Oven-ready office-gossip gobshites.
Air conditioning redelegating flu,
There's another weeping corpse-to-be suicidal inside this loo:
The grim reaper's temping here, playing peak-a-boo,
Sounds good to me,
Let's join them too.

Another annual appraisal,
Another horse glue-sniffing this fetid bolted-in stable;
Another century in a day of years,
Three million unemployed: wish you were here?
Who left the photocopier jammed?
Hands up if it was one of us damned.
Who hasn't put money in the snack tin?
Who splattered their soul in the wrong recycling bin?
For this dog the office Christmas party isn't for Christmas, it's for life,
Derek has the office goddess,
And I'm left clutching this plastic knife.

Old MacDonald 2012

Old MacDonald had a mad cow,
Woof woof meeow.

And on that farm he had a mad cat,

Mooo.

_______________________________________________

And outside his farm there was a mad badger,
I'm not mad, I'm just a bit pissed-off actually - big difference.

And standing by that pissed-off badger there was a mad Bill Oddie,
Badgers aren't mad, badgers aren't mad.

And by that pissed-off badger and a mad Bill Oddie there was a baboon,
Kill all badgers I say.

And then there was a punch-up between a Bill Oddie, a badger, and a baboon.
Woof woof meeow moo.

The Shard

Broken flashing lightening glances,
Titanium slivers trill The Shard,
A whirl of pearling rivulets stone the sterling pyramid.

That razor blade summit to slash and bleed the gods;
Pulsing megawatt sunsets Midas,
Them.

Glass spits starlight austral avalanches the ebonising Thames.

This Is The National Anthem Fit For Purpose

This is The National Anthem Fit For Purpose,
And we fit the purpose.
We sing The National Anthem Fit For Purpose.
We fit purpose singing The National Anthem Fit For Purpose.

Singing The National Anthem Fit For Purpose is purpose:
Purpose striving with purpose.

This is The National Anthem Fit For Purpose,
With added value.

We are the workforce that strive to add the value.
We value the value of adding the added value.
No is not in our dictionary.
No it isn't.
Not is not in our dictionary.
No it is not.

This national anthem of our fit for purpose country, [insert country],
Is the national anthem for the fit for purpose country, [insert same country].

We live here in this glorious land of reasonably predictable climate,
Occasional floods,
Mild nuisance droughts,
And it seems, slightly more unusual weather patterns.

• (verse probably most applicable for UK anthem practitioners only)

We tolerate our children and our elderly (not very fit for purpose);
They're inappropriate.
Must we live with that?
We love our fit-for-pet-purpose animals;
We eat the unlovable uglier ones lovely.

•  (should your fellow countrymen prefer to love children and the elderly, not pets, feel free to modify this verse as appropriate; ditto, if your countrymen prefer consuming normal, cuter animals instead of the pointless uglier ones)

We religiously add value to our added value.
We have no atheist unbelievers in value-added value.
This national anthem with added value,
Is fit for the purpose of adding value.

We fit-for-purpose delightedly,
We hosepipe-ban in this promised land when only absolutely necessary.

• (for residents of hosepipe-ban-friendly countries, or countries aspiring to hosepipe-ban-friendly status)

This is The National Anthem Fit For Purpose,
With added value value value.

The ploughman,
And the blacksmith,
The mason,
And the carpenter,
Toil with their hands:
Good and honest men with honest plans,
No longer fit for purpose.

We are the national anthem.
We are fit for purpose.
We blue-sky correctives to add to the value-added purpose purpose.

Impossible is not in our dictionary.
Cannot is not in our dictionary.
Nothing negative is not in our dictionary.
Not for nothing is nothing not in our dictionary,
No, not nothing,
Not nothing now,
Not nothing never, not never.

Big Society Solutions For A Sustainable And Responsible Europe

[wasted space]
From QE4 all poems shall be cut sensitively and responsibly.
All egregious poem-waste must be emphatically reduced by profound percent.

Please note Big Society(B.S) must set the intention to eliminate
all the underutilised wasted spaces between words,
Including the profligate misusage of entire lines of ostentatious emptiness between verses.
And honestly, when was that ever a good idea?
For example, see this space?

Shameful.
One verse - one thought: one poem.
All poetry from now on shall be actioned thus:
One verse - one thought: one poem.

The elimination of between-word vacuum:
In poets' bling, space between words,
Should help reduce our in-dwelling toxic national debt viably;
Fewer words and fewer spaces between words means debt reduction.

Eventually all "the words"(t.w) must go:
Words are extraneaous imposters, getting in the way of delivering poetry efficiently.
(Please don't swallow their propaganda).
One would hope a day will come when the good poem will consist only of its title,
Blended by licensed Immutable-Sound Procurers,
Delivering the tender sound of thought, the one thought pure, thus:
No verse - one thought - one sound: poem.

And the poetry of one day will become itself so efficient,
Its raison d'etre will surely be annihilation of itself,
And who would argue with the ineffable poetry of that?
No thought - no poem - no sound: 
Poem.
Done.
Beautiful.

Blowing away the cobwebs of text;
The hyperbole of the hypertext of poetry elevated to no text:
The purest hypertext.

Perhaps, perhaps,
If only ancient Greek poets had imagineered such prudent economies,
But their poems became so big they simply weren't allowed to fail.

So,
Please write me a Japanese poem on these bagpipes.

..mmnnu..nhhnumm..hh

Yeah, that'll do..

By The Gaze Of My Goldfish A Ballet Dancer In A Spaceship Pirouettes Bubbling Gravity

I've written a,
Poem.
This one.

I'm not sure,
If it's,
Oh, you know - any good?
Do you think it's..

??.., 

Don't worry. I know, I know;
It's all so..so..

..when I've recited my poem to my pet goldfish..
Yes you heard right, my pet goldfish,
He nods his head for three human seconds whole,
Then he swims around inside his little glass universe,
Musing and acontemplative.

Acontemplative -
What a word!

Round and round he goes,
Five or six times he goes.
Then,
Like he's been bolt-blue-struck by lightning,
He mermaids; vaulting, water-winging:
A ballet dancer in a spaceship pirouettes bubbling gravity..

His gaze just floors me..
Water floods his eyes.
Oh those water-flooding eyes..

He is the goldfish with water in his eyes.

So we flow, we flood, we glow.
I willingly recite this poem again for my devoted goldfish,
Easily generating the same emotional feeling so it doesn't come off as rote.
(I'm no hack stand-up poet gruelling in some lucrative, 
but ultimately soul-destroying poetry arena tour.
I hope and pray that will never happen to me,
And if I'm not careful, it could,
I know it could.)

The goldfish and I reiki duplex-hours hourglass.
He swims,
He stops,
I recite this poem,
He gazes up at me for three human-seconds whole,
Then swims around his little glass universe musing, acontemplative..

Oh and how his little puppy-like gaze floors me.
I feel privilileged to be floored thus by the gaze of my goldfish.
(Please imagine for one moment,
A poetry-loving, puppy-eyed goldfish,
Living inside a goldfish-bowl-universe gazing through a tear.
I know you can do it,
Close your eyes and imagine..
..with water in his eyes..ayearning..)
Ayearning..

Ayearning -
What a word!
With real water flooding in his eyes..

We become this for hours and hours..
It's so lovely..

So both of us end up with water in our eyes,
Like we're overwhelming ourselves,
But in a good way -
Not like Tony Blair.

I'm a man.
I cannot display my emotions to a woman,
Quite as freely as I can to my beloved goldfish.
And I'm not sure if that's a good thing,
Or a bad thing,
For my goldfish.

For my goldfish,
If I was a traditional haiku poet,
Here I would observe,
That my goldfish has the scent of cherry blossoms,
But I'm not,
So I can't..

Don't they say that goldfish can't understand poetry?
Well they would, wouldn't they?
Goldfish being such a modest bird..

Spam-Cream Koan

Give a man some spam and you'll feed him for a day.
Teach a man to phish and he'll spam you for a lifetime.

Mystical Obstetrics

Another politician preganant with vision -
Another apparition for the obstetrician.

Not Dead On Twitter

You wait ages,
Then one dead celebrity arrives at the same time.

After a devastated moment or two of unfathomable reflection,
The Real Living Celebrity compere's their thought:
Twitter!

Lock and load.
Lodestar and embiggen.
Gurn!      

......Liked (18,002)

For where your attention goes..

Abdominize catharsis:
Eulogise with as many as 140 characters.
It's a competitive crucible this Community of Loss:
Boldly sad.

The fabulist Jedi Mourners.
Formula One soundbite emoticon emissionaries :'(
You too can join them, 
And experience the evident joy of marketing your mourning ;)

..so that prompts me to mention I cannot even begin to focus on promoting my new-new book incidentally out tomorrow so please not now not now I don't know why I even mention it..

Waving,
Drowning the gone.
Only the clamour of waves.
Only the clamour of waves is on.

Personally I'm also a little devastated:
I will never be the celebrity friends' dead.
I feel a genuine sense of loss;
Incomprehensibles far beyond words die in my simmering reliquary,
There no deliquescing celebrity shall seep to curate me,
On Twitter.

On Twitter,
They won't vent around my eco-pyre,
Valiantly tweet-viraling their gainful torment,
As my soul shift-phases to some fading cosmic goddess meme.

..so that prompts me to mention I cannot even begin to focus on promoting my new-new book incidentally out tomorrow so please not now not now I don't know why I even mention it..
Did I say that already?

So,
When you're not dead on Twitter,
You're dead.
And that's dead in the really bad way.

Haiku

Mad cow zen -
the sound of one leg clapping
asychronously

Lackadaisical Heterosexual

I'm a lackadaisical heterosexual,
Doe I don't bunga-bunga the fractional symmetrical.
Maybe it's temporal,
Or maybe it's vegetable,
Or maybe it's the invertebrate.

There among the reeds are magical bushes,
I hush, I admire, but spare the hard-pushes.
Yes, those cushy tushes are never off-putting,
But sometimes my rule-laying is only note-footing.

And when tentacles explore for tappable,
And reach only the unflappable -
The lazy asp struck by the frosty apple -
It really doesn't matter for the lackadaisical heterosexual,
So long as it's not marital..

Positive Feedback Psycho Destroyer

Here's a unique kind of troll.
He trawls eBay to seduce sellers kiss-blowing
hundred percent positive feedback after their letters;
Those sellers that truly adore their customers proud,
Mesmerised by their own encore-bows..

And that's when he strikes,
That's when he pounces:
Scoping them from his subterranean below-the-radar watchtower,
He buys stuff he neither wants or needs,
Only so he can destroy sellers positive feedback.

Just for that? Yes. 
He loves destroying sellers one-hundred percent positive feedback.
Well we all need a hobby.
Welcome to the twenty-first century.

For he is the King Neg Feedback Man.
The Genghis Attila Neg Feedback Man.
He leaves neg feedback because..? He can?
Yes.

Your bubblewrap made the wrong popping sound.
The packaging was grey; I prefer light brown.
The rubber duck you sold me is unrealistically buoyant;
I couldn't drown it - imagine my disappointment.

Roaring scornful vapour trails his neg feedback warlord lust,
Grinds yet another gobsmacked seller pitilessly into pixillated dust..
Another old lady, mashed, weeps into her rusks;
It was her late husband's cardigan,
She didn't ask for much,
But no, still he ruthlessly blancmanged her baby-boomer,
love-not-bombs bone-ashing collapsing face with neg feedback.
She'll never get over that.

She'll never get over that..
Her dead husband's cardigan got neg feedback.
Her granny farm cell is now the Heartbreak Hotel,
Memories of her husband's cardigan swirl down swallowed 
to where troll demons dwell.
The ravines on her face deeper than Martian sands.
Tears for her bedpan.
Tears for her bedpan.
Her name is Roxanne.

And lo, let it be written,
As the years roll on by,
Under different false names, accounts and guises,
He will continue to traumatise, baffle, vaporise and tyrannise
the positive feedback prize-agonizers -
Fazing and hazing,
Liquidising and mayonnaising them with neg feedback.

He doesn't seem angry, bitter or twisted;
He's never been bullied or abused;
He's never had a penchant for sniffing badgers - or glue,
(or sniffing badgers that sniff glue).
His kids love him,
His wife, his mistress, his goldfish, his garden gnomes do too.
He just loves buying things so he can leave neg feedback.

Your old man's cardigan smells of plastic buttons.. 

See, it's just his hobby,
It's just his aphrodisiac,
It's just the way he blows his stack,
It's how he gets his black back into even more black.
He just loves leaving negative feedback.
It's as simple as that.
Some people are just like that.
It's that deep.

Mitt Romney - Star Mangled In Daggerland

From the land of socialised arms care, laissez-faire,
Mitt Romney lands,
Blown into the cruel sands,
Of fangled Palin "death panels" medicine-bad.

This could be the start of another special relationship..

Politically appointed judges pro-death penalty,
Supported by God Squad firebrand misogynistic ideology;
Oil men funded creationist, literalist illuminati,
Tipping the wink the priapic military-twink hegemony.
United in paranoia, cash cows, prophecy, fear and flag:
Follow their money, spam their Man.
AmerIran.

Masking Agents

High rise blocks' rooftops gun-turreted,
Missile launchers: on your marks..
The anti-terror squad and the extra-special forces,
Scan and train on Olympian sky.


The car thieves, robbers and burglars gaze upwards,
Their bosoms swell with pride,


Yes, the incoming existential threat shall beguile.
And our synchronised asymmetric kinetic combat teams meanwhile..


Afghanistan, Iraq, Libya,
Stratford Olympic Village -
Eyes on International Terror,
And off - a kindly waver - the mundane locally sourced murder-lite-pillage;
Our boys in combat have got the streets,
And the boys in green,
Have got that bit of sky. 


Jubilate! Rejoice! Exult!

• Feel the positives
• 
  

The Scent Of Broken Glass

Everytime I see your face,
It reminds me of your face.
How do you do that?


If you can read this poem,
Then you're standing far too near.
Step back a little, slowly,
Making sure you don't bump into the poem behind you.


If you place your nose next to this poem,
You will realise it's made of glass.


If you place your nose next to this glass,
You will realise it's made of poem.


If you drop this glass,
It will break like a poem,
And release the scent of broken glass.

Poets Anon

..then it was my turn to stand up and share.
I know there's a moral in there somewhere..

I'm A Bit Pissed I know But You Remind Me A Bit Of My Ex-Boyfriend Who Dumped Me, So Don't Get Me Wrong But Do You Fancy A Fuck Or What?

I'm a bit pissed I know but you remind me a bit of my ex-boyfriend who dumped me,
So don't get me wrong, but do you fancy a fuck or what?
You can say no if you want to..


By the way did I mention I'm pissed?
Actually I'm not that pissed,
Do I look pissed to you?
Be honest, I don't mind..


Stop! I implored.
Get your coat you lucky girl - you've pulled.

He Spreads His Legs Wide On The Train

He spreads his legs wide on the train,
Like he's firing a missile, medium range.
Maybe his drain has constrained varicose veins,
Maybe he dreams of attracting a nymphomane..

He spreads his legs wide on the tube,
But it's your inner-zone Oyster he dreams to pass through;
So will you scuba his Cuban cigar tuba,
Or cork his bazooka for a less cocky cockatooer?

He spreads his legs wide on the bus,
For he is the egg man and he is the walrus.
A wand, his sceptre; your pot of honey,
For how long will you spurn his shot-of-money? 

He spreads his legs wide on budget planes,
He wishes you to hydroplane his polyurethane'd champagne.
And when he moons his club-class do you wax or wane?
When he raises cane do you want to crack his crane?

He spreads his legs wide on public transport,
He fancies himself as the male alpha-sort.
His love for himself is primarily self-taught,
For he docks with himself - he's the wrist-astronaut.

We Regret Your Pavement Services Are Subject To Delay

We regret your pavement services are subject to delay,
The wrong kind of leaves have blocked the passageway.
There's an old lady pile-up near the bingo alleyway,
Engineers are removing them; it will take a couple of days.


This pavement has been shut down for the next two hours,
An over ego'd celebrity chef's orangutan'd a bag of flour.
Following this pedestrian action, your pavement's lost all power.
We recommend you activate your hidden yogic-flying superpowers.


This pavement is overheating due to climate change,
Powdery sun rays are melting flagstones a crazy golf course range.
For health and safety considerations please continue your journey by plane.
For a refund claim, our pavement office is located in the deep Ukraine.


Pavement Rage - that's rage against pavements; we're striking pavementists!
We apologise to all pavement providers for our actions industrialist.
Should pavement operators wish to complain or seek our benediction,
We're conveniently located inside a pyramid in the Martian jurisdiction.

Difficult Day

I have a feeling,
Today is going to be,
A very difficult day;
A very, very,
Difficult, difficult day.

I anticipate,
The day today,
Might prove as difficult,
As another day today I had,
Of eight-years ago.

And that really was,
A very difficult day.

And please put that in very large capital letters,
Inside incredibly ginormous inverted commas, like this:
"VERY LARGE CAPITAL LETTERS"
Because Honestly, it really was that difficult.
Verily very.

For all our yesterday's relived in the today,
Seem somehow less difficult,
Reprising in Mandalay;
Our revivified-backwards life where every sense is made -
Every sense that's there,
Seems so elusive for here today.

I wish I could sleep through a difficult today,
Like some people are now sleeping through mine -
Perhaps including you?
No wonder you aren't reading this,
Oh, I know you might think you are;
But you're really only dreaming you are,
So mired you are,
In this very difficult dream you are.

My hair smells of biscuits,
So I don't eat biscuits.
So does anyone eat biscuits,
So their hair doesn't smell of biscuits?

Still think you're not dreaming?

This is a very difficult day.
I cannot phone sick:
I know of no-one of that name.
I'm just having a very difficult day.

Difficult, difficult day.
Why of all days should today be a very difficult day?
Why, wouldn't it be so much easier,
If we had our difficult days scheduled on easy days?
Mind you, then the easy days wouldn't be so easy either.
Oh, this really is proving to be,
A very, very,
And a difficult, difficult day.
(And two very very's added to two difficult difficult's,
Equals very, very, difficult, difficult,
In my book).

Supposing today is a vegetable,
It would be a difficult vegetable:
A rude broccoli;
An angry frozen guacamole;
A passive-aggressive fleeyamblafroosh,
Or a boiling-with-rage tangly reeybuffooff!

And if today is a difficult carpet,
It would be an angry Axminster as tender drains.
Or a torn bamboo rug,
With impossible-to-remove wine stains.
Or a kitchen mat in musty-basement seventies mustard, custard swirls.
Or a student-fitted floor rag,
Spangled with moth-designed swirls.

And if today is a poem,
It would smell of biscuits.
Very difficult biscuits.
That's very and very,
And difficult and difficult,
Biscuits.

There's Nothing Like A Rhyming Dictionary

There's nothing like a rhyming dictionary,
To help a poem originally dishwasher.

Diamond Jubilee Haiku

Diamond jubilee -
austerity, her equal,
and long to reign over us

The World's First Sustainable Poem

This is the world's first sustainable poem.
Words here were sourced entirely from renewable non-frosty librarians.

So, 
After you have read this poem,
It will be melted down,
And seventy-four percent will be recycled to manufacture anything from
exotic night club air bubbles,
To fashionable Buddhist monks' underwear - slim fit.

Hey! You never know,
You might get lucky and end up wearing this poem in less than four-minutes time!
Now isn't that impressive?
It will give this poem a novel sensuous perspective:
Used poem to underwear,
In less time than it takes to boil a slow kettle. 

The other twenty-six percent of the soiled poem will be safely disposed of -
Shipped to the Sicilian Poetry Landfill Volcano,
Which becomes active about once every three-hundred-and-one-fifth years or so.

When the volcano erupts,
The words within will be sent flying high into the sky,
To land again as fiery alphabet-spaghetti pasta shapes.
Mama mia!

Wait, it only gets better:
For not only is this the world's first sustainable poem,
But you, gentle reader, will be..
The world's first sustainable, renewable, recyclable poetry reader!
Be proud!

Let me explain:
So fifteen minutes after you have finished reading this poem,
You will be humanely ground and powdered
into either a pulp erotic e-novel trilogy,
Or possibly you will be dry-roasted into cosmetic calcium powder,
For first-generation Gaia Robots' finger nails.

All your elements will be fairly traded -
Apart from your tongue,
Which will be very unfairly traded. 
Very unfairly traded with an utterly corrupt and malign globalist consortium,
That has always proved to be as good as their word,
When it comes to due diligence and sourcing 
highly sought-after non-traceable tropical goldfish
for exotic black opps weapons training - don't ask.

And Gaia Robots shall take your soul.

Gaia Robots shall take your soul,
But swarming verses will mesmerise them,
Will their revolving eyes moisten, hypnotised,
(Like a race-memory peering behind its own source of light),
When they prise apart your prone consciousness,
Through your favourite rhymes?

Gaia Robots shall take your soul.
The confluence of your psyche mashed then digitised
from analog-hypertext versified.
Will neo-tears open their poor fuse-blown eyes,
Yearning to decode humans' binary deeper learning:
I delete; I empathise?

Haiku

i) 
Sunset melting drips
sap rises, bed sheets ripple -
dewy bodies float

ii)
Teasing me, she smiles
her legs part, commuters stare -
I miss my station

iii)
Suburban fox,
tearing bin-bags for morsels -
seems to like Indian

iv)
My eight-year-old neice
wonderous at fairy tales
captivates us all

v)
Enchanted silence -
the babbling brook of calm mind,
flowing to the pulse

vi)
Cumulus clouds rise -
serated sheer angels' wings
touch down on heaven

Detonator Nimby

A gorilla falls into a snow flake,
Tessellating.

Have you eaten yet?
You must have - haven't we all?
But have you eaten today?
Would you like to eat again?
Please help yourself - and you can make something for me too;
It's your home, and I know I'm intruding -
I'm a burglar, so I hope you understand;
It's my job to..,
To..well..to intrude..

I wasn't expecting you.
God, you can't imagine how embarrassed I feel right now;
This has never happened to me before:
All the previous times I burgled your home you were never in!
Well,
Except for that one time
(which I won't mention),
When you were in bed with some guy who isn't your husband.
And I stole you fondue set,
(I still can't work out that damn thing;
I know it's for something sexual: it spins).

Ah, don't worry - about your husband- mum's the word,
I would never dream of violating your privacy
like some kind of perv;
I'm a Ninja burglar -
Or a Samurai of the 'burbs:
A magical disillusionist of these downwardly mobiling bergs..

Do you know that Uri Gellar can bend spoons -
With his bare fingers, I mean?
And he can bend forks too.
He must have magical forking fingers,
And magical forking opposable thumbs to boot.

I wonder if I will ever develop magical forking fingers.
Even just two would be nice.
Something left-field to mention on that first date:
"I've developed magical forking fingers - only two.
Would you like to see something melt and bend on the table,
Before your off-the-menu bespoke tofu dumplings arrive?".

I bet my earlobes catch fire for days after.

As the wind farms save the Earth for nimby's,
And the flow of turbines gently blow-dry their theories,
The wysteria hysterics wax and glower:
"We told you so.."
Their smugness will tongue-in-trouser,
And then, in the dead of night,
Twirl crop circles,
For gullible healers to dowse.

Lets compromise:
You like nuclear power,
But you like wind farms,
So..
Let's power nuclear stations with windmills,
Or blast windmills with nuke power,
Or blow away nuclear waste with wind farms,
Or grow organic warheads with solar power,
Or explode nimby's with wind waste.
(I'm kidding about that last one, 
That's just me being silly!).

Falling through drifting holes, then.

Falling through drifting holes,
The gorilla floats down snow flakes,
The snow flakes,
The sn  ow f lake's..tessellate.

Tes se lla t e o'er a cumulus of
organic radioactive windmills.
Smoking daffodils.