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.

We, The Gaze..

She only looks out the window when it rains..
The clouds lowering
so thick they smoke
 like dovetailing dragons..

Shuffling dress-down-Friday penguins 
connected commuter sects,

..all heads bow down to hand-helds in prayer..
Timelines of flatlining The Still-Life Conga.
We, The Gaze, grazing,
Grazing and surfing our extraterrestrial bovinity.
Serated dopamine;
Separation anxiety twinned.

I'm a risk averse airbag with a manbag.
The man who mistook his hand-held for his life.

When I'm in I step outside to ring my doorbell I feel reassured yes I'm still a special person I opened the door,

There,