The Bendy-Bus Salsa

i)
Astringent lemon insurgency -
Eau de Sicily;
My plankton face.

Lapis lazuli olfactory iridescence;
I Gurgle my mint mouthwash arias.
Scorchio!
My coral reef tongue.

Saturday night surgery:
Pregnant prophylactic prophecy,
Carnal dentistry,
Sensual occlusion jihadi,
Lapidary mercenary;
Meat-market crash-team.

No, no.
I think this year I'll stay in -
No desire to set sail for the Babel-tongue-fisted neon canyons,
With my cinema-verite pirate-eyes.
Gottle-of-gear,
Gottle-of-gear.

Laser-guided eye-lines glancing over shoulders,
Cold eyes folded:
The smear-stare,
The double-take;
Let the crumbs eat cake.
Beer-goggle romance,
As tender as a gorilla finger-fucking a souffle.

Clowns and meer cats,
Crocodiles and fairies,
Maggots, mermaids, parrots and canaries.

I'm floating,
I'm bouncing,
I'm a primal blurry blob,
Punching out through my teeth silly words,
Like a twentieth-century typist
banging out bingo numbers in Morse code,
Behind this - my vacant and collapsing semaphore-miming face.

It's the show-and-tell,
My Guantanamo Caligula.
What the hell would Jane Austen make of this?
This Urban Jungle Book,
This Amour Vaudeville.
Piss bolts of silk,
Giraffes:
"Eat My Milk."

ii)
Dark-matter-rainfall spool their angel-down yarn,
Like transcendental fishing lines,
Wispy vermicelli of turquoise-charcoal-silver.
Illuminated whirlpool-puddle-leaves,
Circle and swim,
Like schools of tropical fish,
On a delicates/silk-rinse cycle.

And a couple swoon-loopy,
Aflame,
Ache,
Entwined beneath this wallflower moon:
Our parochial star.
They sway,
And slowly turn,
Alternating clockwise,
And anti-clockwise,
On the bendy-bus turntable,
Like only passengers on a bendy-bus can:
The Bendy-Bus Salsa.

A sonic-boom of de-cloaking pigeons,
Helicopter-blade,
Rotate,
Fan-out and arc,
And,
Fade.

Two sirens,
Now three,
Now four,
Now five,
Hermetically seal,
The rudely awakened God-Squad Sunday sky.

And as atheists pray to Jesus,
To cure them of their hangovers,
Dawn-patrol photo-tourists,
March like lobsters,
And gently collide with shift-workers,
Like deflating, static, party balloons.

In the interests of time,
I'll keep this poem to a thousand unwritten lines.

Eject.

Future Recommendations:

People who bought this lawn mower,
Also bought this Aphex Twin MP3.

People who bought these water purification filters,
Also bought this plastic bonsai tree.

People who sell The War On Terror,
Never buy candles, flowers and wreathes.

A Lamp Post

A lamp post tourniquet of wilted roses,
Hang;
They weep and fuse inside their bag,
Of polythene-condensation-tears.

It's been there for a week or so now.
A note attached,
Rain-ink-drips block capitals:
"WHY YOU WERE SO LOVELY".

A bent-double bollard -
A dislocated thumb,
Its wire fangs and bone,
Expose the torn pavement flag bare.

Child undone:
A hit-and-run.

Hollywood's Top Ten Most Mysterious Drug Overdoses

She threw the roses on the floor,
Like they were used takeaway trays,
"I hate him!" She exclaimed,
"If he thinks all he need do is send me this:
Some cheap garage flowers!
That makes everything okay.."
She flourished an imaginary wand,
"..just like that!"
Her slanted feline eyes demanded affirmation,
I just shrugged my shoulders,
And patted the sofa.

She sat down,
Staring-out the discarded flowers,
Hoping they would spontaneously combust,
But they just cast timid baby shadows on the beech floor -
The roses now stricken by a smirking,
Still,
And pretty smug-with-itself afternoon sun.

"Hollywood's Top Ten Most Mysterious Drug Overdoses"
was about to begin.
"Oh look" I said,
" "Hollywood's Top Ten Most Mysterious Drug Overdoses"
is about to start".
"I'm not in the mood!"
She was adamant!
"God" I thought to myself,
"This really is serious then.."

A few hour-seconds of tomb-like silence dumbwaitered by,
Before her mobile chirruped oddly,
Tentatively,
Plaintively,
Like a broken songbird,
Sending out its last-breath s.o.s.

She oblong-shaped her inevitable sigh,
And lifted up her mobile,
As if it was a dumbbell,
Of papier mache.
She scanned the text,
And then,
Smeared almost comically her most elusive Da Vinci painted smile,
Which blasted the snide sun out of its static orbit,
Atomically,
And out of sight!

And baffled angels descended..
Scratched their heads,
So I just pointed at her.

She giggled,
Glanced at me,
Then turned away all Geisha;
I couldn't help but smile.
"Look.." She flashed the text at me,
But pulled it away more swiftly than a thief,
"Isn't he lovely" she instructed,
"He really knows how to treat a girl.
He's so exciting!
You should be like this."
I nodded,
And,
With statesman-like gravity,
Pointed to the t.v screen,
She assented,
Now in the mood for
"Hollywood's Top Ten Most Mysterious Drug Overdoses".

I Love You Like A Packet Of Frozen Peas

I love you like a packet of frozen peas,
Yes, that much!
Except that you're not frozen,
Or anything like peas,
Or full of vitamin e,
Although I bet you are,
Because your skin glows all healthy and dewy,
Like freshly frozen peas defrosting..

So I love you like frozen peas defrosting,
Yes, that much!
Except I've never seen you defrosting,
And if I did I'd call an ambulance,
In case you catch a chill,
Defrosting frozen peas.

Cupid's Pirates

Broken heart-strings.
Broken, yet still they vibrate,
And thrum,
Reverberate,
And hum,
But they're broken aren't they?

The heart-strings snapped.
Replaced with tougher and meaner heart-ropes,
Lassoing the tightened heart,
Now a burnished, panel-beaten sail:

It will survive.

And if Cupid's pirates climb aboard,
And fire their baby arrows,
Or pluck at the heart-ropes,
Through sun, through storm,
Never fear:
Just kill another day.
And,

Eventually,
Abashed, and defeated,
Silenced,
Heads lowered,
They will always sail away.

Superfoods

Pomegranates,
And spinach,
And watercress,
Are designated "superfoods",
Along with goji fruit,
And almonds,
And king-size pizza,
And chocolate,
And vodka,
And ice-cream,
And french fries,
And Indian,
And Chinese.

So who says healthy eating can't be fun?

Sun And Air

I've fallen deeply in love with the girl,
Hiding in the electronic check-out number four.

She never sounds sad or angry.
Her perfect, modulated tones,
Oh, how I wish to take her home.

There she hides beneath the screen,
"Please place the item in the bag..",
So I respectfully place my vegan mayonnaise,
In the bag.

In the past,
Leaning close to her bar-code reader,
I've whispered,
"Would you like to go out
for a drink with me sometime?",
She's never replied.

How improbably, exceptionally shy!
Imagine hiding in your check-out bunker,
All day long,
All day long!
Announcing prices, instructions..

Do you have your lunch-break in there?
I wonder,
Do you only open your hatch for sun and air?,
Or only when the security guard,
Taps your glass screen:
" Hey, it's all clear now,
They've all gone,
You can come out now.
It's safe, there's no-one around."?

I always wave at her bar-code reader,
But no hand has ever appeared to wave back.
But,
Sometimes, she bleeps.
You know,
I'm sure that that's her way of confiding in me,
That she knows I'm there,
And she knows I care.

I don't know what she looks like.
And you know,
It doesn't much matter to me,
For my love for the invisible check-out girl,
Is so beyond the mundane, physical.
I never thought I'd say that,
And mean it!

When I gently stroke her buttons,
She responds with:
"Please enter the code again.",
So I tenderly press her buttons again,
And then,
From somewhere behind that touch-screen of hers,
She replies with her classy, cut-glass, restrained,
"Thank you.",
And always followed with her coy, mysterious,
home-counties,
Silence.

And so here I am again,
In this queue,
I always wave other customers past me,
If check-out number four isn't through,
For she has to know -
Has to know,
I will never be unfaithful -
I will never go to another till.

And now,
Look!
There she is,
Free!,
The regular girl,
Who directs us to the available check-outs,
Rolls her eyes at me,
Maybe she's jealous,
Because I'm holding a bunch of flowers.

So here I stand,
In front of till number four,
And I confess to her:
"I worry about you:
Hiding, crouched all day
Beneath your till?
It must do your poor back in!
I wish you would come out from hiding in there,
I could give you a lovely massage..".

I can feel,
All the other customers stares,
Burn,
What is their problem?
I continue:
"I love you,
And I don't care who knows it!"
There's laughter around me now,
But I must press on:
"I'm holding a lovely bunch of flowers for you..",
I wave them in front of her bar-code reader,
And she replies instantly with,
"Thank you for shopping at Tescos.".
"No, thank you,
I love you shy, subterranean check-out girl.
I'll leave the flowers here for you."
I place them by her side,
And begin to take my leave,

..There's a voice..

And a hush descends..

Android Paranoid

This phone is not a smart phone.
It's one of those old-fashioned phones:
It can only text message,
Video message,
Download music and films,
And play games,
And surf and email,
Make global conference calls,
And other pretty basic things..

Oh,
And it's blue tooth enabled,
And wifi capable,
And can remote control your tv,
But this phone is not a smart phone,
So,
I must throw it away immediately!

Not Ships Exactly

We were dodgems that crashed in the night,
And while were seeing stars,
We also span stars.

A Silly Stream Of Consciousness

A silly stream of consciousness,
A steam train of lozenges,
A lounge lizard,
David Attenborough in a jazz club - nice.
Granny bingo militia,
Bono,
God no,
Not Bono.

Bees of Borneo.

A silly stream of consciousness,
Soporific sonata,
Ballet/belly dancer,
Carmen Electra,
Ornithologist.

One big owl.

This poem is a poem,
Poem poem poem poem,
And you have lovely ears,
Especially when you put on your lipstick,
Poem poem poem poem,
I've loved the smell of ladies' lipstick,
Ever since I was a small young man of three.

And before I take my leave,
May I say,
How deeply impressed I am,
With these petit pois peas:
Flavoursome spangles these,
I don't wish to go on about it!

Land ahoy!
Our stream of consciousness journey,
Is at an end,
Beautiful friend,
This is the end,
I love the taste of petit pois peas in the morning.

Can't Speak French

She's a performance poet,
That wants us to know she knows French,
So she's reading her poem in English,
And now she switches into French,
Oh, and now back into English again,
And now back into French,
See.

I think it's about Iraq and Afghanistan.
No.
Maybe it's about two lovers of hers?
Not quite sure,
And,
She's finished,
(I think),
Yes, she's finished,
Definitely,
Because she says "that's it..",
I understood that bit.
An applause smatters,
And she sits back down again.

That's it.