you said
“how do you make
a venetian blind?”
so i took you
to a factory
that specialised
in their manufacture
you left me two weeks after
Month: August 2014
An End to Frippery
Frank was quite frivolous,
A fomenter of frippery,
And followed his fickleness
Down a slope that was slippery.
His existence was rife
With the shallow and tawdry
Until into his life
Came plain-speaking Audrey.
She said he must cease
Being so vapid and petty
Or he’d not have a piece
Of the pursuits of the sweaty.
The change that ensued
Was greeted quite grumpily
But Frank soon subdued
His tilt towards trumpery.
napsack
in my napsack
i would pack a snack
(raspberry flapjack),
a stack of maps,
and a stash of naps
for when i’d lapse
into lethargy
as the ennui
came upon me.
on the brink,
i would slink
inside the sack,
and grab a wink
or two
(i always packed at least forty just in case).
fluff
every evening,
for twelve years,
i would contemplate
my navel,
a nightly session
with my knotted
depression
in which
i would inspect
the cleft
to see what the day
had left.
the daily deposit
would be scraped out
and stockpiled
into shoe boxes
until i had enuff
of the stuff
to knit you a scarf
of scraped fibres,
a lint-stitched
muffler,
a belly button
fluffler.
In the Lunchtime of her Life
in the lunchtime of her life
each hula hoop
was a regret,
a promise unmet,
the sandwich of cheese
and pickle,
a fickle reminder
of the years
left behind her
The Poet Laurie Ate
The poet Laurie ate
Was Lord Alfred Tennyson,
Whom he found rather tough
Although less so than venison.
hands
you put your hands
in the air
like you don’t care
but i cared
and later,
after you had gone inside,
i reached up
and took
your hands down
in case
you had need
of them
again
Bags
I waited for my emotional baggage
At the emotional carousel
For love is worth no more than a cabbage
And life is a mere bagatelle.
On Choosing the Correct Attire in which to Practise Yoga
never do yoga
dressed in a toga
always wear
a leotard
(but not a leopard
or your life will be
placed in jeopard
y)
Holiday Reading
Leila lying at the lido,
Lapping up some Don DeLillo.
Bob basking on the bietzsche,
With his daily dose of Nietzsche.
Paul poised by the pool,
Pouring over VS Naipaul.
Tania wrapped in beach towels,
Explores the works of John Fowles.
Cilla instilled inside her villa,
Still engrossed in Friedrich Schiller.
Deborah delays before she dips in,
Immersed entirely in Solzhenitsyn.
But I’m hiding under my duvet,
Reading a biography of Michael Bublé.
Brian Bilston's Poetry Laboetry 