i don’t really
know what a haiku
is
Month: September 2014
you took the last bus home
you took
the last bus home
i still don’t know
how you got it through the door
but you’re always doing amazing stuff
like the time
when you caught that train
bushels
i hid my light
under a bushel
but later that evening
when i needed it again,
i couldn’t find it
all bushels look alike in the dark
Ode to a USB Memory Stick
Stay Off The Crack
Stay off the crack.
If you’re handed some,
Just give it back.
For crack
Is a thing that your life
Really should lack.
Do not have it
For dinner or as a
Mid-morning snack.
Or as a way
To distract from
The state of Iraq.
Even a crack
In a pavement is bad.
Please find a new track.
So stay off the crack.
Just like the llama,
The mongoose and yak
(But not the gnu,
Which is known to
Sniff glue).
calm a chameleon
no-one was more wizard
at placating a lizard
than Boy George
(who would disgorge
thoughts Aristotelian
to calm a chameleon)
You stitched together the pauses
you stitched together
the pauses
from old, discarded
Harold Pinter
plays
until you had made yourself
a
blanket
of
silence
tupperware
it was when
he went
for supper there
that he caught
a glimpse of
her tupperware
the mere sight
of her airtight
container
made him
want to
attain her
mushroom
when she missed London
she would lie down
upon the carpet,
hold a mushroom to her ear
and hear the sounds of
the Portobello market.
Paul Young
it was quite by accident
that i discovered Paul Young
in the garden that morning,
living under a hat.
he appeared to have
made himself quite at home
there although he admitted to
periods of abject loneliness.
i would visit him daily,
feeding him turnips,
the ends of which he
would store in his turn-ups.
upon arriving, he would beg
me to stay for good this time
but, having other things
to attend to, i never did.
however i did enjoy the feeling
of him next to me and so
every time i went away,
i would take a piece of him with me.
then one day, to my dismay,
i lifted up his hat, and found
there was no more of him left,
not even an ankle or an earlobe.
in a rage, i tore his playhouse down
before going inside to stroke
my cyndi lauper.
Brian Bilston's Poetry Laboetry 