Month: February 2015

The Flowers of the Garage Forecourts

Lovers beware of flowers
which fester in garage forecourts;
they are not for courting.

For what lover wants pound shop peonies,
dahlias of desperation, morose roses of regret,
chrysanthemums of crushed dreams,
tumorous tulips, carnations of tarnation,
and you-forgot-me forget-me-knots?

These cellophaned bunches of sadness,
blundered bundles of floral unthoughtfulness,
do not make feelings blossom, love bloom,
the heart burst, but lead merely to the
wilting of romance.

Frankly, you’re better off getting
a tube of Sour Cream and Chive Pringles
and a motoring atlas.

The Clowns

Know this: those commuters
causing commotions on locomotions
with their funny fold-up bikes,
the vélo origamists of the vestibule,
are out-of-town clowns.

Their bags do not house laptops
or dossiers of documents,
but wigs and whistles, red noses,
hand-buzzers and balloons,
water-spraying carnations, outsized shoes,
giant toothbrushes, chickens.

Follow them out of the station,
post-disembarkation.
Observe the nearness of their feet
to the saddle as they straddle
their bicycles and comically pedal
through London street puddles,
and peddle their selection
of slapstick services
to city centre circuses.

Beards

Beards grew on men’s faces,
inched past belts and braces,
slithered over shoe laces,
spread across floors,
crept under doors,
stretched across streets,
became entwined and entangled
at all kinds of angles
’til the ground disappeared,
drowning in beard.

Oceans got clogged
and mountains hogged
by the hirsuteness
that took rootness
as attempts to halt
the barbate bombardment
proved fruitless.

No glimmers of hope,
no trimmers could cope,
the vanity of humanity’s
destruction impending;
a hairy tale ending.