“What irrelevant caveman was that?
Lips displayed for smooches
Or a pug-face?
I hooked Sheeran onto my Vespa,
Rubbed the gatepost.
Cloud-nine in azure-orbit eyes.”
“Fitting treatment monkey brat.
Lug it all home.”
Would you reap relevance? Like what you lug. – mh clay
Our guru cyclones in –
Pantomime dame falsies,
Snazzy banana ear-rings.
We’re alert or lie-abed,
By calibre, disembarrassed souls.
Headway is fundamentally a pose.
editors note: And the best showbiz is beatitude. – mh clay
Noting your fascist quirks
Are repeatedly unstomached?
(Hitler bowtied.)
Disguise em
With our Mickey Mouse get-up.
(Treblinka, Christmas lights.)
Copycat Walt,
To sugar any backlash.
Astute advice for any apolitical boob. (And a “Welcome back!” to Christopher, too. He has returned to the riotous ranks of our Contributing Poets with this submission. You can see his page again here.) – mh clay
Humbugging commune in Flakyville Desert.
Blabbing through imprisoning screen door,
Lord Kitchener ill-omened the postman.
A tiptoed suspicion of peripheral affairs.
They regressed into a Cinerama El Dorado.
Charles Manson, talisman for fruit-cakery,
Ensnared delirium.
A no-voice chant radiated into sand:
Your mind needs you.
Yes, it does. Join today! (With this submission, we welcome Christopher to our crazy conclave of Contributing Poets. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out!) – mh clay
Scorn’s a contrivance that ticks.
“With an hour of free time,
Three balls and these instructions”
The skittle-alley’s polonaise is sheeny as varnish
On bubblecars going crewless.
“Juggling has been touted
As a great stress reliever”
Air-pocket pay-scales would debt me an hour,
Rundling supplied by gears, bobbing,
The bus home – just…
“Throw a ball
In a gentle arc”
*Celebrating 50 Years In Recruitment
Job Title: Assembly Operatives
Details: Assembly Experience Is Essential,
Preferably Within The Automotive Industry.
Pay Rate: £6.68 Per Hour.
QUOTES: Juggling Poet
Develop those skills. Perfect your craft. Get ahead or fall behind… – mh clay
Unblurred to one and all
spoiled bodies
ridden by each-word-a-blow tempers,
thundering outhouse, porch and stairway.
When they’re unlatched
ringside seaters squinny.
He swigs hold-and-corner methadone
backstage of bins
while she drags the truth of her face
into see-red mania.
No need to don your magnifiers to see this bit of
relational hide-and-seek, the poet makes it perfectly clear. – mh clay
