Wednesday, 20 December 2017



Who ever liked perfect rhymes
Nether melted at belle’s charm
Tethers on the edge of jigsaws
Preponderous perfidious 

Could not leave a vacuum
At the centre of his game 
Would never put an orange  
Where it might feel strange 

Slither mouth’d
His words are worms 
Simply there to aerate 
Whilst for some, they-line-them-up, as bait. 

Like goblets made of silver 
Housed in the strong-room of Lady Cadiver
Just waiting to get out
Stumbling together like trash sounds 

Like at the start of London’s marathon
Heaps of sheep, askance, chased by python
A hungry chappy
Set there to fill-a-gap. 

Is it not the forked tongue that whispers idiocies 
Then paints them all up by powers to indices. 
Powdering over those fine cracks 
As eatable as soft white flour’d baps. 

But I prefer the imperfect tones
Slim of volume, though heavily bound 
Charming better than many a hocus pocus
But in the meantime this will never be my opus. 

20th December 2017, South London

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