5 untitled poems

The friendly rot is under clotted thatch

Where roaming walls discomfort oafish beams

While cobbles like the heads of pussy cats 

Assemble round about the brindle night.

Baroquely plain and vast with owlish bust,

Ensconced as pompous as a mushroom, she 

Pronounces all her corned beef jelly words. 

The soggy whiskered husband sucks her breath.

His lobes and gloomy chambers gotten up

In paisley like a very splendid rash, 

He hunts inside his jolly bag for teeth

With which to bite the mouths off snarling figs.

A squalid little nose is jammed between 

Unwieldy slabs of ghost with stilton veins

And lips are flaps, naively drawn or stuck 

To pasty flesh which is the most to blame.

Again into the tawny woods I clomp

Away to call upon delicious friends

Amongst the wooden fog and woolly tree.

I like to squeak the rubber backs of frogs.