paris

a hot time
in the lukewarm
hot tub
in the paris finca
dirt ship
down, max
imum
zen on the seine
you read your
local,
bell jar
let me light your plath
take me
to the
bistro
i love and missed you
nap to
moon sa
fari
slurp some snails at paul’s
to an
extent
we are
all, somewhat, a
hyster
ical
baby
in a pram being pushed down a paris boulevard

i love holiday poems. this holiday was the biggest rush. i barely had time to get my phone out my pocket. we were cycling around paris, cafes, cocktails, sightseeing, dinner. i bought a packet of fags. wish i hadn’t as despite not having bought another pack since i’m back on the nicotine replacement therapy.

hello goose my pope is dying

its world war three
and the pope’s half deed
leave a breathe in the air
by the muddy rinsed geese
we share the animal
experiences:
hunger, etc.,
fear and sleep
so, umwelt notwithstanding,
i feel you deep

it is such a shame that our communication with animals is so inaccurate, or at least, hard to verify. sometimes the dog brings me a toy though, and i think, aw, she saw the toy, and thought of me. came to find me. i exist in her internal world.

and she exists in mine. here i am writing a blog about her. rip the last pope.

n.n. the sailor man

you worked so hard for that,
you said when i ended.
that’s all i want from life —
my struggle commended
a delicate elbow
cannot be diminished
i’m just like pop-eye
but i don’t eats me spinach

hello welcome to march, the month that’s also an instruction. a good month for spring reasons. but not my favourite. that’s may, the month of invitation. a lot of the poetry this month is goo related. snot. snails.

i start the month by plagiarising myself. i love, adore, plagiarising my worst lines. i once recorded a song with the couplet, ‘i am much sexier than neil kinnock, i’m tougher than pop-eye, but i don’t eats me spinach’. suffice to say, that song wasn’t a hit. also, i did eat spinach regularly at the time. i don’t anymore.