@ poet’s corner. 12 nov 25

in about 2016 i had an idea to write a very long poem about brexiit called toblerone. but i didn’t know where to begin. eventually it clicked and  i started work on ‘toblerone, a brexit poem’ in january 2024. and this became part of a larger work called the love epochal sometime later. i’m currently working on part 4, tentatively called this is techno. i have split it up into poetic chunks and try and post to my blog three times a week.

i’m going to read three on theme-ish extracts

this first bit is called ‘vulvic pud’

i was out for dinner with my girlfriend and some other couples at celantano’s, and honestly, the dessert was so absurdly vaginal it could not have been an accident. luckily we were are liberal, open minded people and we were not offended.

it was also a very rainy day and i could had a feeling my on again off again girlfriend was going off again.

vulvic pud 

fruit forward vulvic pud, touched, 

lingered upon, picasso pubic crumb

a tender rebirth, but is this the beginning or the end,

reprise: why does your love hurt so much?

—— 

this next bit is called green. the link to glaswegian hospitality is a bit less clear, but it was inspired by my pal n. n. (no relation) back in the early days of the millennium he had a weed dealer in ibrox. he would go around and buy his stuff and part of the transaction was that you had to awkwardly hang out with the guy and do a bong with him.

one time, at a loss for conversation to make, his pal d. made the horrible mistake of inviting the dealer round to theirs for a party.

the guy turned up with about 100 bams who promptly trashed the whole place and stole the few things of value. 

n. n. came around from a blow to the head to find a policeman leaning over him. is that yours, son? he said, pointing at a piranha flopping about in a puddle in the close, surrounded by broken glass.

i’ve been working on a novella largely based on mad anecdotes n. n. has told me and that i have stolen, and this little piece will be the introduction.

Green

is the colour of the dear green place

and behind my ears

so are my salad days

like the herb in the bowl…

green, green, green

and ashen faced

the colour of money

washing corporate sin

green, green, green

with jealousy they will say

like envious, wretched souls 

as they are prone to be

——

this last bit’s called ‘wet salty hotdog’

my girlfriend had just bought a flat and started doing the place up. she is very handy. she had had the key about two minutes by the time the floors were up and the sander was out. i got there and was greeted by lungfuls of sawdust.

i was getting in the way. 

earlier, while out running, i had a sudden recollection of waiting to get into the cafeteria at lunch in primary school. i usually had a packed lunch so it was novel to get hot food. the  hot food was terrible. it was notably briney. a flavour that has echoed discordantly through the epochs.

wet salty hotdog

i believe in a sativa, coffee and jog 

to cut through the morning fog

primary cafeteria, inchoate aroma 

of wet salty hotdog

you get the key to a new place of great significance

brompton over, you invite; but take your moment first

i get there and the floors are up

circular saw sounds erupting

drag a trail through the dust

alone, together, us two and all of us