Wearing high coats & low shoes
I’ll do ding-a-ling while you do
bring. If there’s a source handy
let’s connect: wired up to receive

Love but where’s the ground, the
green wire? Bit of a worry. Have
we fouled our nests with inappropriate
language? Will we be excluded from the next edition

of the Who’s Who Book of Heartfelt
Meanderings? Digging our own graves, the execution
to be attended by friends & relatives seated

in a circle, albeit not one with any magical
properties. Will they applaud after we’ve sung,
dead men live to air?


Baby Love

What next? Should I sit by a river
& sell my clothes, a penny each? Would that
make the bathers happy? But what
if it’s all about how

you do violet or, worse,
orange? O cat of nine
in a tree of three as into a marshland armed
parachutists settle into an unfathomable

melancholy. Is this really what my baby love
for high blue places has come to? Is it time to feel
the death of me? You will of course, on that

I can count, a heartfelt sob & a wave
as my funeral bark drifts
out into the Bolivian Sea.



Always leave a clue for the police. A body or two, a wife, a broken bed, a lipstick kiss on a window, a stone in a shoe, a pair of half-burnt crutches in the fireplace, an alarm clock in the refrigerator, a balcony railing carefully cut into twenty-seven equal size pieces, a donkey braying in the cellar. Whatever, almost anything can be a clue; almost anything will make the police happy; & that of course is the aim – to keep the police happy. There is only one exception. Never leave a poem. A poem will utterly confound the police. They won’t know what to do with it. They’ll shrug their shoulders & go off in a huff. They’ll have no choice but to close the case – Unsolved.


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