I am a Crow

I am a crow
I can go anywhere
I am a crow
I can go to IKEA!
I can rummage through the displays
I can have a 50p hotdog

But I can also poke out the eye of the man on the till
And fly away
Before the police arrive.

Back at my nest
Digesting my prize
A knock on the nest door arrives
The police flood in
A blur of helmets and truncheons
And put the cuffs on my wings.
They force me to regurgitate
The eye that sat safely
Inside of me

They put me in a cold jail
I shared a cell with Bono
Who had been arrested for tax evasion.
I looked up at Bono
His unnecessary face
Holding many appetising features
And because crows don't have willpower
I pecked out his eye.

And for that
The police
They let me go.

The lesson for crows here is
Keep pecking people's eyes out
And the rewards will come.

Cerumbrella

I fingered a fat girl
In Maryland Chicken
Her fat, greasy nose
Was ripe for the pickin'
I stuck up my arm
Right into her brain
I pulled up inside
As it started to rain

I stayed there for three weeks

Bugger.

Shed Man

Shed.

The whimsical whomsical garden orifice
The place
Where I
Stick my oroface.
When I'm not welcome
In my other shed.


Tools.


Include a pile of soil-stained magazines
A picture of a dog
With Bernard Breslaw's head
Before the rise to fame
Of Photoshop instead.
And all the space and time
That cannot be measured
By men with matted minds aloof.

I will burn in my shed.
I will burn with my "lad" in my hand
And a pair of guilty shorts
Like a rope around my knees
Whilst the moon watches
Through a crack
Like the dirty little moon it is.

Filthy
Moon.

Threesome
Moon.

Just you and me son,
Moon.

And the "lad" in my hand, son.

A cosmic tryst.
Fuck me I'm pissed.

Wife O'Clock

Forlornicata
A strong gust
Of garbage tongue
Sweeps the cold sense
From extra-triangular nuffink...

No
I wasn't saying anything.

Pull that custard
Over the tips of my outstretched eyes

Don't let the good juices
Seep

Glong!
Sorry I
Must go!

But in leaving I
Trap my ileum
Ileum in the door
In the door and
And watch in
And
And
All the insides are out.
All out.

I'll probably just leave my skin here then?

OK, bye.

Bob Harris Chinscape Blues

Moon landings changed me
My face now a sight for sore minds
As they point their microscopes
Under my yawning gumtray.

Oh, how I wish they had not faked
The landings there upon my chin
Upon its stage.
I sometimes put some bacon in
Saliva leaks
Upon that sacred skin
The guilt steams up
From holes behind my eyes.

I wish sometimes I were the moon
I could escape to my own room
The crushing cold the moon hangs in
I wish that I were in the bin.
Alas

The bin is full of fish.
Oh well.

Bob Harris' Beard

Sold!
Auction grinds to inertia
And cold sadness dripped
From the newly unveiled
Chinscape
Like dogs trapped in an avalanche
As they towed Bob's old beard away.

Bought by billionaire Boris
From St Petersburg Oil Refinery
To be installed
In his wife's armpit
No expenses spared.

Winnie the Who

Ukelele
Torn by bear
Broken wood asunder
Strings strangle
Ends dangle
Drumkit and bass mangled
Lets go for a shit in the woods
Before The Old Grey Whistle Test
Farts out a classic
Through unusual gaps
In Bob Harris' beard.