Buffalo On The Plane

See the Buffalo on the plane.
Let them roam on the plane.
Eat the food on the plane.
Sleep safely on the plane.
Be free on the plane.
But just don’t get them,
to fly the plane.

The Vwls of my Heart.

Yr lv s lk th vwls f my wrld.
Wtht thm thr s n m.

Think of the Branchlines (WIP)

Think of the branch lines,
Swallowed under fathoms
Of gorse and brambles.  Stained
With green algae and tears
Of dreaming boys, long grown up.

Think of the branch lines,
Lying under tended grass
Cattle looking after these
Parallel graves. Gradient
Markers standing like tombstones.
They overlook  silent soldiers,
Killed at the battle of
Beeching.

Great architecture like lost
Cities of another realm
Hiding under beech and elm,
Brunel’s cut stone edifices,
Waiting for the fateful day
When the rails are then relaid,
Dreams are made from stronger
rock.

Think of the branch lines.
Once the tightly binding weed
Kept the world together,
Links in a network chain,
Station, siding now engrossed
in sod.

Think of the branch lines.
The station master, keeper
Of the time, what train, up or down
Line.  Tender of plants and
Sweeper of platforms now
no more then over grown curiosities
to a new generation.

Think of the branch lines.
The first victim of the rise
Of the motor car and lorry,
Now congestion and climate
Make us sorry for what our
Fathers did.

Choirboy

Two years a veteran.
Pews are trenches,
hiding from an angelic crossfire. 
Stanford in A is a call to arms,
only blue ribbons can take
the punishment of the high E.
Tenors whine like the hum of an air strike,
but you can’t duck. 
You have to stand,
straight,
tall,
and shoulders back.
Don’t slouch.

The choirmaster with his baton,
steers and his boys with military
precision through the bars
and descants of a requiem.

The organ rumbles
like the vibrations of
approaching cavalry,
Those brave boys, armed
With the sweet ammunition
Of their soft voices.

Those who crack,
Are promoted to Alto.

Years later choir boys share
their war stories, a select few.
The platoon survives and like
A memory, they still sing their
Battle songs, as they scale new enemy,
hostile territory as they walk the dog.

Nerd

Never ending
Expectations of
Reality, 
Depicted by Star Wars.

Newly ordered
Exact Replica of
R2
D2

No amounts of
Extra fast
RAM will
Display WoW well enough.

Not seen since buying
Enemy Territory: Quake Wars
Reports of sightings seem
Doubtful.

Digidad

I cried for you but you were not there,
To ruffle my hair and tell me I was good.
Sometimes I would pretend you were
A figment, a pixelated character in my
virtual world.
A lucid dream like delusion, a digital Dad.

Oxford

The intellect , falls like rain, it soaks through,
It runs over the cobbles, enlightening stone
Deepening colours and engulfing hues of
Rustic history.

Memories plant themselves
On walls of the churches, just like graffiti.
Time has never quite got here, just shadows
of the past in virtue lost, only in stone.

A Letter of Complaint to God the Landlord

Dear God, or to whom it may concern
I have many matters on my mind
I don’t want your ears to burn
But a resolution I need to find

I want to complain about everything,
From flowers, cows and birds that sing
To things that make me cringe
Like weddings of celebrity
And those umbrellas on drinks
That some establishments think
Are sophisticated, but are very dated.

I want to complain about the lorry
That passes past my window every
Night at half past three
And scares the neighbours dog which
Then yaps until I get to sleep
Then have to get up again half an hour later

I want to complain about the way
That organisations make you wait
For everything, and how there is a
Call centre for nearly every department
And they are all staffed by bricks.

I want to complain about the way
The Sun shines at a particular angle
And how you can’t see out of your car
When you drive in to the Sun.
I feel it is most unjust that women
Have to give birth and how men
Seem to do nothing else apart from
Moan about how their wives moan
I also want to complain about the fact
That no one will answer this comlaint.

My voice is a faint
Glimmer

Superstar Poet

Arriving in his limousine
His studded ring is quite obscene,
He is the superstar poet and
My god, doesn’t he know it?

His expert verse wraps tongues over
The syllables marching like oagers,
Through the ears of those who hear
The crisp fluidity of his
lyrical perversity.

He stands on stage, ever the tease
He dashes smiles at throngs of ladies,
Maintaining his esoteric air
And just a peep of thick chest hair
just to keep them sweet.

He enters the room like charisma bomb,
His cool blue eyes radiates aplomb
A single light on that lonely stage
Dead silence as he turns the page.
They’re captivated.

After the show, rave reviews resound
Throughout the land and through the towns
His peers in his wake, they know it
They are no match,
For the Superstar Poet

Umami and Me

Umami and me
We go way back

I am having an affair
With an ethereal girl
Called Umami, the temptress.

If I see chocs, it’s no fair
As she gets me in a whirl
Walnutty whippy undressed

When’r I buy camembert
She makes me open the foil
And eats it like I am possessed

If I see a choco eclair
She grabs me by my curls
I eat it and make such mess

My wife doesn’t know about
Umami