Frith Hilton Collection IX

Who’s that chick

home heckling

no, she’s no busy

no common on beat

give it up, she’s sick

love sick, to dribbling

and I say heck, weak

what could be

he’s had the week

didn’t he

or to which

they must believe

they met, agreed

Hollywood is in degree

smile and switch

this band antsy.

Damn, she hit the alarms

she’s hidden the pattern

every footstep of Adam

hold, let us now pander

rust soon could mutter

could it snooze forever.

Taylor has a weigh gig

but it’s for every week

last time she came in

she met the house git

it’s been different since

ever round rumours of split.

In the return of ace service

halfway through in passing

the ball was captured in film

someone was on arson duty.

Of everything inopportune

when your lover gets shoes

cloyingly as mooch moods.

Losing a whole note

every learned in rote

amnesia dons clothes

what’s become gross

love foisted on oaths.

Unknotting feelings

the harpsichordist

sees his dreaming

his listening sibling

digits still fingering

encounter a fleece

elevating fledgling.

Somewhere in the galaxy

a man-made heart lost wit

his rib-cage ached in need

for earth he left in the dish

it wasn’t unlike any visiting

since birth without speech

he met Joe Biden

also Kamala Harris

being friendly

he did his thing

he could really spin

make you very dizzy

she liked it

Joe couldn’t stop begging

so he became a citizen

now he speaks

he even listens.

Nobody said they would

I labelled the woods

I called one green, and soon

with the other troubled

shortened to throb

none could tell where it stood

I knew the green route

half the time in throb’s brood

up the very random.

At times I feel too young

in a patched skin a foot wrong

my alarms are digested in the dung

when I sprout over the lair up a stump

so this has a feeling of must

and it’ll take crying thoughts.

Rolling a ghostly die

to serve in the sticks

it’s no wonder he sighs

pecking the order he is.

Selling the boy’s voice

with a fountain pen

asking of youth’s eld

in a stringed helm

I seem to like women

lofty ideas of semen

all gotten pregnant in stem.

Whenever I fake a routine

I say Billie Jean

even in this slip

I’m half casting.

They knew we wouldn't

for some saw a wraith

after the brash doodle

I didn't see a mark nay.

I lent my heart to a call

in a morning downpour

to my ears unctuous

in a pittering rouse

did a fell rue hurt

where you’ve been and not

only as your guts

in your poor hush

and wealthy zealous.

A day‘s gone

and the thorn

for not without

the hem of morn

sliding thither from

the salami was; to be cut

and as no smarmy eyes cure

yours sebaceous had it on tor.

X is seen changing

Twitter is still with tits

right, still where we’ll meet

it’s whom I’m following, randy

in my avidity in touching Jeffries

from herd, and patched filled heady

vade mecum in hand, an otiose breed

coming back to me, coming now to see

who I’d become, not who I became, but he.

Do birds behave differently

when there isn’t electricity

have I a trough climbing

seeming now too nosy

ever known being

mind under city.

On the morning of imagination

nothing whatsoever would have my puns

not the climbing old buddy sun

moot from asking for the moon words

and an afternoon accosting my nature

my bridle path, the hymn to books pored

evening came, whence my mind was famous

but for the former, where they’d all come

all of the known applause.

Limping from the hurting

lo, I wished heartily in bliss

it’s the moment I caught wind

of the disease in the deceased

I ran up to you a new me, still mean.

Isn’t the talk all barbaric

the nomenclature of the artist

he hasn’t in his relief to beef

making the rose evoke so namby-pamby.

I stay in my room; over ate

my mood ties with the matt grit carpet

leaving my thoughts as strewn as the room’s objects

darn, I’m a writer, the old one litre Coca-Cola bottle presents

its shade of beige on my water not in my view reticent

who knows a once poor writer, and that old work evanescent?

I blow the beige to sepia as I now see the young princess

. . . princesses, as if handed thoughts by an invincible parliament

their highnesses, Carolina, Chiara, Leonor, and Sofia all making the bottle intense

it’s just another day, as the colour waned, another poem making it hard to pretend

I could be an infantile successful poet, an open Coca-Cola nowhere near its end.

Spare me the avalanche

of your new tureen lash

with me swim and bath

ever heard of frack.

The drizzling is amusing

her mooching is in having

. . . lauding this grief

sore tilt it at windmills

even if

it isn’t what is troubling.

The camel’s hump

is the overhang mum

tick more, to the third

in due Saturday’s clock

she’ll show me her rump.