Jocks Abroad

I am not the only mad dog
on this road at noon
there are others
and some of them
are English






















And All

Warts, lots of them
breaking out like molehills
nodules of smut
his farmhands knobbled
with them
on passage walls.

“Cowdung sourced”
someone said in a dry room,
“these eructations are
God’s little joke
infectious and misunderstood
hillocks on the lifeline
lumps on the loveline
myriad journeys
to public places
and private.”

then one morning
all gone
knuckles and palms
smooth as plums
able to chew himself
with a little relish
less gristle.

Where were they absorbed?
Which nurturing surface
which environment
drew them in
to itself?
























TV Breasts

I will take illegal hormones
I’m prepared to take the chance
If I grow breasts on my shoulderblades
I’ll be sexier when we dance.






















Smoked Fish

I love to dine on Finnan Haddie
with my bonny Irish laddie
You can’t afford to be faddy
if you want to fuck a paddy
and whether you’re avantgarde or traddy
from Limavady
or the Irawaddy
whether you’re a tea or a golf caddy
a saddie
or a maddie
or an unrepentant baddie
you’ll enjoy a Finnan Haddie
with your laddie
they remind you of your daddy

now after karaoke
or doin’ the hokey cokey
I enjoy an Arbroath Smokie
makes me feel kind of folky
like your average dumb okie
or parochially folky blokes
with a mind to hokey pokey.
and my Dad says smokies aren’t bokey
that their flavour’s kind of tokey

I’m not trying to be jokey
but for appearance and for flavour
all daddies like a dish
of smoked fish























Rodger Dodge
was just a splodge
on the horizon of
satsuma wrestling

He half-nelsoned a plum
stuck his thumb
up his bum
And waggled his fingers at the referee
who was a grapefruit
and was a bit acidic about it, I can tell you!























Donor Kebab

I was born with a weak kidney
just like Auntie Shona
so when my sister Ann got lynched
she became my kidney donor.
When our first son  Napoleon Solo
was finally delivered
we found he had worse lungs
than his Uncle Archie’s liver
and little Ilya’s intestines
have been pan-fried in slivers,
and now that I’ve lost my brains
somewhere in my succulent balls
you seem to have a braised heart.
Frankly, all in all
its offal.






















Lobmaster Silvester Stallone’s Cojones

Now 60 and escaping to victory
an Italian Stallion with a certain creed
takes ‘em all on
not just Apollo
Oh No! He’s too macho!
A man who hangs from cliffs
in a vest in the snow
is underdressed the studios know
but he’s blessed beyond any measure
because  he’s our hero.

We’d say “Rambo number nine come in now
your time is mother-fuckin up
your bandana please, its well passe…”
“No way!”  he’d say
or grunt
what an awkward

Now if in the field of lawn tennis dreams
returned the immortal one…
He’d  hone his blunt noises for some brutal scenes
at the high courts and high thighs of Wimbledon.
His service would blend strawberries
his backhand whip cream
his forehand volley well gosh and golly
what a grand slam we’d get from this strong man
and when he met Arnie governor
or Bruce who dies harderer
Chuck, Jean-Claude, Steve… all those witless murderers
or Roger Federer who’s much much betterer
a lob
do the job
and take him























Kitchen Wisdom

There are only two kinds of conversation
depending on the situation:






















Its Good to Have a Blether

about the weather
or my anus tickled with a feather
when we’re in the playroom together
and I’m naked
and you’re in red and yellow leather
much  better
than being at the end of my tether
because someone’s
writing platitude or perverted filth in
unconscionably bad rhyming drivel
about our communication skills
and our lives together.






















If Cows were Blue

they’d probably have blue eyes
and not those slurpy brown things
that make you melt and feel all sentimental
Their dental hygiene would be second to none …
likewise their military prowess.
They’d have dreamed up
the rise of the third stomach
and the invasion of all those potato fields in Poland
And if I were an Englishman
I’d have had to do something about it
like go over there on my bike and say
How now blue cow?























A baw-faced delivery man came up our hill
the backdoor open ,his left eye bloodshot
“Four boxes for Gordon!” he wheezed testily
“Some fucking hill you live on!
Why don’t you live somewhere flat?”

I made for the telephone to call the estate agent
but my wife, who can be granite-hearted said:
“You’re over-reacting! Over-sensitive as usual”
so I gave him a wee seat
and a glass of























Landline and Ansaphone

Hello its me
I’m in the village of Salt in Staffordshire
Its not in a Vodafone cell.
I could turn this one-way conversation
into a poem
but I might be accused
of writing doggerel






















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