Archive for July, 2013

Wednesday, July 31st, 2013


In Starbucks I’ll try and get a couch
but it’s not always possible if I don’t get a couch
I’ll be next to the condiments I suppose you would
call them Starbucks now has more than 750 stores in
the People’s Republic of China.

Tuesday, July 30th, 2013


Carts loaded with sacks of potatoes career
through the back alleys of a man’s skull and swing around
corners so fast they fall off and smash into his brain
and we’re watching it on our phones in the back yard!

Monday, July 29th, 2013


Well, that was a nice pear I just ate. Fruit can be such an inspiration! The times an orange has prompted a minor masterpiece from my pen can’t be counted on the fingers of a baboon’s paw. And apples aren’t the only fruit that twist my head into a geometric puzzle the unraveling of which bemuses the doctors. What a plum does to me is anybody’s guess (the imagination running not quite wild).

Sunday, July 28th, 2013


There’s no break.
They come tramping through here as if speed is all that matters.
Thought is absent.
The extent of the damage cannot be assessed.
There’s no break.

Saturday, July 27th, 2013


I do not and will not make a big deal out of my own humble poetic career. It was brief, and I always preferred the wide open prairies of prose to the confines of the little paddock of poetry. I was not without talent in versifying, but whereas poems had to be prised out of me like a piece of tough old chicken caught in a back tooth cavity, novels poured out of me like (as one acquaintance so vividly once remarked) a virulent anal leakage. The world, I am sure, is a better place for my decision to concentrate on the anal leakage rather than the old chicken.

Barnaby Tage, from Memoirs from My World of Words (1909)

Friday, July 26th, 2013


It was only
a momentary

It was only
of the tongue

After all

Thursday, July 25th, 2013


Today’s prize winners:

Job Carew (Bangkok)
Mrs. Gray (Southwell)
Harold “Tinkerbell” Powell (Cardiff)

Click here to enter tomorrow’s prize drawer.

Wednesday, July 24th, 2013


And when I look in the looking-glass I prefer it to be me lurking there with all the subtlety of my innate radiance, not a pale imitation of what seems to be the barren disdain of a rocky mountainside bearing down on an innocent old man.

Tuesday, July 23rd, 2013


I don’t really like difficult. I prefer the easy to wash over me like a horse in a vat a milk. Once the immense enormity of the unknowableness of everything announces itself I turn into a knob of butter wrapped in a cabbage leaf under the noonday sun. And I don’t really like confusion either. When I look in the glass I prefer it to be me lurking there in all my subtle radiance, not a pale imitation of what seems to be a swarm of bees bearing down on an innocent old man.

Monday, July 22nd, 2013


If you come at me from the East you can be sure I won’t hear you coming. I have only one ear.