FETCH! I yell at my mooching dog,
BERTHa. This no-longer-puppy is ever-the-
IDLER. She saunters round in her own
ORBIT. The stick lies stuck in the mud.
No-longer-puppy
Author: Mike Crowl
Ovine gloom
MISSY, I miss you a lot, my sunshine, moonshine
OVINE. This, your resting place, your supine space, midst yellow
BROOM – a kind of womb with heaps of room – where your
SOAPY wool now cools, while my soul’s a darkroom full of gloom.
Ah, cruel fate!
The
SUITE was tiny, my stay not helped by the
TRUNK being undeliverable. Ah,
CRUEL fate! Even though I don’t travel
ALLOT, I still have the worst traveller’s tales.
Stain
BOBBY, with considerable difficulty, removed the
STAIN – or so he thought. Pulling it out of the
DRIER he discovered the stain wasn’t gone, merely
PALER.
I’m in love…
TOUCH me, and my flesh begins to
BURST. In the room I hear a
CREAK – it’s my heart, tip-toeing.
RADIO static is the sound in my head.
Annual bath
The slightly illiterate stable boy celebrates a once-a-year event…
TUMORrow I’ll do the washing. The
SLIMY, stinky, mud-covered
TUNIC will be first. Then I’ll wash the
STRAW out of my hair.
Boo hoo
I
FELON a nasty piece of
STEEL, which caused a
KNOLL on my knee, now I’m
GLOOMy.
Shifting the odd bison
A
SAINT who makes practical his SPORT
by
USING his strength to shift the odd BISON,
finds it
HEFTY a task, and lengthy a QUOTA –
Sees it
DEBIT his pay packet, like decimal to OCTAL.
[Catching up from the weekend…or two for the price of one]
Ssss…snake
CRICK in the neck after my crazed horse
SHIED at the snake slung on a branch. The
VENOM is mild; I can still make it to the
VENUE in time, all the while looking sideways.
Woke-soft
OLIVE is the colour of the tough-as fence-
PLANKs – some aged militarian using up surplus army paint.
OUT GO the planks, their stolid lives replaced by woke-soft
WOVEN material that might survive one small storm, maybe two.