Category: MikeCrowl

The

PIPER who played on the Isle of

WIGHT played with such a Celtic

VIGOR I had no choice but to give him

CHEEK. He blew a bagpipe raspberry at me.

My

GHOUL-friend’s a bit of an alternative

ALBUM, she’s a long-playing record looping

LOOPY when the blunted needle hits a

STUMP in the track…and jumps.     

BEGAT’s a word full-full of life, a

SEIZE-the-day squeezing word, a sharp-in-your-face

GEESE-pecking kind of word, rising-from-the-pit

MINER, black-sooted, grin-shining, the-work-is-over sort of word.

SPARK of dawn reveals the
DROSS of dew over the grass. I
CHOKE at the thought that the day will be
SUNNY: death met my friend yesterday.

‘He’s a
GONER, you can tell by the crack in his
SKULL, the slit in his throat, and the
TYING of his neck to the ceiling. Want to make a proper
AUDIT?’

My first attempt today was a GONER.
Violent, and a nasty piece to come out of my SKULL.
Plainly my imagination needs an AUDIT,
Fingers need control when I’m TYING (er, typing).

The
TITANS (clueless) mixed gunpowder and
YEAST in their expensive secondhand
CANON (they don’t spell well). But the cannon was
LEAKY. After a rainfall the fizzy yeast frothed.

S.A.S. SYstematically shook the shaky seniors, they the
TOKEN of things present yet past, their past seen in a
PRISM of things well- and badly-remembered, like a long-running
REVUE, now a game of two, three, or four halves.

It’s Christmas and while the fridge is CHOCK
full, the blinking Internet on FIBRE
is down. Again. The intermittency last week DROVE
me mad, like standing in a field full of BRIAR.

AWARD
OFFERs me
BLISS if only I can
PROVE I’m worth it.