Cliff walk for charity

telegraph poles do not have to have clouds
collaged half2half adventure. newspapers struggle to decay

a walk on the cliffs makes hair a painted flag
out and about in God's studio. the dead struggle to decay

sausages rolling around in circus sawdust
Morris dance revisionism. pin-up in barber-shop struggles to decay


Only the creator of the collage knows the nationality of the flag
Only he knows how he mocks it

This poetry is full of things too many things what's the idea?
A tiny full-grown horse gallops across the lens


histology discovers woodpigeons breeding is an idea
home-grown miniature labyrinth. a system struggling to decay

running down Maiden Castle ramparts spouting Rimbaud
constellation waxes its limbs. dream struggles to decay

umbrella web makes a spiky cage for pathos
the sky does not have to have potholes. love struggling to decay


To have folk music painting fire with water colour
This poem already has too many ideas what's the scale?

Only the lonely toenails standing upright in the carpet
Only a tribe of standing stones


a ghost made of yolk vomits a taxi into cheese museum
Dali's sperm. pottery made of wave energy struggles to decay

rubber-band ball gets too excited by tales from mythology
Kierkegard walks my dog. i'm just an accessory struggling to decay

war brought real weather to the railway in the attic
. water struggles to decay


To get this you only have to have read it before somewhere
Line break or silky troughs between ridges of surf

I might remove Dali's sperm it's far too glossic
Atonally tweaked machine


we cannot smell see or hear the sea but it is never far away
. the poem struggles to decay





I drive a nail into every interval (Hans Arp)

As polished as a good yarn the modest void

As galloping as the gypsy sparks the Braille face blood

I follow the nail through into a carefully chosen degree module

Moustache made of thread hangs from orchid milkshake

Disconcerted it may be but the gutted church relives as a theatre

I could chase the nail through I do I stop for a first breath

As I don't stop for long

As vodka and squashed at size of intermission

Crash out with showbiz ants into a stained glass landscape

Drive out of Kwik Fit with Schubert on the radio

Drive the nail down a back lane into Hi Q to adjust an immortal haiku

Go on playing with gypsy kids long after Mum calls you in

Getting romantic about the moon the way it shines

Getting filled up with all the simple things you see in the dark

Chilly summer evening wash on an orbiting dice

Final result of moment before conception purges

Year before born followed in the dark sun

Language draws curtains across love for Arp

Pretty flowers barking by Klee's grave

Baby doing its best to be reasonable reminds you how the poem started

Climb back up rungs of page to clean the bitten windows

The lines ring as moral as a suit and tie

Anti-pause Anti-gesture

I drive the nail in with a hammer I haven't explored personally





The flaming vase

the stork dressed up as a little pavilion

the actress went into the desert with her eyes watering

I've nothing against actresses honestly my mouth isn't watering

I prefer the stork dressed up as a little pavilion

even the little pavilion dressed up as a stork will do

an assassin asleep in the yacht

assassination is important business leave the sailing to others

an assassin can be imported an actor can do it

I've nothing against actors honestly my hands aren't tied

I prefer an assassin to be asleep in the yacht

even the cliché attraction between opposites will do

a sculpture of a stork decorated the little pavilion

decorated is not correct but everyone will know what I mean

the pavilion offered shade from the sun if so needed

the pavilion offered the stork respite from boring biography

I've nothing against biography honestly I'm not that lazy

I would just prefer it if when I opened a book there was no book inside it

even the assassin agrees with me at least until he wakes

the assassin steps ashore disguised as an aquarium

in this aquarium he is free to hunt down his prey without detection

I don't want to know who his prey is honestly it's not my business

my business is intoxication

give me a Rasputin dressed as an oasis and I'll say it's no mirage

I would prefer the image to be beautiful but I'm a teacher I'm tolerant





Lost Prophesy Office

the mirror ablaze with threshing
bitterly sponges a jaundiced looking young man.
It's spring it's seasonal it's autumn

here's a soldier we know only too well
he's our son he's our brother he's our dad.
Rain and sun sprinkle the tree with diamonds

a cathedral made of old cloth and rags
smells even worse than that it's disgusting.
A squirrel holds a lavender pouch in its paws

the bird itself is bottomless
it's deeper inside itself than anything I can imagine.
In a forest clearing a harp is not incongruous

bomber command and an onyx egg
dropped in to visit the coincidental patient.
Pilgrim don't budge from the Lost Property Office

non-stop mirrors migrate around the block
bathroom looks into the sun through a keyhole.
The ugly castle is locked screams Beauty

i think that one's mine yes it could be
the grotto's address shares its rash with head office.
Template shadow napkin

stolen harvest and second natured sneeze
perform on Cabaret Voltaire's comfort crumb.
Consecrated host twitching under the microscope

moody unicorn snags its mane on a signpost
snagged ram drinks from its own drinking horn.
Juggler plays with the rhythm of some named words

the imagination is celebrated with an empty mug
but friends are almost as real as objects.
Anthropologist counts the navels on the totem pole

returned soldier suddenly bearded in the mirror
oh thank god thank heaven thank hypnotism.
And spring is coming too with its chalk scorpions

snouts illegible nowt but located rococo
poems made of money are rats in a furnace.
Star atheist freshens up in the Lost Prophesy Office


© Tim Allen 2011