Note: These four poems come from an early era of my writing life—where satire, associative logic, and linguistic mischief are all still operating at full voltage and without much concern for genre stability. They move freely between cultural detritus, private irritation, and comic metaphysics, as if trying to test how far language can bend before it either collapses into nonsense or reveals a hidden structure underneath it. What holds them together is less any single theme than a consistent tone of alert instability: a mind watching itself generate connections in real time, amused by its own excesses but also half-suspicious of what they might mean. Read together, they sit somewhere between parody, dream-logic, and cognitive overproduction—early signals of a style that treats thought not as expression of meaning, but as an event that happens in language.

Inspired by Robyn Hitchcock

The urge to pen nonsense descending

This seems an appropriate forum

For all my synapses are blending

And my skull has become rather warm

Hurrah for men in long white beards

Kris Kringle and Komani

Who, hypnotized, disclose deep fears

Of the seamstress Miss Delany

‘Cause there’s a mistake with a head-cold

There’s a death-wish with nine lives

There’s a blowpipe with a blindfold

And it’s stalking both your wives

There’s my niece in a wave function

A control freak in a kilt

And they waltz without compunction

On the philosophy you built

When skeletons meet

Bones get up on their feet

For square dancing

The mandibular dreamers

Mirrored a phalanx of femurs

And they all started prancing

Yes, the babe he loves best is his manageress

But she’s frigid

Everytime she comes round

His spirits get down

But he’s rigid 

The houses she owns

Are deliberate clones

Of the suburbs

Lights go on with a clap

Every mouse to its trap

In the cupboards

I found a crème-egg in a fern

It was hatching and snatching in turn

I chose not to come all that close

For fear that it might be verbose

Oh, I wish I could write an acrostic

And that chemicals weren’t so caustic.

I wish that my lunch-trays were blue

Or speckled like they are at the zoo

But quarrels came as quarrels will

Concerning pilfered cherries

When I got up to press a pill

Some bastard thieved my necessaries

A creaking neck, a morbid thought

The story of an evening

We wish we were what we are not

And now I must be leaving

The Paperless Office

The paperless office is dead

It’s long since been put to bed

Though we claim to ‘ave gone green

You must know what I mean

The paperless office’s been stood on it’s head

The paperless office has flipped

The idea was just a blip

We print quite promiscuously

Use A4 insistently

The paperless office papers on at a clip

The paperless office’s defunct

The concept has flat-out flunked

The paradox being

We’re surrounded by screens

But the paperless office is sunk

The Present

a form is filled

money is sent

a conscience is salved

a small difference is made

while somewhere

under the cover of darkness

or in the light of day

the beat down goes on

Limerick

A pious reformer named Mather

was frequently known to blather

about the great judgment hour

but the word from the shower

was that Mather knew his way around lather