Poems
by Paul Murgatroyd

 

Oik

 

Giles had assumed they’d take the scaffolding away

as soon as the new conservatory roof was completed,

but for them it was free parking. Day after day

he loured and glowered down the phone and blustered and bleated.

‘About bloody time,’ he growled, when they finally came.

‘As you take it out through the laundry, mind the washing.’

He knew his oiks from his elbow, they were all the same –

animals, ignorant oafs who needed telling.

Later on he rather wished he’d been nicer:

as they were leaving, suddenly things looked grim.

The Stallone-clone, the improbably bulging gaffer,

banged on the door and stood there, Alpine above him,

and said, as Giles wide-eyed his fuck-you tattoos,

the sinister scars on his fists, his fiery-red hair:

‘Excuse me, what washing powder do you use?

Because it smells really lovely in there.’

 

 

 

 

 

Adunata

 

Cows will browse on manburgers (revenge in a bun),

cats will spurn catnip and sunflowers shun the sun,

sheep-penned collies will emit tragic bleats,

while leering lambkins cancan in startled streets,

and, suddenly pensive, lemmings will halt on cliff-edges

before all the bullshitters honour their climate pledges.

 

 

 

 

 

Daffodil

 

A sudden smile in an April garden.

 

A glass of advocaat,

levitating insouciantly.

 

A green mamba,

erect and ready to strike,

with its imploded head.

 

Trembling even now (in the breeze),

the slim, blonde

nymph Ashodela,

who was pursued by Pan,

and ran and ran, terrified

by his shadow growing in front of her,

by his goat-breath hot on her neck,

but who escaped him,

when suddenly transformed by Flora,

the goddess of flowers.

 

Then again, perhaps it’s just a frigging daff.

 

 

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