a sixty fifth poem...'this morning'

I woke up this morning

With a bread-knife in my bed:

I had either

Fallen asleep during a suicide attempt,

Or bought a granary loaf from Little Waitrose

On the way home from the pub.

a sixty fourth poem...'getting on'

Elsie was getting on.

In fact, she was in a retirement home,

Rounding the last bend, etcetera.

But as to where she would go thereafter

She didn't know.

She couldn't see into the future,

Let alone past the bridge of her nose

Where her long since misplaced

Pair of horn-rimmed spectacles

Remained.

a sixty third poem...'daddy'

Philip and his wife

Ran a Bed and Breakfast.

One day

A Neo-nazi came to stay.

Philip showed him to his room.

Payment was always in cash.

The Neo-nazi had a photo of Hitler in his wallet.

'Is that your father?', asked Philip.

'No', said the Neo-nazi,

'It's Adolf Hitler'.

'Oh', said Philip,

'I thought he had a beard'.

a sixty second poem...'dungarees'

Walt bought a pair of blue dungarees,

Went home

Tried them on

They didn't fit,

Took them back to the department store.

'Why did you buy them in the first place?',

Asked Customer Service,

Walt said he didn't know.

'You were in a rush',

Said Customer Service,

'And lately you've eaten too much'.

a sixty first poem...'pony'

Jemima wished for a pony for Christmas

- She lived in a council flat,

Eleventh floor.

When the big day arrived

She woke at 5AM,

Trotted down to the lounge.

Her parents heard her,

Hoped she wasn't expecting 

to be allowed

To ride it around.

a sixtieth poem...'replacement buses'

Tony phoned South West Trains,

A computer answered.

'Hello', said Tony

And immediately felt stupid.

Then Tony was given three options:

Ticket purchases

Merchandise

Death By Roundabout.

I'll try Stagecoach instead

Tony thought to himself,

And no one else.

a fifty ninth poem...'room to live'

I wandered into the living room, the reading light burning low.  On the bookshelves for the first time I noticed Picasso's dove on a greetings card, tattooed in blue: a detail so small and apparently meaningless, but nevertheless there it was - Picasso's dove.  The living room smelled of pine, and the comforting odour of warm bodies, the tree had dropped very few needles; the living room smelled of brandy too, Picasso's dove, tattooed in blue; the living room smelled of wood, wax, the reading light burning low.  I felt a stirring in my veins, your invisible touch - ink on my fingers I poured another glass of port, perhaps too much, and sat through until morning.