A S H Smyth

A cheeky robin pecks at my al fresco lunch. BANG! ………No more robin.

I drop ice-cubes down the vests of those who can’t follow my pop-literary references.

Pale mole on my chest: damp, three dark hairs angle down like an old leaf-rake.

…………Here lies a man who sucked all the marrow out of life ………………..– …even if (as is so often true) …he probably should not have.

A poet’s room, these days, is probably his girlfriend’s, or an upstairs corner of his mother’s house – unless, with luck, he’s made it big, or, being smart, just married into money.