Ivy

They read poems here every year
In memory of the last king,
Ambushed and strung up.
But he was no better than he might have been -
That leather apron over his arse,
An iron lid on his heart.


Carnation

I stayed in Richard Burton's buttonhole
A whole week. He never even changed his underwear.
And always the same formula:
Start with champagne, finish with scotch.
That kind of desperation is what life's all about.
I wouldn't have missed it for the world.


Chickweed

Before you cover me
With your glass parliament
...