He fled from cliche in much the same way
  Liars avoid those things they have lied of
As night flees from day he fled from cliche
  As an affliction that one might die of
 Hearing a joke he would not smile or laugh
  That would be too predictable by far
Instead he would smirk on irony’s behalf
  His philosophy and soul were at war
 He placed his heart in a small wooden box
  Things of love are too trite to be spoken
Blood found its way through the seams and the lock
   complex one day,
                                broken

The late Stanley Finkleter’s verse has been described as “cumbersome” for more than one reason. Here is the second.
Melon vine, melon vine
Milk of sweet cucumber wine
Cultivate me, bathe my eyes
Rinse out the nightly
Tide of brine
Cumber me, oh cumber me
In anti-inflammatory sea
Sperm of genus Cucumis
Abate the swelling
Bourgeoisie
Floury bap, soft white loaf
Ambassadors to navel growth
Mattress of bland cylinders
Be balk’d in blood
Of England’s sloth!
Gherkins green and without number
Be humbled by the brave cucumber
Butcher sleep with cooling balm
And throw the bodies
In the Humber
-Stanley Finkleter (1932-2004)

In the nest of
A wading stork
Where newborn storklets
Their cry uncork
Might an inclined ear
Encounter talk
Dissimilarly hued
And yet of uniform walk
Occasionally rude
And occasionally queer
Emmanating from
The pickled sphere
The restless whispers
From a displaced here
Served with noodles
And boarlets stewed
Paprika, pencil
Pomegranite, pork
Such words as might
Make ear succumb
And there you’ll
Suck the briney crumb
Or eggshells picked
From the cobra plum
In the nest of
A wading stork
With a silver fishknife
With a Jewelled fork
With haste at leisure
A dismissal chewed
Or the silent commentary
Roundly booed
And off you get
Sore blunted by
The rigours of
Uborkitude.
-Richard Groats (1949-2001)

on all that strand
at end of day
steps sole sound
long sole sound
until unbidden stay
then no sound
on all that strand
long no sound
until unbidden go
steps sole sound
long sole sound
on all that strand
at end of day
-Samuel Beckett (1906-1989)

3.30am, it is, in my flat
(and the surrounding area, clearly, but that
goes without saying. The aim, really, is to
get to the point. Which I shortly will do)
It’s 3.30 now and my mind is awake.
I do wish that it wasn’t, but – for fuck’s sake-
It’s been at work thinking and now that I’m home
it won’t give it up. So here I am. With poem.
It’s funny, I worry, now that I’m here,
that ‘doggerel’ isn’t a – (brb beer) –
(b) recognised form of artistic expression
haiku is much better. Or I get that impression
anyway. So why – you ask – am I home so late?
It’s my turn, it just is, it’s… (making you wait…)
tonight was my turn to check yesterday’s news
Was uploaded correctly so all the page views
result in no complaints,
no mis-spells
no typo reports
No broken link-text, and no boo-boos in Sports
or in Film or in Books, G2, Media, Money
It may sound quite dull, but it isn’t to me.
For a start, nightshift means that I’m off in the day
I can sleep, and do laundry, so all is… no, hey,
hang on, there’s that letter from the Student loans
company, the vile bastards (yeah, everyone moans
but few have ignored them quite as long as me.
I’m in trouble. Still, maybe they’ll just set me free
of the debt, cos I’m lovely) Right. Anyway, I
Made a promise to be – or to definitely try
to be – in bed by four. So I should now get on
and perhaps have a cigarette. I would quite like one
And I know that this ‘poetry’ may not quite count
But I don’t care. I liked it and
[Insert something that rhymes. I’ve gone to bed.]

1. Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge, Essex, England
2. Azagoths of Kria
3. Vogons
4. Adrian Sevitz of Wandsworth Town, London, England (formally Johannesburg, South Africa)

After a break up
To cheer up
Girls get ice cream
So things aren’t as bad as they seem.
Boys come home
And watch rugby alone
Whist drinking many beers
But it ends in tears
Because we lose the damn game
Which is all a bit lame
But leaves us still drunk
And in a bad poetry funk