Making me a Cardigan


Making me a Cardigan
Watching her flick the wool

In deft lilac loops

Talking as she knits,

Knit one, yarn over.


The gas fire hisses

A hot grid in which ballerinas

Shimmy and twist, yarn forward

Passing the slip stitch over.


The apricot wallpaper yawns

The angel cat puts his paw

Into another slipper

Such a dearhearted person.


The antique painting shines

The lady leans forward

To help us with the pattern

Her stiff black crucifix

Against her fruiting bosom.


The clock chiming eight, the mossy sofa
The walnut wood with its odd devilfaces

The draught under the door

The glittering glass doorknob

Night presses behind peach silk curtains

The front door is one hundred years old


That should be enough.




He sung a twisted song, chewing on his tongue
Max Mandrake, hewn from wet tarpaulins
Drainswept gushings
A heavy thickset sweaty face
Impaled on godknowswhat
Pyramid of needs

Lush black hair in obscene scrawlings
Prettiness that nauseates
Terror focuses in the third meridian
As if spiders readily removed their legs
To save him the trouble

He probably conquered K3
Engendered small squalling babs
Had a smiling wife…
Does he remember
The  rusty cutting edge of his little knife?

She is hyperventilating
Her brain shrill with thuds and filth
He hisses dead words
For her smallest recoiling hidden parts
The insides of exquisite roses cancelled
For manure and phlegm and cut off
Hedgehog feet.


Veronica Aldous 2018 all rights reserved

I found this poem inside an acorn cup.

I found this poem inside an acorn cup.

I wanted things one way
All beauty swaying and light trees
But a maggotty wyrme bit my heart
The dread pain clacking in my leg

Gave way, I ceased to hold on
Steven Isserlis was playing the cello
The saturated sky swam upward
Until my eyes could take no more blue

A poem is a kind of folded message.


oak acorn botanical.jpg

Veronica Aldous  all rights reserved 2018

Painting of diseased sessile oak leaves  and old and young acorns by Veronica

A Part Time Witch’s Lament

girl and tree drawing.jpg


A Part Time Witch’s Lament

Dog is growling over the bone moon
The bone is gnarled and its ligaments are twisted
Moon is a door in the bone, a fissure

Hodmedod is a snail which lingers near the seastalks
I can smell the old wind of stinks and salty-rots
Brown birds with long legs horizontal on the stalks

On the edges of marram, sanderlings skitter
The sun sauces down into the warm slurry of the sea
Last night the old house stopped up my lungs

I rise choking and go in the chemical privy
Inhabited by natterjack toads and Parvis the spider
Moulds welter in its walls, asthma spores flurry

I know the future as I squatted there
I ken that you are a wretch
As I retch on black dots, the toad eyes aglitter

Unfriendly and deliciously chewable
As floppity leather driving gloves
Which we use for family curses.

Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2018

Drawing by Veronica ‘Hungry Girl looking for bread and honey accosted by a tree spirit’.

Veronica on Etsy

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Fibromyalgia Snail

Fibromyalgia Snail

I want to live there, of course:
Whorled, pretty perfect, echoing
The ouroboros, the labyrinth, but homelier
Within its calcium domain is sanctity
But also juicy fat gollops of greasy
Slurry which organises the little engine
To walk, if walking is a shivering
Of muscle aches and contained
Abandon. How my blood leaps
To be within a pink space
Neither hot nor cold, but coldhot
Flux. It is a symbol, the spiral
But that wrecks me
My synapses rap ticktack
Trying to find the root
The old root of mathematics
The Minotaur in his cave
Theseus dead cool down there
Picasso in his psychopathic
State of narcolepsy, a hand full
Of dust, so I keep going
Looking for my favourite leaf
On which to suck.


Little kings


Little kings

With stalked goggle eyes
They survey the terrain
A rich dessert of sweet veins
Each cries
I am me!
I want you to do what I say

Finding no solace in sunlight
Or rain, or shining dew
Greedy as acid

As soon as they chomp Lettuceland
They want another

They batten on the earth
In sticky digestive marmalade
As she boils in her core.

Dollish- from my new book on Lulu


dollish cover jpgDollish

I am not doll, but sometimes wish to be
Featherweight, a flying thing with tinted wings
A flowing dark dot in a minnowed brook
A tiny teacup full of lime green juice
Drink me, they say, eat me, I don’t.

I have a way of looking
Which is astonished bewilderment
A little sharp razor which is words
A dob of paint and a needle to stitch up
Any seams that pop
Sometimes my legs and arms are fearful
The joints pulled out so they dangle
Those are bits that no one sees

Other times I slip gracefully into bed
Wearing my butterfly pin and my silver wig
I am guessing you wish to love me
After a Fête Galante of chat ups?

But do it the way of a witch
Mind the buttons and cotter pins
My indifference to mortal things
Remember I am antique.