New Grub Street records below for future delectation; and on the ruby doorstep, a letter for Professor Phipps containing a packet of pulverised sage to keep the lonely onion happy & engaged in crazed seasonal endeavours lies. A nuclear fog subsumes Trollenberg as zombies fill the diswashers incanting the curses of Mali and smiling on the memory of Nkrumah’s wizard foxtrot.
‘Good, but what of little Diego?’
‘Mudlarking, no doubt. Slicing dentures from washed up concubines of the East Indian in inky sepia drab. A crow observes from a tendrilled groyne. All is muted, unspectacular. Waters lap. A heat pipe giggles in Abrasia.
Covered in purple dark spots is if mauled by myrtle spores, I changed under and over shirt. In The Hirsute of the Millennium we soon learn it is for the best to indulge both Brabancons and Chevaliers− flip sides of the dominant coinage−praise them equally in the font of(_^′)spare methe hassle′ italics^′
We try again to toll the bell where Zen flows, seems afar the berg of Grim juts apostate on the jagged skyline. Marauding friars and godless nuns make merry in the meadow hereabouts− Maddered children of the House of Love accursed by local soaks and wizened sinners that frolic mustard green and orphic twisted in night’s duplictous shade, St Salacious dribbles Augustinian ale on the mellow mass come Sabbath. The House of Nassau lives on the tithes and indulgences thst follow.
Why Wednesday already! No day for godless Chaplains to feel vacant. Hedges and history confound the third eye. Gregory vii is on the prowl for followers of the sacred owl, hounds surround the cuckoo’s nest. Milady is at vespers. Good job that I wear a vest emblazoned with the dripping eagle, venal thyrsus and divine cheroot. Plague confounds both mind and body politic.
‘The world’s gone nuts’, a little one shouts. All the elders hoot, A flash mob gathers. The child repeats: ‘The world’s gone nuts’, the mob chants back, ‘Eudes de l’Etoile… Eudes de l’Etoile’
Herr Hemmingway’s new fangled card tricks garnered whoops of ghoulish euphoria; cryptic brevity entranced the maidens in the downstairs parlour. Whip cracks of girlish giggle and pinch play pierced the dour scourge of curfew night. A carriage pulled up before the sombre granite Manse. A parcel was delivered in speedy silence. Casaubon ate freely of the doctored truffles. Mary Ann rested back to wait the denouement, puffing gaily on her long clay pipe and petting Daniel Absconda, her Sicilian spaniel. All would be revealed next Monday in The Infidel if they were spared. * Silas Marner pitched up unexpected the following day, dressed in limpid russet homespun which reminded Willoughby Dunlop, the virile batman, oddly of withered futuristic inner tubes. ‘Your luculence become you Massa Silas’ Dunlop growled with syrupy menace. ‘Do you bear subversive notions for the mistress? ‘That I do, swarthy vassal of capricious empire, that I do’. Willoughby scuttled away to disarm her, the sound of his chains echoing through the capacious lobby as he went. A smile of brute rapaciousness broke cross his ashen face. * The eagle dripped on Zion as Ezra piled up the faggots in Parousia, Tertullian gazed on amazed on the third day of the shining wall in the morning sky. Nereus took his leisure, replete in still dry oceans. What was in those truffles? Precious time had drifted away. Calypso’s suitors fed the fowl with pith and peel.
‘Nightshirt!’ demanded Funk. ‘I shall be with you shortly; in the fulness of time; post haste; forthwith…’ May Ann appeared at the door, dishevelled, her cheeks a roseate hue, panting. ‘There you are, my dearest. But why…’ ‘A spot of bare Pilates for the circulation. Doctor Jasper’s orders.’ A boneshaker hustled over the gravelled drive. ‘Mice?’ suggested Casaubon, aroused. *
‘So Dude, what’s your beef? I post a lot? I am a friggin writer, a communicator. It’s a subject to object relationship. Intercourse. God proposes: man disposes. That kinda set up. So quit your incessant carping, Buster. Just because my numbers turn out better than yours. Get a friggin life Godammit!’ ‘Discouraging words from Herr Hemingway, Adolf. He gets so reckless when he’s on the saucel I’m sure he will come round in the end. We all have our eccentricities. Our peccadiloes and foibles.’
But Adolf was inconsolable. The rest is Off course Is history.
* Chesney reached inside his great coat pocket and took a slug from the vial in the brown paper bag. The liquor! Dammit the liquor. Huxtable was wrong. He took another swig. It was then she emerged though the Bourbon mist of the cold November carpark. Zelda Zuchenslooper. What a broad.
‘Who you screwing, Small Fry’, she chirruped from some distance, yet somehow audible over the hubbub of a not inconsiderable crowd. All eyes turned on Chesney. He cleared his throat. It was now or never, and he hollered.
The Night of the Bog Heat plays out below as ballooning over Tara above the steam stench peat and course heather the summer thermals waft muesli west to titanium ships that calibrate conditions for the fleet. A neutral landscape unforgettable and unforgiving to the bug eyed.
Drought brought us down with a sharp shallot, shed from an upset colander
Hey Mister Storekeeper, quit that cruel gruel rustic fabric. Don’t leave us besmeared by steerage stirring for a box of frogs! Give up and yield to sunshine and snorage.
Pay off the elders with jalop and deploy quick wits and cutesy metaphors.
So deep the seeds of self-movement sowed. Patience is its own discord said the blueberry to the snail. Adding:
‘Be gone you irksome carry house from this esteemed wilderness. Talented Cromwellingses of all stripes and zealous alkyhorlicks abound in well clad tower blocks throughout the land, I’m unreliably told by sources near to the ketchup.’
Why so sorry? Why so sad? It could be worse; it’s not so bad…
Well, yes it fucking is. It fucking is. It fucking is. It fucking fucking is…
On Tuesday the Twentieth of June 2017 it became, at 5am, 24c and in the corner the fan purred loud. It was sat on a spare chair slowly watching tennis from Queen’s. At the end of the encounter superglue handshakes were exchanged. The combatants wore green flip-flops.
The Faber Book of Neurotic Plants & Fruit lay open at ‘Gallimauphy’ when Inspector Funk arrived. The only witness was a mute cook who went by the name of Chum. The blinds were closed. The only light was marsh gas. ‘This setting is inappropriate’ was scrawled across the artexed wall. Water dripped into a blue trauma bucket.
A surgeon minced nervously from door to door. A fat man rested his eyes in the corner of the crowded annex. Chum was taken off for interrogation in the wet room. The clock was stuck at seven twenty-four. On the lawn red fungi grew in the mulch of scattered yellow maple leaves. The rowan tree was barren. A youth rode past on a black bicycle. his aspect adamant and grey. She was fleeing the clutches of a thousand-armed family that dogged her every move. Belatedly the phone rings, it is limpid doomed Patricia, destined for the abattoir. Funk is lost for words. Platitudes are all he has to offer; he winces at his indifference as he does so. His varicose veins were clearly visible in the low November light.
A chicken jalfrezi and chapati were all there was on offer. His bane, patrolled the galley in the hungry times. Nutrition was rationed out like peter’s pence to supplicants, the law of inbuilt negligence condoned her every move. Chum would be released on good behaviour. He had done nothing heinous. The Faber book of Neurotic Plants & Food was closed and sent to Coventry. Funk gave way to apathy and sniffed the food for truffle spores.
Think I blew it, yet I just dunno—that’s what happens when you stand, put yourself forward, lay it on the line. There is always a train coming, fast or slow. What makes a good loser then?
A hand-snake and a Simeon smile or the sweet compensation of mere participation. At least it was close. You was not crushed. Tomorrow is yet another day. Fire is a symbol. Hubris is a drudge. Just when you think you’re getting somewhere it bites you big time on the bum.
‘Cover his mouth’, they insist, before the final gorge sprays us all in sap vile, instead we provided pineapple chunks to moisten scabby lips, and prolong the agony for one final heaving lurch, And it is done. In olden days they caved the skull in with stones when the harvests failed. Pity is the most base of all emotions. We wallow in the swamp.
There is a vaccine far away without a city wall, they sing. Round here the white van still is king of the faeries. Up north they are putting up shelves to house commemorative urns. Down here Dido laments white haired waves blown back before the Zoom committee as the Old Greys look in on morphing apps till human voices wake them up to drown in the incredible.
A free land hopeless and divided. Rancorous divisions between bookish Bostonians and Robes-pierrots; pearl barley devos and childish prodigies; blank cartridges and Aaron Burr littering up the federacy of dung beetles—a proud, eventful history of all that’s best in human slaughter in the mechanized age endangered. And then a sullen rentier assumes the right to legislate for honesty! This is a bold country for old men and algorithms.
Sundown, Theodosia, will never be the same without the plankton of your tears. I head for Alabama with my banjo on my knee first light. We may never see my like again
Don’t bank on it Aaron, there’s one born every minute.
The Phoney War on Slapstick Ends…
Times like this began with General Approval in deep hotchpotch jaw-jaw back of Nico’s bar and grill traducing clam-baked mongrel hoc polloi
‘Better late than never’, sighed swan necked Frieda Sluggish flicking though a growing stack of IOU’s and billet doux. Silhouetted against the bleak midwinter skyline it all appeared quite plausible to steady bogus Chad, whose tab fetish was the talk of the mobsters.
‘Flower sales sank to an all-time low—O’Bannion’s gotta magpie coming his way if things do not pick up by Valentine’s’, said Dom in matching ball gown and crozier.
Hosiery was ever a cut-throat trade; less a game of football and more a matter of life and debt. Smart plague dogs knew that much as they did their rounds of the loose limbed irons that littered the sidewalks of Prague ‘This place reeks of optimism—check out the Assassin’s Diary for…
Arose majestic summoned by the crunch of toerags on linoleum. The pedal abscess shows a timely bursting in the night. Wondered what that crack was. Scrambling net returns. Pork pies after beer match, Fine snick to first slip. Attend carefully your Rottweiler. Summer comes round quick. Adopting a ten year old is a huge undertaking. The social workers lie. Get them off the books. Any old port in a storm. Driving home for Christmas. Tears streaming on hard shoulders. The venal driving rain lashing on the windshield. Constancy of wipers never ceases to amaze. Best clean up the act. Early show tomorrow. Theo on parade. Sport best bib and tucker. No regrets Scott Walker. Umbrellas and photographers. The steps of City Hall. Audacious in broad daylight. Lone wolf shot rings out. A sharp intake of breath. A seething heaving crowd converges on a crisp bag. Writers are not born they’re made. Forget the BBC. A posse slow to muster. No Orchids for Miss Blandish. Savvy in your dreams. Never touched a drop. Black pudding and a rasher. Cup of steaming tea.
Better late than never. Who the fuck said that? Observe two minutes silence. Someone farted. Takes all sorts. Poor little Pedro. Him and his ukulele. Not a dry eye in the house. Silent but deadly. Ever changing moods. Penny each for them. Pockets full of shrapnel and torpedoes. Show some disregard. Scrumptious fubsy widows pole dancing on a pinhead. Many muckles make up mickles. Give it up for lent. Dribbles faints and shoots. Bulge in the back of the net. Radar lover gone. Hands once wet on the wheel. In the canyons of red oceans buried
Say something someone. Break the bleeding ice. Mastitis is contagious. City cooked their goose. Windmills in utopia. Lend us a drag of that. No way back for Dicky Mint till hell freezes over. Hell freezes over. All Hail Dicky Mint!
We contemplate the effigy while lying on our backs, A purple people eater is unleashed on a suspicious public. Bloody well serves them right. Get used to anything in the end. Look at Green Shield Stamps. Whoever would have thought it would ever end. And Gerald Nabarro. And and and and and…
Shield early before the new luckdown. Shutdown early for Juul. El Scruffo & Bones calling up the big shots to squeal. Morphed solid when the bowels moved blue heavens. Continent inflamed by snoods. Await the balsawood Liberty Ships. Winter of ’40 revisited. Listen to the World Service. Narvik was a gas…
Change at the top looks imminent. Fishfarm McGove lurks in the wings. But if Trumpington-Smurf gets ousted by The Ghost Wind then Joey Gorky is well parked as the comeback stiff
The Plague will call the real shots if the Old Queen can see the big freeze through without burst pipes through her ancestral piles
Existential bubbles will self-combust in peripheral tantric flight or get brought down by Tesla drones. Time for a penicillin shot. Bawds risk the wrath of the coparphagic Lords.
Toast & Marmite. Barely daylight. Write by nightlight. Curtains drawn. Bourgeois séance. Creepy romance. Cardboard cut outs. Perfumed porn. Standard issue. Tory scorn. Alright Jack. Watch your back. Keep them guessing. What's to do? Keep your head down. Sport a lost frown. Shut the show down. Vindaloo!
Rowdies from Cathay burst in growling oriental chainsaw rap about a cherry blossom spelling peril:
silver trembles gall on emerald leaf schisms split the sky wide open rents increase on the picket line
flaked out in gauze tropospheres seek out sedation sifting though space junk plunder in the sparse first light chocolate rooftop silhouettes opposite form a rhombus corpus each a pollarded alp sprouting crumbly chimney stumps decapitated toblerone topped off by a crack'd pot daws
rigid khaki wrack stacks wobble precariously perched these jackdaws squawk and watch their stick burden cast away down a crumbledown amblesided mountain as if they were idle eagles Under which roof a little fat boy wants out
Cader Idris sizzles protesting the right scree flurries overlap to reek havoc & rage & rumpus prospect of an avalanche confined to poxy screenplay dross deemed unfit for family fun sat cross legged zapping seagulls winging blackbirds drives folks hopping mad
grinding anthracite briquettes coal shed solitary modest refinement converting them to coking coal hatching audacious escape plans sudden urge to defaecate running out of temper silence compromised by
Podeless in oblivion tis pureest natch dat travellers seeking succour find ’em has gorrabit of access to the mutternet if need be: straw tenuous although that link may be. thus a birra jigger-pokery is requiredto ob besties. Second lockdown ja looks a cert. I meekly flag up whysolation to The Big Surge? Honesty is a policy best served coldy . Sunny one out there. Lads next door let of steam in the bobalink garden. Here all is nessum dorma. First smooth morning turdrum Forged in loving memory delivered with panache… Wile chalking on the cobweb wall.
Below a bleak zoo on an inhibited earth where a bawd of directors calls the shots where the whitehouse turns to sickhouse and cottage hospitals to cheap hotels Sent an encrypted message to Trudi eavesdropped by earwigs who hang fire on the scrupulous order to make picture houses shut down as the Chessington Hippos wallow in deep pink shallows eavesdropped also by earwigs chomping shallow blue tomatoes
Optic beseiged by famine forgave the greedy eyes of old aquaintances they had not long to go Optic knew this was no time for compromise or pity he pressed on to the fish shop under mackerel skies noticing the toothmarks
on the grassy knolls Optic felt the tremble
of distant puffing guns They were nothing but savages Optic stopped to pick a lemon for the vinaigrette from the Colonel’s orchard He had no need of them any more.
Penicillin Road leads direct down cuts bores sheer faced defiles surges past boulders churns up dross meanders radical oxbow slides and haughty deft gallops sounding thunderous paces steadfast through otiose viscous varicose arteries drives insane veins through corny chicanes scorns resilient bunions & seedy jammy canyons cresting on horizon tendons defies confident ligaments cists shrapnel capillaries and fearful cataracts to the ulcerated sea off Old Toe Head which swathed in crinkly lint chinked modest amber sprouts bright by lunar astro-labelled lighthouse
Gumshoe sized hamstrung actors & two bit party players & an array of sundry stray intrusive otters snarl & bicker over muckbill platitudes to fodder fluster rashly squeezed bone girdled gossip mongers hawking meagre humble wares the morning after the dude who faked sincerity got shunned by indifference of all races, creeds and colons…
Lightspill occurred the back of four and happened just as Saul found out why the lucid coast of duvet moans in jest― Effluenza breeds Influenza. Who cares much these days is doomed –Pass over that capsule and be an Angela, sweet thing. * Broken News Dawn Patrol announces…Broken windows of opportunity get given three thumbs up should Halloween come pass without further unsavoury rice eruptions. Second waves pronounced the new first moonshoot by turd party arsonists sampling tea leaves humping hope to an amen beat meanwhile the last chance balloon leaves come dawn on vernal equinox as ethics girls in AI gets bunk up from fretful plutocrats with more money than funny. Glass and concrete truth domes full of ratfinks. Peasant slaughtered by boy racer monarcho in Star & Garter Gigtrap. Town of Richmond mourns behind closed doors * Ten finger professionals occupy space set aside for cheetahs in transit. Stare out these days through shopfronts displayed on handheld flymo gizmos. All shapes and sizes filed under laudable applaudable. Feasible exercisers strain not yet no sinew. Spineless fatigue pandemic sighs. Vagrant anchovy the mule abjures. Profligate cartwheel takes rap for cold snap. Sidelined on the margin: peripheral. If this is true~ What follows…Huh? Well shod gunshot rider racer royally rides roughshod over outriderless enfeebled citizenry mowed down in broad daylight snobbery Third June Thursdays don’t get much longer in the short run Search engines rise with suns to take you down you guessed it: Penicillin Road
Red berry cider and barbiturates take me through the hours of darkness shelling peas by moonlight, harvested by these the very hands that plucked them from the eiderdown yesterday When I was kneehigh to a grasshopper. After the triumph dispersed tasked by the vocal authorities with counting the torsos of mutilated amazons
strewn across the coffee table and stacking up alphabetically by impure chance ready for removal and despatch to the far flung corners of this expansive empire of dirt ‘Save them’ screaming from the chimpden. Perry Coma did not show Later we got the whisper he’d scarpered with the tweed to live the life of Reilly, Ace of Spies in Bongo-Bongo Land where mighty whities rule the roost hidden in a hodful of porridge under a suede pergola
Hushed up like a rat after pissing on fresh linen do-it yourself dentists risk a sharp intake of plague spore air instead of the cold spring waters All in order to live for fifteen days and to regret it for an eternity spent knitting in a holding pattern over a smouldering pile of troubled rubble
…so they posted all marked ‘Return to Sunder’ and wiped up the wine stains on the amphitheatre Dumped the crap on the ancient garbage heap festooned with the memory of abject voices moaning on the tundra A frail insouciance emerges while scrolling down for snippets to tempt you into a look ma no hands its me alone before a suspect device that makes me feel uncomfortable pouring out my soul like this online bleeding out in public on anonymous lockdown streets in full view of the lonely avenue where Junior Wells plays harp to passers by who look up in curiosity only to discover a chancer with delusions of grandeur in a panama hat sucking toothless gums for tasty titbits after an obstinate chip of stale pitta induced spluttering and panic before being washed down with a gulp of cold Columbian coffee then a twinge in the middle finger whose name is forgotten next to the index and ring on the left hand so what is the right little sad if nameless call it unknown soldier close to one of two little piglets
What to play on a rainy day? Indoor or outdoor games of the mind…
Long time was once spent looking back on I forget now if the bad big toe was just there and how could you know how so freely we openly slipped out for a clandestine puff as the lazy cardboard cut out armless guardians sloped off to languish in the gentle tonguing lassitude of comely liquorice eyes; and that is just one reason why it is sad to watch how the laborious wrecking crew drew such enormous scorn and derision from the current stoop of media rentier hackery; all you see is a black wooly hat that hides up patchy tousled illkempt thinning dreadlocks; but that guy sat out front for fifteen solid defying blatant barefaced drying wafts of CS gas in Plaistow, so merely recalling he who once stood on the lawn for two long years in no more than a mite’s parsec wrapped in the quiltyblur when the sun goes in is nothing short of parlous disregard… ‘Shut the fuck up Maxim’, the ex-army faceache exploded next door but one because a gundog went off in an off white vastibule for that is the momen when a marksman barks chill hors d’oeuvres; and there it was in a nutshell. Flux # Four looming large on the riddled turnpike And there was I minding my own half term spring bank holywell business following a tetchy break up with the zeitgeist snoozing and sulking, schmoozing the effete airwaves over roundabout brunch time feeling well short of chipper considering risking an impromptu outing to the gibbous moon retreat and recalling just how keenly direct sunlight soothes the crooked back of deviance through supersensitive cotton woolens; imagine nothing simultaneously but dimly aware that the phalange menagerie is running perilously low on critter comfort vittles and that I carry none about my person so can do nothing but dismiss it as a mere peccadillo and thus chimera; you may care to liken it to an open purse splayed out prone on a chinless whim inside methinks, or make an ocular or dental note on the way out will you luv? Look see Bathsheba twitch! A Birdbath water table runs low to parchment arid, its marooned lake isle consists of no more than an imprudent wood pigeon stool pile parked epicentral to the drumlin— just goes to show the extent to which stale shortbread affords a crypto-sinister challenge to a circumspect riot of cackling grackles: now try to press select fast forward on quicksilver messenger to gain access on scant jade highlights of dewdrop prism bluebells a’glisten in wild horse meadow about this time of the year in the mystic spring tra-la and you’ll get my drift… Watch instead ascrimson tractors sculpt dark chocolate mudflats groovy & throwing in a swift neat buff & shine free gratis and thus costless, stand erect in awe of an elbow that greased a thousand pistons crawling at random over no man’s land crunching brittle bones and shell shock cases into a shambles long abandoned to ample trample on . Count up precious emboldened turdrums and spread forth largesse to multiply with yon weathered tarnished yard brush…people without the know speak gassy corpse mouthed cliche guff & boffin jargonisms when confronted with these absolutes; proffer we no more than mere maple staples for the cowbirds to frown and humbug on and over; getting here slowly but by but what heft; one phase drags on nigh on forever — red books, green books, blue books, jumpy weavers work from home; using up all the words in the program including arabic symbols and synaptic tooth gaps; load up a random rustic mudsling meant to do good for aforesaid head, blinking improves the pecks and posture clefts in order to reboot and sock Launched ‘Cibernautica’ on a supersensitive public via a superstitious republican to pause peruse at enforced free leisure or to thumb through Al Dante & Raoul Vaneigen for subversive sugar high kicks; twenty to five and so am I banished, famished or vanished, mein hairdo? Vamoussed Should we bathe our feet or bury the dead? Why not first repoint the house with marzipan & sprinkle afterwards in a waywardwotsit more twinkling debris? Settle you down nice for the night of a hundred thousand stars. See how Ariel was only too glad he had kept his nebulous poems well out of heedless sight. Forgotten filleted fragments of a recumbent monkey got wrenched out kicking and screaming to demand release from further alptraums & agonised imaginings sustained by grief fetishism and pain habitats left hanging round waiting to be strafed and milled by anxious stingy yearnings (yawn less often and mark well each of you the scarce spontaneity remains of what you drag down from vibrant air to groggy meagre earth). The survivals time is not worth going into now in case the dormant migraine flares up at something seen more than understood. A familiar calypso for example niggling away at understated subtle nuanced resonant grievances like that of a well trod path best avoided. Other makings of the homespun sun were animal waste and goosebump welterwort And it was there in ancient rhymes the ripe shrubs robust writhed and humped. His self and the sun were become one And his atrocious ill kempt pomes, remakings of his selfsame, were no doing of the suncream. It was not important that they should survive epoxy resins. What mattered was that they should bear the thought of comforting lineament for a character of the golden age. Some degree of affluence was missable, if only half-perceived, dwells it aplenty in the poverty of their eyes, and thus of the planet of which they were once apart. Wallace Beery’s Boozy Babes were also apart. Up to take a piss and anoint wild wounds thrice tinyly in the night and by fluke of hammerhead encountered AN Wilson on the picture box talking TS Eliot in stately homo rooms and after swords outside for mincing crisply round revered ancestral piles disguised like a got up belle epoque nihilist in a foppish gauche inky purple beret-berry and authentic pro situ shadesuthant, an emaciated highbrow eyebrow peruses the vernal slums of Little Giddington. Most effing edifying. Went back to bed unaltered stateless and thrashed chaff til dawn till is that Humpty Dumpty called me to ask if I knew what a demi-rhapsode is. Didn’t remember and mumbled harpslime and dulcimer soup before bidding a fond farewishwell with a loving poke of my popsicle thyrsis. Therefore inafter it came as no shock to find out three have quit the tory story at Chez Vertigo in a spat over the ongoing Bauxite impasse. Painted naffly six blooming daffs stuffed in a dirty glass of gripe water as a epop eyed mean old man preps hen with lemon, garlic , olive oil etc in the galley…editing’s a task for smart alexas who lost badly playing abject chess after encounter distracted by flaming marsupials , seven deadly dins ensued and we conquered the jacket spuds were ready, after tucking into chicken eucalyptus marmalade, got a fit of the scribbles, dashed two posts off, a mediocre potpourri of pretty picks? Left bereft past caring either way, just pleased to have broken the bad spell (two years!…and the rest old chum!!) bloody narks, no resistance to wonga means bad scripture class. Still the chicken sufficed– avocados grapes. TUC cheesy wafers, sauces hot and mild yet something is missing, the heirophant has left the room for outer space of a nope name journal for a kickabout, a dribble, a rehearsal of dead ball situations, how to negotiate wonky roundabouts, or reveal a shuttlecock on a driven pile, turning on its own for spite– consider these deserted playgrounds, clear of fag ends, coke tins, sweet rappers, impromptu barbershop quartets, short and curlies soaked in wet rubber diapers, abandoned polio kids on grotesque dazzle stilts, go not down to babbling brook, them microfish got teeth effendi. Look on instead with absorbent gaze as a cloud scuds over a field of maize and get it down quick before it evaporates
The sundown spoof unravels; bad workmanship made odds fave to blame; twentyone indies and counting now sat on the whiggish rump thus May heads off defeat by nine; out of the country by the time the shit hits perhaps? The F-Bomb calls between innings in a keenly ignored one day drag; what was that oozing the base of the doors–it hurts to hear; cubist daffs attract blue lines from an Umpire of the slum in Windsor on a downtown Sunday morning crawling past in lice bejewelled vermin crusted watching ermine embedded on parade while down the food bank the Duchess of Dank squats dribbling on her chiffon sushi recovered from a regency grundon on a car battery UXB coins a ticking on the porch. Won the race for time to cook sausages before the thing goes pfoof. Phew! the relief of it all. The sausages are fine now with all nerves shredded. And all of this accomplished while bathing ulcers in antiseptic teatree sap. Sun out! Daffs citric yellow…hoover roars, rump of day trundles into action. Read Canto III of Dante’s Divine Epic. Virgil waiting in the wings: that Beatrice doesn’t half go on at times… Holy toe attended to; navy dressing gown spawns brand new micro climate: ‘Tis my condition’, I enlighten dumbstucco onlooks only to receive hoots of derision from the tawdry old owls Money! low on blow…’Jones Rocks Up’ (working title minus work); The Bard of Staple Hill took ill & asked for a replacement. right place at the right time no worries guaranteed. timing is everything temporal (quite a lot). Ups & Downs of Marasmus Snr: a world of woe and baskets;shoot before you leave… Zoom! Hall door wiped Zoom!! Sat out, read about retroflection, dranks two coffees Zoom!!! Wiped the hall door passably Zoom wrote this, Off… Zoom! Could not relent Zoom!! Mantelpiece, lampblack fireguard, abandoned hearth, cheap shit sideboard, tat clock. perspex crucifix, chic curved staplers, shillelagh obelisk, Grand Central Station carpet remnant— all wiped most perfunctorily Zoom!!! Emptied an ashtray for absent fiends Mist greets dawn in a blissful haze, cleaned up medication corner bags, three hours soft labour; petroleum spray renders me inflammable; upstairs for a smoke break found magic red paste! toe cavity insulation after douche; mad Dan Walker commands the USAF to celebrate ten deaths. Dust rules KO… covered up the chasm with red magic & kitchen towel cones, wrapped it in white stocking and hid it in a slipper, recommenced the purge Zoom! Thai nightlight jigsaw washed and left to drain, swept up dead cypress fronds and chestnut oak leaves, drank coffee. sun is out now i shall follow proundly thru the front portal to do…nowt for an hour Made it here at last, had to come up to change from last week’s clothes water horse and washboard, y- faced spruce up a bit especially after yesterday and the sore toe and the fear of fallow wormwood. Still never mind I’m here now, ready for decoding Nefertiti the big white house in the woods on the hill cropped up while talking with The Man about hedgehogs. he showed me some amazing footage of him being approached while walking the dor round the corner at five to six in the morning– well what i made of that was hunger after the cold snap wiped out the local edelweiss, a endangered species round here for donkey’s years, I’m told. Who was it had a deaf labrador called Sniff, the big White house on the hill in the woods? ‘Hardboard, hardboard hardboard is all I hear morning noon and night, from dawn to dusk, twenty seven eleven and all the days between accepting Christmas when we talk turkey and very little else comes round from the dwarf house to share a cracker and exchange pernicious glances…’ That was what I pretended the Nun next door to the big white house next door talked like. She was a friend of my mum who used to service the House and drag me with her. She had three sons from a devious relationship and the youngest, Dave, was foisted on me for dull company and secret policing, he knew of my growing reputation as a cat burglar. one grey morning in winter i was sat in the big white house on the hill in the woods, i was on a giant chair staring through the wide bay windows, across the flagstones and down to the empty swimming pool, unused for years and covered in slime and frogs, when Jim Morrison stepped out dipped in black ink and smiled laconically before walking off. this really happened. like everything it was a trick of the light. Not really what i meant but got it down put in meat to heat took seat and when sat fancy that an acrobat lurks in a daffodil shadow dancer going good to soft throwaway evens odds chance encounter with Basingstoke AFC Nineteen Fifty Two raw recruits and wartimers national service local plod all knew PC Arlott seconded to The Cricketers for sinful skinfuls and goodfellow banter, rowdy bar brawls ten a penny, Sunday church to act repentant sinner hairshirt of dog bolts sunday dinner have a cardiac snooze eat tinned salmon dainties round on Aunt Chutney with not long to go and good bit put away besides just want to get on get ahead get somewhere in life just want to see the world have a place in France somewhere to get away to in life just want to slip away end of May on a merry dance somewhere in life ice breaks waters waters flow its not how you want or who you like that matters gilded lilies and scrumbled yawns, linctus armchairs, hair stuffed lawns, extensive dawn gets up to greet you mr interrupter butted in to disapprove after pondering at length the prose of cheese leave the rest of that lethal stick where it belongs and go and grab some rays i dare I fear i’ll lose it on the stair i’ll tarry here a while with this stone head go lose a game of chess at least… But now i won and i am 1182 all out and day crumbles into evening and Wales beat england at big bear hugs and…caught the sun and dropped it in a jiffy bag; should be something else somehow, what with all this good weather, but no, day has come and gone, cruise controlled, bumbling, wary, awkward to chance encounter, out of practise man you don’t hardly ever meet no one around fingers feeling better, gaining a typing rhythm, away… long passages involve more breatheRS room to manoeuvre uber… BIG TRail showing first thing starred Rebecca Kelly & big leggy romancing the go west old fart gin lane settlers raoul walsh 1931; injun troubles stirred up by cartoon lowbrow mob, sharp shooting black hats bite dead sussed, played by Tyrone Power Snr, shot by toothless oldtimer pioneer, role model for Walter Houston and the toothless cook in Red River played by Norman Gunston; chopping down cardboard redwoods not so noble now, cellophane sequoia and backlot Cheyenne in pure ethyl ignorance- Oregon Trailer Trash role models, How the West was Grunge… half moon slipped nowhere into dawn lurking up there somewhere smirking open windows, ate ultra healthy option finnfest granola yogurt honey, too a bomber and its attendant tiddlers, had a fizzy after slippery dung obnoxed wet room stale nightshift heat, up here socked heavy, aint doing leaves too wet Luther; Manny and Stotty coiffure the larch, attach to birdsheds can’t remember exactly when but hazard a guess at Tuesday last; obligatory post in new second hand coat; off to catch some rays methinks… Sort of did but watercolour got me going. Monday no milk outrage — why came he not in the middle of the night? swept another layer of winter dross off of the path– big women drop off offspring (not so busy these days, has the boom wave ebbed, austerity nibbled into a secret cheese, housing, moving up the greasy ladder, can’t get the staff these days, working from home, something in the water…listless emd ifs and buts, drawing no conclusion, longitudinal approach comes highly recommended at the committee stage, truth is fresh out of green paper, firm downsized to eco wrappers for half digested biscuits stood at bus queues waiting for the moon; nippy out big warm coat and wooly noddy hat fit for the part of disabled resident doing his bit for order banjaxed as to do what next as per distant aria laments radical veruca be yourself ate scrofula scapula took umbrage always trouble brewing after that from one day forth and so on feuds and scraps of silver tassies glinting angels on hogs back tumuli litter levelled playing fields battlegrounds and dinnerbelles a terrible hiding is sustained bang out of order was it playing catch up petulant outburst quick to it learnt or got jury never came back most plumped learnt i guess prejudice mind nagging doubt remains genome keeps time makes spots on cows look random not said turing at some stage of plausible imaginings in a strange tongue space state algebra boole’s logic bomblast the door off whoops a daisy unforeseen consequences of blind man’s buff masquerading as venetian blind venetian to fine one eyed kings in cubby holes drinking lemon tea & woe betide woe be gone go pester schwester for a bung Quiet hour feeling radio off crisp cold draft blows sharp through prized prism window stuck with it mind did not relent as i pass by after 2013 autumn notes depressed me on the bog frosted angels snow mountain folk sleep deep down silver mines alarmed that karma ate dogma impelled a hard act to swallow wolf down relish chew over ruminate mull gull suck luck lick sick cardinal son: Wireless off, TV off, just you and me kidder, what’s happening? fairy lights on glass amphora, orange brown ambience, curtains drawn, still night just morning, not me again all day, when sun gets up i will out and scumble in the hinterland, immortalising stones and truncated oaks, waxy laurel, jagged grasses, bones of budding shrubbery in bowlers and grey gabardine four endomorphs arrive with the box us two are six two they average five ten, a visible tilt to the mourning crowd, we agree to bend at the knee, how silly sod frost malingers clear night snap daffs likes twiglets camera zooms whirrs clicks caught it on my mobile: where now mein herring? A partridge & a pugnacious loafer follow an overdue shower; slick partridge explores seamless levels interwoven house trained psychopups toilet gagging mime till all breaks down in mute nostril armchair agony of handwash maitlis encountering ineffable twat in a see through elevator who penless begs right on question love me BBC ( A cock up and a bully yarn punctured slapstick nightmare real time mock up mirror scene in Kane infinity of urinals, twisted flaw unravels silk, deaf as a psst subbies on for prompt stir coffee with avocado spoon think dickhead dance a dawdle brain hair down light rain falls on burner lid; little pots on ramp brick wall) up here again for fusillade of flux end of…camera on regards surrounds as if handheld on to of neck: fulsome daffs, cardboard bluebirds, shut the window, heater up to 22, freshly out nasty chills forewarned, whole avocado I’ll have you know– Anavocado, Anavocado. borderline hour ten eleven will he show or will he no? No need to call time in world of chill out now the cat is out out bag and sitting up now, unlocked by cramps, tingly arm pressed tight to sidewall, marching on toward, leant forward look toward, head start in the mildewed wilderness, hunter & hunted merge, prey & predated heavily sedated, hare coursing mad as march mains; winds due at noon, over ripe walnuts, loss of loose water, leaky tubes cost lives, wind & wuthering taking tolls, Wallace Greenslade headbuts Eccles, suedehead upmarket dinner jacket arsehole, smoked a pipe like uncle arsehole, cravatted gaucho on an alfalfa romeo wishlist semi green with ivy nor not as we thought we knew it, neither…the syruppy voice trails off to grotesque gurgle, anticlockwise yokel slips down the sinkhole, a bullfrog in the throat of rubric u bend, caustic sod all to say to each other anyway these days, lighten up it would if you did you nasal hair, slimy lamprey hidaway conceals enfant terrible, shallowly musing under a clarinet rainbow, no coffee left only bloody tea bags; things to try us sent in spades, spades to fashion open sunlit caverns. If not what? look up…no joy. How long will we wait? Hill and Valley, the Radio Doctor and Naughty Rudi Bown at the Old Bullshit and Bushmills–everso smart as ants in pants, warriors both off course. Then Boom. Woke up covered in pasta! Pressure cooker popped big time. Bit more than a pop you think. Time for sure will tell if you persist. Keep quorn and carry awn. Spring 1945 and all that jizz. No bloody teabags, only empties. Can’t get the staff upright. The others are in a sick bay shirking. Make do and mend then. Make do and bloody mend again. Make do and bloody mend the only game in toon Breaking news of the departure of the Chief at Rio tinto rent the autumn night. I turn up the heat, make a cup of tea. observe the aching foot and fetch the morphine. It is coming up to two am. A scoop before sleep is permissible. Tomorrow I will buy fresh batteries for the Thunderball. That is my sole task beyond shielding and convalescence. A spot of gardening would be good, but is not a must. So chill and kill the pain and write in peace it is. Lockdown prom of Beethoven’s 7th occupied the evening spoonful time as the meal got made. Salmon and Salad. It is just gone two at night, the vapes are fully fuelled and the World Wise Service fills the hairy airwaves. Microsoft Central claims it has candycrushed a Russian attack on the US selections.
Jettatori, casters of the evil eye Watched on in awe as Funstick McCraw performed household chores Licking floors Opening doors Observe three jackdaws dropping peanuts Down disused chimney pots ‘I’ll put your head in a box full of frogs ’ Mistah Macawber said Recall the vernal equinox All you want is hidden there Jettatori. casters of the evil eye… Just sigh Just sigh
St Within cherishes rainy days as so many ready made excuses to avoid demanding chores that lurk in the soggy world out there. Looking out on a rainy day as sweet chill air rolls in Wide open window admitting sound of water Thud of splash on nettle; rustlings hid under the undergrowth; blackbird tweets and car doors percuss. Wet days recalled holed up in a vellum sprite Cheap drains spewing rainjuice Psyche found thrumming on the cheap tin roof. — Plans jottings quips amount to owt… rain she surges in the west, Sniffs palm oil tankers torched in the gulf of Oman Lar committed to who knows what cause or other. Beers and bed . Terry robbed. Midsummer 2019. Toerag blues play out. Regrettably like Sundays Just Sigh Just Sigh
Call Doc & the Medics to say the cavalry is coming Hit me with a feather Mistah Merryweather Tickle some hidden fancy Inside Inside
Slept too long and late it seems awoke in plague dry springtime when it dawned on me it was sleek midwinter a white island volcano clears its throat in ducal disapproval at such ignorance in Plenty Bay and sends five hikers to their eternal reward they perished on the non event horizon for all black holes must eat eachother in the end no doubt a pompous rumpus will ensue in the Parlyhouse on the way back down is this the best that can be done before a cruel soul sacrifice is ordered?
Watch out scarecrows silhouette and long shadow Golgotha sunrise: a frequent earworm reoccurs at whim
Is your ending really a beginning ? For how could it not be so-
oh and by the way – How’s that old doggo dada of yorn?
Dead as dorsel dogmeat afeared Licking up spillaged goosefat pulverised by muskrat finches under true blue weathervanes
How’s mine own one going, Missy?
Would she a quiet one Self harming cross legged in a corner pulling on a subconcious purple woodbine ?
Yes. Same as it ever was Smoking woodies burnt out on angstrom, stool pigeon chested sorbing robust summer sun, sporting short sleeved pastel blouse open to the breeze, taken to walking in staccato stumble on feet buggered by servile drudgery, thinking what god knew once upon a time before the flood…
Buddha-like inscrutable some say round here though harrowed head of blinding anguish Marinated in dubious sun wonky dreams have took a toll
Suchlike stuff filled Leaf’s priapic sleepshot numbskull & starcrossed marrow bones while he creeping slowly through her steep sunken garden that late Good Friday afternoon, chanted ‘Was Erin with auric brass neck & hardball shoulderpads watched through sharkfest eyes bloodshot after a catch-up daytime nap from a bad night twice remembered? Was it panic that kept her up three days killing time with gimmicky zombie horror flix, relishing the dripping of copious rot from pellurid cartoon blood oozing from every single pixel, Was it sudden came the quick denouement part made aware of skull cap thinning like a wildly, itchy unkempt beard of cheesewire — a wretched sight altogether to behold, Lucertia.’
Leaf sat now facing late low sun, watching jet streams & midges merge, counting teatime birds play come and go, stopping to perch for a last feed on the sickly rowanberry, then head in head, out of the cold’s way, when evening nests smell of deep fat friars,
Leaf too went back indoors to see what was going down David Dixon was last seen dead by a man in a Homburg; Mason Wells survived his third suicide bombing — random business this life.
What with populations swarming here there and everywhere. No wonder such a radical flux breeds weird shit algorithms, recounting how brown blobs pop on white cows…
‘Go get the washing in! You idler!’
Time bumbles lopsidedly Westward murk rays prolong shade Pull the blinds closer to home Call it a day… Day!
The meeting of the legspurts went swimmingly and crucial decisions for the next fortnight were agreed, prescriptions were exhanged fully aware that it was a chance to check out whose who at Newbury Zoo
Loops and Bubbles mingle round the burning monk poffering fresh faggots to kill the time between events in need of management: to err on the side of caution and riddle the fire with care.
We agree the rules of engagement for long time ahead encounters for ‘I am not Daniel fucking Blake or Guy the bleedin’ Gorilla. Scripts changed hands in blind faith and we parted on good squirms.
Stricken while the summer quells the rabble with crowdless spectacles and canned hubbub. Dicing with disaster down the monkey menders. Snakes eyes in a sterile mask runs the flicker show.
Two seals on a dragon trend on suspect media. Strange news from another star. Spouts a humane policy :count you fingers first. Jaded by disfigurement we plough the short and narrow.
Have they got the urn yet? Couple of shovels of ash and bone tasteful in majolica. Not a municipal jar Spilt in the boot of the car. Shunted by the masked mammy on the school run.
Part two of July coming soon To a lockdown pleasure centre in your dreams Ordered to the masquerade by sage supremacists Three layers of matter impede chatter when worn to quell the invisible miasma Want a ride home in my gondola bright eyes? Switch on the subtitles it’s in foreign Rhubarb Rhubarb Rhubard Rhu… Only One Remote Control Shared between self isolators Bound to cause friction in the long run When everyone’s a mugger or a letterbox
In and out like a fiddler’s elbow Clodhoppers kept on just in case Susan Heyward smokes a Camel from Dana Andrews in the days before Jimmy Dean Short story by Salinger in the days before Catcher off with the NHS Clodhoppers rest up the extremes before the change
A Tale of Two Drips running down a window pane How I lost a shirt
extraordinary ebullience breathing toxic air once in a blue moon peeping down I out fertile earth as joyless mundanity
… Twas a sunny funferal,
down the municipal crem weep your distance at all times emasculate
… time passes, state radio time, silver screen time, me tonto time, rockin horse time, inbetween days time, time after time out, timeless trips to slumber time, lifetimes and sometimes, time well wasted elsewhere, time spent less productively, no time beyond time itself, end of time, time immemorial, time out, time up, timed out…bit of a baked potato time, invisible wind blows, time pissed and time pewter…
… Wasps nest in the brickwork housed behind the suspect sea of nettles hides in lockdown under the auspices of thriving Jacoranda The summer rains are set for the artificial test match Time for old gits to argue over shit and twigs. Prime Monster’s Hour Approaches Peep spectres from the inside of a doughnut insist on right on bluesky thinking over great balls afire– straight thinking makes immediate connections
… Darker evenings in the wet imitate November if you’re lucky with the weather play must be abandoned surely Xavier has cried off poorly Wasps multiply at leisure
… Creepy crawly gas board selling door to door removed the offending tube of stuff inpinging of my needle wound two cheroots takes its toll messing with my head
… Spoonful, loving spoonful tells me let the fresh air flow anaesthetize the stingers exposing jawbones of contention piled up outside the door ready for disposal by the authorities
… Back we go to 2002 economically in only three months of inactivity. ran fast to keep up
… Found the wasp factory absorbed by Netflix Weatherwise a goddam ugly gray Practised the sober art of restraint Giggling at Scarface Sporting Clodhoppers on and off Normal people just wear footwear as they go about their day I am unreliably informed by the Soggy Bottom Boys Brian de Palma and the Coen Bros don’t turn up your nose at those guys who know their business Two hours pass unstably after the cheroot Naggingly concerned at making no effort to fill the world with more of vogon woe David Mitchell irked me talking up all lived through experience like grist to the mill of the creative artist. He was punting his latest title about rock musicians with a catchy title that i have spilt at long off Too wrapped up in disgust and despair. First Brexit then Boris and now the plague and a gammy leg. Must try to get out for a nose about. Take a spin one evening for a run in the country. Get away from the wasps and nettles; the ghosts and kettles; the pavlovian life of the house trained nutter. A return to the world is a widespread problem nowadays. Not the exclusive domain of the broken and wounded. The underclass is swelling. This next wave is a wipe out. Ovid relished a catastrophe with a capital sea Bollocks freezing off sat up asleep guarding a marina adrift on regurgitated martini spreading out between an outstretched quay of denim legs a little bite on the inner forearm a smell of bacon frazzling in a slipper historical glimpses into the now impersonal recollections concerning the economics of cooking cheese on crackers little grievances and niggles reveal what a drag we are become so
… The biobubble Test match bugler takes a break from barmy army duty to tame once wild undergrowth to read the newspaper online between heavenly grey spasms splash on empty seats
… when the ill winds drop, sun breaks through the umpteenth time, the Windies build up a healthy lead. Considerable if still there at stumps The soundtrack of summer minus the old ones in the long room … Green tea and a change of strides to tasteful deckchair stripey; the makings of a supper; bake off half-baked sticks; chop some jungle tom-toms; tins of odds and sods; packet of ham in date; ready salted crisps; or nothing till morn
Clear blue still summer morn; bread and butter night of many weewees; an early morning vaper catches the dump train before a feed of comely opiates; turned off the Sat Morn Media News and Ents for the entitled; sun streams in unhampered by nettlebed and wasp factor; entertain the needy when the tasks are done and the post is passed; nosey passives fo feed elsewhere; in it to bin it…
June was a killer already my life was hanging by a thread then the rains came dissolving broken skin blistering and swelling infecting each nook and cranny each crook and nanny irresistible bon mots run in the blood
What gives with the sea of nettles growing up the windows? Loudly came no stern riposte.
You tell me what you often eat and I will tell you what you often are. Indeed. A bacon and egg primate, a rich tea biscuit and two squares of comely chocolate.
Unveiled a fiend incarnate; soused in pink paraffin; creaking in forked tongues; fire flamed by glow worm; intent on rapture capture; sound balloonist waves; little dots keen on plunder; scared by squads of silverfish; delicate little flower; powered solely by cheesecloth; thrilled by sturdy necklocks;
Sore toes destroy jjuicy insouciance like rabid tigers gnawing on a pariah; all hell broke loose in Hades while we simpered in the abbey ruins prisoner baiting and people hating
Pure as the driven crow determined to improve on jet glossed plumage
For fire burns in this hearth since the old king shuffled off
Ivory shoulder: dead giveaway; elephant man
Consider the indifference of existence with a passion over easy
Reap harm and carry on
Your only as good as your last treble Lutz
Night fell like a modest incline
She walks in beauty Tuesdays, Thursdays, and, if its nice out, Saturday afternoons.
Today it will be thirty degrees centigrade and I have blisters fit to burst already my life
As I sit here…watching God’s daughter on the run for crimes against the faith time seres to fine powder revealing mirrors
Fingers von Raab unfit for purpose; rain stopped plague of damp umbrellas coughing and splashing; raindrops keep falling on my herd; Liff of Pooh replaces Brand New Testament on the pixie box;
Thatcham cancelled on grounds of good taste and flash flooding
Just gone eleven and quite unwell; blood tomorrow; lost a game of chess to a higher number; Mattys app is useless crap Vera leaves the stage; kiss of death from Major Tom
Slept heavy after narco-meatballs; rested down the leg; woe at six for Vera has gone viral; seems like it rained; fade to sunny evening
Up to my neck in silence by six forty glibly reading diverted traffic passing by in in groups. Are they all from the same household and what if I asked how I asked? They ignored me. Now that wasn’t so bad was it one to try yourself next time you go out alone. Rolling home full of beer and gusto Energised by revelry. Rowdies in the night…exchanging glances.
Walking on by then listening out hard for snide backbites,
Amazon shitting me like charlatans; bots that bleed you dry; blood given to the demigods of Frimley & beyond; rainy season sets in for the day. Angel Clare, what a moniker! Too good to be true all right. Please beware the drowsy mastiff in your midst. All is food and air it seems
A viaduct of steamy dreams passes slowly by. An ideal retirement meandering the rejuventated arteries of mercantilism.
Weeping legs tell no lies
Waiting in a waiting loop. Tempers fray spirits droop relieved to hear a cybervoice. Can I help you? Aint that nice,
Footie reruns as a squall approaches, demon spleen & plaid cockroaches
Mid June afternoons never cease to disappoint
Ten milligrams by tiffin. Whose a pretty boy then?
Just what springs to mind when emptying fingers
Written off from posterity. How are the flighty fallen?
Drab plague day grows sunny round three, wound change ritual proves to be a long drawn out affair similar to the endless round of faceless medics and their myrmidons that brandish big syringes for effect... AJP Taylor talks Hitler porn in a a lopsided spotted bow tie and parades an encyclopedic grasp of his brief Perhaps a history course to while away the downtime? The Origin of the Specious Perry Coma seen thru a losers eyes peddling jalop without the oligarch's nod holding bizarre opinions of the truth honour bound to bear sombre witnesss to the heavy tread of a discerning public who favour coke to sepsis...
Just seems shameful like
I tried and fooled about with art
for the best part of a golden era
& give or take a mock heroic epic or two
but as the epoch crumbled
I took fright, stepped back &
stole away in search of anonymity
How I nimbly skipped on past tackles
sidestepping young bucks trip wires
and scented mantraps
playing the tough guy with no future
dismissive of the tedious now
time spent wild carding subdued by booze
short changing a second hand self
umbrella firms of ill wind repute
tried to memorize each one in order
before sidling up for the holy drop for elevenses
But I stopped it and plunged head last
into a teeming bramble wilderness,
inhabited by malicious stingers
vindictive vicious barbs.
Cold vaincautious glances exchanged
when eye contact was declined
went walkabout in phantom seas
fad spiralling stoned dizzy alice selfies
smugly looking down on
while smiley vultures congregate below
soon to part at the pace of Ra
before I again plummet
bumping into roaming spheres
the forgotten fear of falling
came back with a vengeance
pulling out now is no easy ride
boiling hot flesh pies mel
under withered skin
long lost conchshells
appear round the bend
rockaby baby spotted snugly safe
under silky green lush green canapace
For It had beeen slow to warm of late
outswung hanging at the end of a rope
ghoulish freeze framed close up grimace
accompanies a bleary blank stare
passing blurred spectators showing off
discounted marbles queegly in a flurry
of majestic kilts spun while spooning
honeys most generous on steaming farls,
So fell I into nanocoma and emerged from it a lost cinque port
Kent became my oyster. It could have been all the world to me…
In the beginning was the end and that is the long and the short of it.
One finds out sooner or later Walking on mirrors is not all its crack’d up to be
Call me Omeletto: Anything but Egg ; Housebreaker Bong-Daly
toed the party line without spoiling her nail varnish. Like Beryl Reid
said, it was all about the shoes, which in her nasal snob spoof voice
came over as ‘Shooze’. Why bitch? We’re all just as bad as one another.
Everyone dies ugly.
The swings and roundaboutsm, the ups and downs, the ins and outs, the snakey ladders parading past in viscous toffee cream nylons, recall that wretched sound of a rasping fingernail on plywood. Feverish and seeing things, brain baked dry by sandfly fires.
What happpens net if i drink that orange squash i puked back up in the tumber?
Could have guessed I suppose. Be grown up grab the first thing that comes to hand and cover it up. A precocious uptaker of bad examples, trialing and erring on good for sport.
Embedded dried pea up the nose;
head lost in the clouds; flying twice nightly lightly
All left up in the air, keep the company of freebirds and faulty
military hardware, fearful of flying saucers egged on by cups and spoons…
May rains hail and thunder
all-in-one morning tucked up
Sophia fetches balm for the bundle
Observing unusual proprieties
following hors d’oeuvres
keep the kettle boiling
the nettle coiling
the aspidistra flying
keep the company of doves
brawling in the fountain
over scarce fuck all
intended for the starlings…
Aunty Mare and sombre Sky observe
the proprieties at all times
Beyond the me the other hard to pick out
through the wrong end of a spyglass darkly
Ye Gobs! When frisbees roamed the earth
and all the bus tops green canopy
Millicent and Marty sought cover
from true blue meanies
Conceived after bathing at Baxters
glaze your arses and shield you gonads
to bless the pointless little head of Sprog
of Sprog Coriolanuswnd wash him well
Remember reading the Unnameable in identical weather this time last year and the one before.
Same house different room this time. The old lady oppostite was alive last year. Now her stuff is in a skip on the drive.
Saw it from the room I mentioned earlier
History has been made all right. The ulcer was smaller then.
Did a bit out in the sacred garden. Even got out from time to time. Down the pub. Never say Die. Plucky old bird.
Way beyond that now. Place going downhill fast. That leaky lean to aint got long by the llo of it. Much water under the defrosted fridge
Few people call in to pick. The Virus you know…Plus sans change.
Not Grafton St and Cary Grant again I ask you! Back in the day they would neer hae dared to.
When men were men and women were afraid. There are a few more stiffs hanging round tonight
fly dumped on the sub-toxic lawns
Where cats hae spat the rats hae shat the remains of the dubious quorn
And and and what? Gimme a moment Monkey Face. Cary puttles the kettle on.
Christian gets blinded following science and arrives at Vanity Fair. Merciful heavens Collapse
‘Now who left the sky open, on a market day
Still sloobing aroound in housecoat and slippers properly let themsells go;
stale fags and rotten carpets
The place was crawling with americans unknown on facebook
settling old scores with paramours
proscribing all transgressions
born of a Badland
A feud that threatened to spill over and consume the world
supply of oxygen and intolerance.
Dialogue’s a bugger to write when the voices talk at the same time.
One takes short cuts like making most
of it up. Usually sounds better that way.
They bolted at his every word
What are they saying over there by the elephant’s foot?
How big elephants must be?
More like it really…
Benedict’s a scream when you get to know him
But he can be so…abrasive
His old girl came from there
Shows in the wash
True. So true
away from the unhappiness
contest after losing the plot
mapping out cities razed of people
sequin-cloaked in the steady opulence
of Sunday a teatime chastising errant aphids.
euthanasia for the financially challenged
a small amontillado
a bout of imbecility
during a toccata & fugue
at a recital down the orangerie
a Flower sat down to take stock
a surefire cure for insomnia
she dreamt that as she slept off the trance.
But how could this be so?
Without him there was no world to speak of
he would not be there to overlook.
He turns the radio back on and settles
down to the sound of meteorites
raining on the corrugated roof of the temenos.