Grimbeau

Scroodles

Whirling Pits

1001

 

In my neck of the woods
pernicious shits strike thrice in the                                                                                                         starless artificial night: sleepless permagripe,
stale coffee & coughing up phlegm,
apple puff pastry flakes spread                                                                                                            confetti every now and then
Obama rhapsodic real
good down in Dingly Dell

pissed off with phrase ‘feeding frenzy’,
murmurings from hell
as they choose to call it fake
I resort to Russia News
here Tom Hayden forecasts changelings
born of the Memphis Blues
looks like Jimmy Durante
after a vat of Cuban hooch

How about moderate progress
within the bounds of truth
making a real point for
auto de fe to catch on in Paradise
rest up a few days before
Babe Ruth & the hordes of                                                                                                                   babble on smartphones                                                                                                                                        rearrange the furniture

….to their liking

Legumes

 

legume

 

 

gift horses spat out shattered teeth

posh pigeons shunned fresh breadcrumbs

fiddlers on the roof  get pissed

Tish! Clean out of Legumes

don’t believe a word of it

just keep on acting dumb

daffodils came out on strike

one for all and all for one

 

Cybernautica

hoch

 

Muriel, rocky Muriel, peeling off the wall, scenes of mountain lake and stream garbled fabricated memes…

what a wonder it was when wonders feast

Vishnu drops a line and cusses his various shortcomings

Corpse mouths quit The Little Ship Of Horrors

Himalayan busy bodies open food bank

Marsyas wasn’t such a bad old skin

Sign on vintage laptop reads: ‘Gone Fishing with harsh winter rinds. Fingers crossed! Chin- Chin. Oates. RIP

 

 

The Party for Moderate Progress Without the Bounds of the Law

15a96cb6747f7fbb275e2759b8f3b757--art-design-croquis

 

 

You remember Gonks: foam stuffed cabbage patch dolls born of an oil crisis; Mister Mennish in a way; eminently home-makeable – scissors, clear glue, felts of varied hues & farbs – you got your Gonk! Mine was called Paulus,

after a little gnome who welcomed

all and sundry

to his home.

 

My Personal Paulus disintegrated

after a vigorous thrashing

in our twin tub.

It always had

a masochistic streak…

Buggering Bizet

 

th2EO7D22A

 

Windows  windows,

looking inward looking out,

they do not do up and down no more

Could if they had necks,

or long hands and periscopes.

If they were so fortunate,

and with the CCTV linked to the telly

 

But,

that is not the same as a neck of your own to play with…

Inner scented oriental mood,
smartly shoed,
sucking on a Zube,
watching chicks insinuate.
It is now.
Can you imagine
how good that is?
Go on
Then!
~
You are smoking
Casually
Smoking?
On a street corner in the fifties.
You are wearing a hat.
It is a busy street.
High rise buildings.
People. A city. Night. Warm. Promising.
Am I right?
~
Fancy an omelet
I do.
Fresh green salad.
Sounds good.
Let’s go.
what the heck let’s go again at the witterings good work out for the digiits if nothing else.
Cut those nails, Howard Hughes. I implore you. Simply.
we got two zero one nine big time fult tilt bullshit flying oppressive radio waves goodbye to reason
is Prokofiev taking the piss saying look ma no hands to the conservatory
burning leaves with his true love
bitter sweet body of work to discomfort you in you dotage

 

 

 

Pain Dance

 

 

Hiafflict  ME NOT  mockery

workyshy violets WITTER

no MORE milk today OK

 

so she say he say hearsay heresy of a heartfelt howl

I must turn way

disregard

Instead…

bedview

 

& was it my luck to find this:
rave on Thom Gunn
serpentine dawn in fifty six
winkle pickled drainpipe ghost
rave on wine gravy shun
we say no-no Missus Minniver
& Walter Pidgeon pipe
off to California
undercover of the night

 

let there be…

Grimbeau


tumblr_naiocjlRBx1ts7ohgo1_500

light at eight today

just up after tunnelling

a pleasant surprise

waiting there when I emerged

covered in gold dust

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bLIND bOOKS ( mORsEcODE)

wVgMZI7

 

…nORTH aTLANTIK cONVOY SHIPS kAMU kHAZI flagged cREWED bY sCUM & sAWBONE tAR AND scurvy RUMbLINGS eavesdropped fRoM AN aPPLE cART IN cHAINS sTIngING lIKE THe seaside BEsIDE ThE sEA sTop

Ottie spotted whatshisface darting through the briny meadow chased by awesome owls freshly waxed mauve incandescent as nocturmal  solifluxion  made merry with the crockery

Fleur slashed in the well drawn room acting out all overcome feigning fly girl on a swing sporting giggle and flash Commando Figtree her ruby  lipped succulence but briefly before crashers burst in to nibble little Lavinia, the scuttle fish ghoul. It was a mere afterthought  to tip the wink  to Soames it’s back to basics when the cock crows tango

In the temple Hamish craved his long lost sporren over Arbroath smokies yet on hearing the on stage ructions seized his moment to  make off  with Count Onanski’s hoola hoop on a whim. Oh to see their faces when the word gets out!

‘Slash & Burn. Slash & Burn. That’s all you hear these days…’

‘Oh do shut up and dice up your neeps. My God, is that our Hamish with a famous hoola hoop?

Exclaimed those that knew

After a decade of indwelling Hermione spluttered…

Princess Juliana by Kevin Weir

 

– In about half-four?

Eventless so it is for waiting

here is stifling dull

the enervation so immense

it aches her now

each silly little thing phases you again,

envelopes you in wireless waves,

induces permaflop

On waking up, the news app tells me

all Turks rise up from oppressive sheets

and that a

shocking percentage of  the obese can bend

their slothful feet in the middle at will

Can badgers bend their feet in the middle at will too?

Make a note of that.

–Why bother?

Pop Up!

each  & every time it is written it is read  frequently with a view to publishing, thus revealing the lack of output and quality,

symptomatic of the pernicious drivel of the web, dangling out the sort of wealth that distracts from obscene penury.

The allure compels bad writing like

the ticking off to a nuisance child breeds sullen rage, a temper tantrum never aggravated an annoying fly. In this sea of sludgy dross what chance the poor genius who don’t think in code but coneys?

Self-promotion is the answer we are fed and therein lies the rub.  For being a shy retiring violet with a gargantuan appetite for blood who never courts controversy or mere attention,

my chances of breaking through to international recognition are all but diddley squat

yet still you write, says Pop Up at last

The sun is beginning to shine and I have a Venezuelan cat-burglar cheesy  like a Cheshire Catb getting on the tit; with a little ermine ketchup and sharp scimitar mustard I  will be loin-girded to two-face the travails of fast fake days in real time…

so you pretty much write this garbage to dump it on, to let off steam, move the lonely muscle…?

when you put it like I cry

How do you thing that we feel?

Ecstatic

Stuff & Nonsense

Grimbeau

1509146734_00e597a070_z

scent found in Chanel

no man is an inlander

continent cut off by mob

all bereft of brain

we must love eachother or die

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Eek Hum Minx

A view of the intersection at 5th Avenue and 42nd Street

 

Can of worms t(itLE)
ALL the best
Jokes
(are) were strew(n)
Across
The
Cutting room lino
Shall we now move

Onto
OK

(logically)
Go
(with t h e)
Flo…W
This (!)
iS
iI(?)mp
rot
ant

Catacombic

Grimbeau

DJA-AD-057-Overgrown-Cottage-Reading-Chair-1000x1506

Rustles rumble;

Murmurs gruff;

Whistles whet;

Bristle thistle…

A thrill frisson

flowers

like quicksilver

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After you Claudette

found down by folklore

a lush distressed

in the wee small ones

watching moonstones cast white light

enough is more than less than this last line:

‘Careful on that cheap gunge, Sis!’

The wind chides

blue onions kiss

grey skies blush embarassed

‘Do wise so like a wise thing does.

See that Puma dreaming on the bayou

how it not wakes with crazed hunger &

deal with things thought liberated way

back?

It cannot or can it simply not?

For dietary products require

A Cat & Mouse Act

rubber tube for radical effect.

So it’s after you, Claudette then is it?…’

 

 

 

 

 

Long Walk to Neasden

Museum after hours

Lit up by jasmine joss stick
Debussy string quartet plays
Turn down thermostat
Open fan widows
Wine dark dawn begets
Clear blue canopy
To talk or not to talk to
Fiends & creditors
snow fell overnight just like Harvey said
the portrait on the wall winks back
the professor’s off his head
they titter behind desk tops
the little boys in class
first time it’s a tragedy
next time abject farce

Fade on the Blether

image4

 

‘Dolphin! I say, nay say, beseech. What kind of a name is than then?’ Pesk was fuddled. It addressed him.
‘The very thing. Dolphin. Dolphin Phipps. Shoot Phipps is bad enough. Could be Godolphin, mind. Arab horsey typos. Own Dettori. Blue shirts. Abdul O’Himmler. That sorta thing…’
The dull surge of midday twaddle tutted. The too much oft and many times earwigged. The Captain’s Table. Pesk ate gray prawns and got out the book of tides. Pesk’s Quest’s companion volume pocket sized. Found the place anointed:

‘Greely Quay & the Giant Cray & Environs’,  page thirty-two marked and read out loud.
“One is instantly struck by the sheer drab of the hillside graveyard as one descends the gradient to Greely Quay after the wily serpentine from Dead Dog Strand. Sitting as it does on the crest of the Daphne’s headland, it seems to mock to shame the bay below as it whispers to the sea “here’s a few poor beggars that your fishies did not gobble up you shite stream!” And, indeed the headstones did tales of souls retrieved from perilous, quirk bedevilled waters: Michael Murtagh, lost off the Vestal Hemispheric, found skulking like a bailiff in Dundown Cove February 14th 1962; Peter Teaser, mauled by the trawler Strawberry Flan, Regurge Sound 28th October, 1989…
‘Hold up! That was my cousin’s sweetheart, Peety.’ The Dolphin man broke in, ‘what’s that gnarly yoke your reading from, my friendio?’
‘My Uncle’s Diary’ said Peck slowly, not looking up.
‘Why are you telling it out loud?’ said the Dolphin man coming across.
‘To find you Mr. Mullins. To find you. My quarry.’

‘You had me going there, Dolphus.’ Perks sighed as they rowed out. ‘I thought you were Pinkerton’s sub-con knobbler…’
Loud came not the stern reply
The cove was mill pond smooth that callow eve. The two men laughed too loud for easy air. Water lapped hollow slurps in the inlet. How far out is safe to row, both mulled hard. Still meant ill, sounds carry gurgles, echoes travel light, stealthy, sock tread, slurred.
—Spruce your caboose with the neck of a goose! Said Mullins gone incongrous, brandishing his cutlass striking a now or never Fairbanks pose.
Music bathed the comely ether. Seagulls squawked of piteous deliverance . A sacrifice most Tuesdays if I feed the shumbunkin corn flakes daily, a hag cockled snagged by gin slings.
—Said seabass emerged its mammy’s lug, two full moons late, a guttersnipe once told us on the haunted promenade, left lug mind the right as if were grommet bunged. No exit, clearly posted so, neon flashes migrained, AC wired buttermilk…
—From sinister portals, indeed. Churned that one over down the years, and thus concluded, ‘Hi, tis I, chance of sip of your sup?’ Beggar off big brute, I’ll have yer goats fur…’
—Guts for gators, probed a scoop nose. Who he? One or tother so. Why it matters not. Time for the Klaxon hoot? Angelus
Klaxon Hooted. A bottle rocked up. The message read:
All their life was regulated not by lordly laws, crass statutes, or dry crust rules, but according to their free spirit will and pleasure. They rose from bed as they pleased, and how they drank, ate, worked, and slept when the fancy seized them. Nobody woke them mind; nobody compelled them either to eat or to drink, or to do anything else whatever. So it was that Gargantua Snood had established it. In their rules there was only one telltale clause:

DO WHAT YOU WILL
because people who are free, well-born, well-bred, and easy in honest company have a natural spur and instinct which drives them to virtuous deeds and deflects them from vice; and this they called honour. When these same men are depressed and enslaved by vile constraint and subjection, they use this noble quality which once impelled them freely towards virtue, to throw off and break this yoke of slavery. For we always strive after things forbidden and covet what is denied us.[20]:159
—Book twenty! Blimey there’s a tome. Mullins was flummoxed. Perks lingered over it, identifying Rabelais, but why now of all times. It was, he concluded, for diplomatic purposes, a red herring.
—It’s nothing. Let’s go home.
~

Some sort of sick kick from it. Must be. Perverse. Inaudible mutters, more than a mere mime. Stop. Crank it again.

Whassat he said, marzipan muel. More bloody pop-ups, start of the day, the sec I go near it, starts pushing you round, near dare and down the stair. Magic pen. Screens are for tourists, juss look at ArseboK. Ulterior motives, but I diverge. Indian summer of the Tory Party. Dangerfield did it for the Libs. Farewell Georgiana, brief encounters with bliss in the grounds of a country pile. You know I met Lloyd George? Yes me father told me when I was knee high to. Stop.

Dint of it I ask you. that was eerily early the mist was. Turd stone from the sun. Judd blink & youd mishit. Bollox to Bognor. South of a bog. Stands it up for reason? Process of elimination, my weird Watson. Je never said that. I know. Know. Know. kNow. Comma. Odd the things that float. Waters off Clyne for egg proffers darn good stretch of the leggings.

Hit anything now. you could always put a light on blindfold. Break up this bliss when something’s amiss. Stay in touch. Of course or perhapsy.

Sure you’re a lang aukd time lone sun. Down tto the cardboard. In mere wheeze dan won. Get gone with you. juss being sillier. Look Ma no hands left! And various other bits to boot. Attstops inbetwean. Love comes in shirts. Buy one get one knee. Death on the High Street. Peepul turn wahey. Selfies with my new friend Dr. Dear-Dept.

Lokk wow it trndz. So now lingo bingo gets born. A gnu renascence occludes.
Broke through the ice. Just slipped out. Popped. Automatically. Reports dismissed on superficial coffe grounds. Wrong water fonts. Matter of dulce et decorum. Costume & Pack Ice Frobisher. Methodolology. Sjould be a Church of it upped. On. Ward. Armies argue over refs. Wrong type of earrings. Lackings of the daisical dEpartntt. Not future innit. Means mean ends. Conveyancing. Todays lesson a reading from the Book of Herman Two Sticks. Drumroll. Bugger Bognor. Famous lasts. Me or the wallpaper beyond my means sod under other sod. Blessems. Ashtrays to ashtrays. Divil first by a nose. Heaven’s Above put down. Fetlock snap. Juss bending down to pick up a pea. Pop! That’s your lot pal. Here’s some teeth to gnash while wailing.
A bum’s tear it was, a caskful of stares, cleaved, spigotted, deerstalkered, up for the rout, no soft feelings you understand, throbbing nasal duct, precursor of girly weeps, matinee idol what fell from Grace. & herself a married wannabe. Book of Life lies. Untouched on yonder coffee table. Walnut inlaid, caryatids. Lot of time input, hobbies. Tender acts of wooden love. Down memory lame. See who that is coming up. Bugger me the bishop. Late of Bath and Wells. Jaunty little mancub. Tells frequent tells of pewstuff. Ups and downs. Exercise really. Stiffs turn left on the way out. That’s you told, milad. Conscripted belligerent over traces kicks. Bit off more than is proven chewable. Gumshield orange peel. Never failed me yet. Charming ickle mancub. No sado of a doubt about it. dribbling desert wine in the naval cavity. Fortify the under fours. Whatever gets you through the night Kris. Mantle of moi dreams bladder wracked by marbles…

Daisy’s Chain

mostile

How timid the knock of bashful earthworms?

daydreaming summer bugs

Intimations of incarceration

dog my every word

like it was only doom

that learnt to cherish

buttercups on Daisy’s chain

Sinister Lampshades

gargoyle

 

Up and down
Up and down

That’s me today for a change…
Down now
Up later…
To find
Graham Nash talking Woodstock

and Joni Mitchell
Edging closer to a close
California dreamtime

at Manchester Trade Hall
freely loving Jennifer Eccles

bitter honeycomb wrappers
scurry down Saddleworth Moor

 

 

Q & Eh?

 

 

Fjak4qw

 

Let’s not talk, eh

Let’s not say what

is what

 

That’s better

Now we can hear

Ourselves thinking

About what to

Say next

 

Got it!

let’s make up

Brigid’s Bed

Bell, Book & Shambles

1197455_8906894

 

Inkus strummed glum
Untamed cygnet riff
As flying green sword fishes
Play noughts and crosses
on Andover beachfronts
#
The upholsterers sham
Couch casting &
Shadow wrastling
Modus vivendi tan
Like glass bead gamers
refuting b-movie scam

Raspberry Ripple

Grimbeau

Good golly dropsy

ice wet lollypop
collywobbles of rebel-rebels 

spoils it for each 
& everynun


Bloody raspberry ripples
how so they wibble-wobble
pink syrup slurpers
 
alchemised greaved cnemis 
don a sock on it, Slobbochops

conceal your root extensions good or malign
will you?
restrict  sticky trickledown mishap


silence is molten
& like ice & fire

it burps

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Minefolly

trees pOp up aLL

ovEr The oFFice

Das Stimmt

—C’mon will ya, times running out you know
—As it was forever, my Darling. As it forever was
Enjoy the frisson of this unique wait, embrace the knotted belly ache, the acrid stench of pristine belch, the bilious shuffle of stockinged gall, the dank fulfilling disappointment of barbiturate decay…
Nana stared down at knees confounded, sulky so and so-so slow, frowning shoelace fixated, entrapped by bogus mood, stormy petrel eyed.
Port worked listless slow sweet calm numbing Nana into dreams of old ship’s roll call. The first bottle barely touched the sides and when the jabber started and the lights went tickertape flickershow. Nana palmed blue eyes black and sighed. The house had been adapted for this very purpose. A messy cottage hospital bed in stumbling distance, a sink nearby to piss in handy, a broken uppy downy lift cage, handrails to the upper poop deck, drop down cupboards that always mind downturned head, assorted sticks and staves for all slopes, bags of pills and sooth me ointments, an exercise ball called Ned the always needs wiping. A blind one with their wits about them would manage. And the guards, what became of them? She sneered.
He wrote her, they confided with a smirk but when once asked upfront dissembled. But not his real name, nobody reads mistakes nowadays. Why so, you may ask. Spellbound. Whistleblowers bark up leafy trees. All is made encrypto, off camera, discrete… Because they had not never seen it had they. Unpublished was it then? Top secret. thirty years of dust. Worse than that: unwritten. Has that helped to ease? Not sure yet. Thirsty now. Quench it. Comely flitch of wench. Avast! The good ship Opium!!!

Sacrificed three spoonfuls of processed Bulgar chaff, paltry offering to the grumpy gut gods before crossing a river of cheap day return. Not in this atomic form you mind yourself. Michael White seems a nice chap all the same. Who the fuck is Michael White? Goodhearted yet didactic. Why they knit still yet? Implied contradiction. More like sloppy language. In the end time only tells. Some will never know a book.
Rubber ham granted a wide berth by blue dragoons. Left out uncovered overnight splash length from the piss sink tap. Fruit flies are harmless yolks. No protests a pear skin. Beethoven chord diminished. Eighth sonata sign your name in. what’s My Line with Whatshisface— Ladle Isabel Barnett into a Padded wagon Kleptomania Villas. Know he’s in the room at once. Intemperate cuss but wait. Yet waits. It it time yet? Not really here at all. Try telling the clock as much. Just marches off nonchalant.

—Da da da dum dum. Irregular as. Arhythmic. Clogged. Wind it. who has the key. Sucker for profiteroles. Crumbs. Hands are useless. Broken cups. Old China. Kuomintang-on-Trent. All the broken pots. Arabs glazed the inside first. Or was it Jews? What matter. Soon soft shoe shuffles disappeared it. See who next.

Sleepy Ham of Gentle Snoring. Shower day rides out come dawn. One in every two of late. Don’t wear out the skin the aim. It bleeds deprived of flesh bacteria. Rots without a minding too. And without it well. What then? Marasmus. A scolding rebuke for afterskid. Suddenly you remember, no seeming trigger to it, try and garner detail, no matter, that’s when it gets dubious, a smell, a touch, something sensate, but it’s gone, so you fill the empty. Just let it be, let it rest a while. But it goes, the butterfly moves on. A glance. That tension in your neck melts. Tantric feels remote. Cheap pink fluffy slippers. Was that deliberate? And if so, so what? Oldest trick in the book. The no trick trick. None of us know what we get involved in. liars disagree bitterly. That’s what liars do. For good reason. Power plays. Epic sunsets past two days. Charcoal, golden, slow masses, subsumed by shadow, not in your pomp. Who cares if you don’t? Stumped. Strolling mind found absent. Seiche on water fills the sky. No reflection. Howzat? No need to really ask. Just kept walking. Funny old game bird. Head up arse in clouds. Mackerel springs, amber leaf, install smart meter at your peril. Swings and roundabouts. Sunshine on the copper slide. And the roundabout. Scary monster. Still turning with no one near. For the fallen, propelled centrifugal, thrown off. felt queasy all right. Every time after. Wet wood sombre stench. Cold as a witches. Found no mushrooms. Camouflaged by night. Glow worms ardour dank. Open a tin instead. Careful with the ax now. capillary pumphouse. Needles. Back to skin. Neck of Lamb to tenderise. Food for thought indeedy.
Gravel falls on the Bog of Allen, the mighty Shannon, and her pussycat, Apostrophe—so the world turns purring strident tortoise shell Quick swallows catch the eyelash. A Little cloud passes glacial slow. Count the fingers on each hand. Made a note for future reference.

Filed it under Pluvium. Fine was his soft chestnut mop. Hair moves like water rushes.
Liquid. Jealous. Moi you bet.
Eyes souls windows see. Little green cloudbusters. Plain as the nose on your Holiness. Put my furt innit there. Engage then utter. Nerves to blame. Jitters. Too willing to plead loathsome
Articles before the fact denied. Nosey eyes mouth off truth be known look just like Picasso by nightwatchman puggled
—‘The Tomb of the Unknown Swimmer’ got a certain I dunno well quite sweet about it. Popeye’s on! All hail good fortune to Folkestone Fusspot Vicar Vicky Vicar—he who didn’t make it before the replay of Match of the Day must pass. Tell us that one about the man who swam around the British Isles sustained by bananas alone, a flotilla of yellow peels in his wake, wailing sirens rest love me Nigels, fruity pleasure cruiser horn blasts wheeze.

Leicester are going to the Boss’s funeral in Siam and cannot make and the bandstand children of Woking are absent after the inflatable slide occurrence, and the SAS have gone to look for the swimmer now feared subsumed by banana skins suspected to be caught on a rip tide once captured sublimely by Turner after wild sex on the beach with Tracy Emin listening to Black Uhuru passing by bareback riding on a rescue donkey who hatched a secret Brexit plan with Ant coz decks got cold feet on sensible browns and sees no future in the past and dreams of pastures new in Ruislip off seventies gatefold albums—Mornin’—Mornin’ Door slams too. Away to go or overnighter forgot toothbrush and pyjamas bless him anyway
~
An Odyssey set in a perpetual civil war where no one dies:
‘Alas, poor Mexico, so far from God and so close to the United States!’
‘to tell the story … in an imperturbable tone, with infallible serenity, even if the whole world resists, without for one instant calling into doubt what you are saying and avoiding the frivolous and the truculent alike … [this is] what the old ones knew, that in literature there is nothing more convincing than your own conviction.’
Convinced of their guilt
innocent bystanders
stare into empty space through an Aztec Camera
local witches knot twine round faggots
from freshly fallen bones
slow casserole and raisin curry, stewed giblets
to raise spirits dashed
by events dear boy events…
Now with the cauldron brimful
steaming ghosts come to sup their broth
and melt into the fragrant mist
Stands the watcher still
Uneasy on the rampart?
Time enough to count the mystic turds,
witness four leaves fall
observe spinach green ivy
and lime winged calendula in orange bloom.

A goo five mutes all told den?
Das Stimmt.

Wind Up

Grimbeau

A

stray
red
brick
flew


dripless
stained
glass
window:

‘Sorry!’
It read

View original post

The Tomb of the Unknown Swimmer

volcano-gallery-10-22-01_84942_600x450

 

 

Careful with the ax now. capillary pumphouse. Needles. Back to skin. Neck of Lamb to tenderise. Food for thought indeedy.
Gravel falls on the Bog of Allen, the mighty Shannon, and her puss, Apostrophe—so the world turns purring tortoise shell streched
Quick swallows catch the eye. A Little cloud passes glacial slow. Count the fingers on each hand.Made a note for future reference.
Filed it under Pluvium. Fine was his soft chestnut mop. Hair moves like water rushes. Liquid. Jealous. Moi you bet.
Eyes souls windows see. Little green cloudburst. Plain as the nose on your Holiness. Put my furt innit there. Engage then utter. Nerves to blame. Jitters. Too willing to plead loathsome
Articles before the fact denied. Nosey eyes mouth off truth be known look just like Picasso by nightwatchman snoozing
‘The Tomb of the Unknown Swimmer’ got a certain I dunno quite sweet about it. Popeye’s on! All hail good fortune to Folkestone
Vicar—he who didn’t make it before the replay of Match of the Day. the man who swam around the British Isles sustained by bananas
alone, a flotilla of yellow peels in his wake, wailing sirens rest, fruity pleasure cruiser horn blasts gone, but Leicester are going to the
Boss’s funeral in Siam and cannot make and the bandstand children of Woking are absent after the inflatable slide occurrence, and the SAS
have gone to look for the swimmer now feared subsumed by banana skins suspected to be caught on a rip tide once captured sublimely by
Turner after wild sex on the beach with Tracy Emin listening to Black Uhuru passing by bareback riding on a rescue donkey who hatched a
secret Brexit plan with Ant coz decks got cold feet on sensible browns and sees no future in the past and dreams of pastures new in Ruislip
off seventies gatefold albums—Mornin’—Mornin’ Door slams too.Away to go or overnighter forgot toothbrush and pyjamas bless him anyway

Three Chariots for Pluto

sillhouetees

 

—C’mon will ya, times running out you know
—As it has forever, Darling. Enjoy the frisson of the wait, the knotted ache, the acrid nag of doubt, the bilious suffle, the dank fulfilling disappointment of delay…
Darling squirmed at sea confounded, sulky, frowning, entrapped, stormy eyed. Port worked slow calm numbing Darling into dreams of old ship’s company. The first bottle barely touched the sides then the jabber started and the lights went wonky. Darling crashed. The house had been adapted for this purpose. A cottage hospital bed in stumbling distance, a sink to piss in, an uppy downy lift, handrails of various, drop down cupboards mind your head, various sticks and staves, bags of pills and sooth me ointments, an exercise ball called Ned. And the guards? He wrote, they confided with a smirk when asked. But not his real name, nobody reads it. Why so, you may ask. Because they had not never seen it. Unpublished then? Worse than that: unwritten. Has that helped? Not sure yet. Thirsty now. Quench it.
Sacrificed three spoonfuls of processed bulgar to the grumpy stomach gods before crossing a river of no return. Not in this atomic form. Michael White seems a nice chap. Goodhearted yet didactic. Why the yet? Implied contradiction. More like sloppy language. Some will never know a book. Rubber ham given a wide berth. Left out uncovered overnight splashlength from the tap. Fruit flies are harmless. No says a pear skin. Beethoven chord. Eighth sonate. Know he’s in the room. Intemperate but wait. Yet waits. It it time yet? Not really here at all. Try telling the clock. Just marches off nonchalant. Da da da dum dum. Irregular as. Arhythmic. Clogged.
Gentle snoring. Shower day. One in every two. Don’t wear out the skin. It bleeds. Rots without mind. And with it. What then? A scolding rebuke for afters. Suddenly you remember, there was no seeming trigger, try and garner detail, that’s when it gets dubious, a smell, a touch, something sensate, but it’s gone, so you fill the empty. Just let it be, let it rest a while. But it goes, the butterfly moves on. A glance. That tension in your neck melts. Tantric feels remote. Cheap pink fluffy slippers. Was that deliberate? And if so, so what? Oldest trick in the book. The no trick trick. None of us know what we get involved in. liars disagree. That’s what liars do. For good reason. Power plays. Epic sunsets past two days. Charcoal, golden, slow masses, subsumed by shadow, not in your pomp. Who cares if you don’t? Stumped. Strolling mind found absent. Seiche on water fills the sky. No reflection. Howzat? No need to really ask. Just kept walking. Funny old game bird. Head up arse in clouds. Mackerel springs, amber leaf, install smart meter at your peril. Swings and roundabouts. Sunshine on the copper slide. And the roundabout. Scary monster. Still turning with no one near. For the fallen, propelled centrifugal, thrown off. felt queasy all right. Every time after. Wet wood sombre stench. Cold as a witches. Found no mushrooms. Camouflaged by night. Glow worms ardour dank. Open a tin instead. Careful with the ax now. capillary pumphouse. Needles. Back to skin. Neck of Lamb to tenderise. Food for thought indeedy.

First poison songular, one eyed, jocular by elect. Here the yarn disintegrates, sugar rush beginning to suck, new toys to play with see, solo. Significant otter, Murdstone Memory,

chiffon wisps, misty graveyarn, drawn to it, nay compelled. Blame the weather that you say you make. Me is haunting me then is it. Dull ditch drudgery digging up dirt. Let’s pick

another spot. Say Casablanca. Ricks. Or is it Ric’s? up yer bum again, get off…Half term repose from Nursery rush hour, frozen over night some scream. Poor little mites seek

sanctuary in the mattress. Survival of the fattest. Me. Simms for a day. Sylvia, Sylvia, wherefore art house? Balance that book on yer head or you’re dead. Deportment bearing

poise. A Ginsborough Flicture. See it between the lines. Do it till your feet bleed. Post War austere. In the National Interest of the greater good they groomed you. Shove these fillets

in there, tuck your tummy in. steel corset a must. You must improve your bust. Ooo new nylons!

Themes of feelings to rote recite. Apple pie to order. Lashings of custard. O no you don’t— you are a starlet, baby. Oily lizard slimeball speaks pillow drool. Perm one from a cast

of plenty. Is that why she did it? More pricks than a pincushion. Over billiards eavesdropped. Evil snotties. Pimps sport warty cocks. Browned off with Bovil dregs or

Bisto paste. Hairy arsecracks, shirtails and gaiters, besocked, creaking floorboards, pulling out soon, receding tumult, light a Players. What’s my name? Saliva cesspit Ears

looking at you kid. Blackheads and beeswax. What big ears you have Grandpa. Think I’s gonna throw now. Take a peppermint. Only Fisher’s Friends. Quelle Fromage, Mon Dieu!

Stale Chanel, sweat beads form. Not little me. Cut. Pass the Gilbeys. About that part. Be in touch. Reborn a cliche. Whatever on earth happened, Pet? Got taken for a ride, but ate

Imaginary Man

gruvet

 

Gypsy moth splutters overhead
Wave say cheese or butter
shiny chin up I pluck me a petal
for keeps as a familiar — Freed!
Stemless, infrontiered, horizonless, no jke. O!
undone’s oppo condescends to rose

Pollen hazards plait havoc from sensidata.
E,g, Misstook red cucumber for long tomato.
Consumer rights for wild Sumatra.
Brain tuna salad for Sinatra. Free the mond
—Ay. That’s the spirit.

Check for Nobby, nun frothcumin.                                                                                                      Gate click bogus. Imaginary man.

Sleep deep through the magic hour,
late October sun,
low and strong, ignites
the mind’s kaleidoscopes. Snow falls
come to settle northern hills
under cover of the nightlight

Home Fish

 

 

aerga (2)

Rum cove was mill pond smooth that eve. The dray men laughed too loud for easy air. Water lapped hollow on the inlet. How far out is safe to row, both mulled. Still meant ill, sounds carry gurgles, echoes travel, stealthy, slurred.
—Spruce up your caboose with the neck of a goose! Said Mullins, brandishing his cutlass mock threatening a now or never pose.
Music bathed the gloopy ether. Seagulls squawked indifference. A sacrifice most Tuesdays if I feed the shumbunkin corn flakes, a shag sneered wracked by hawthorn
—Said seabass emerged its mammy’s lug, two full moons late, a guttersnipe once told us on the promenade, left lug mind the right were grommet bunged. No exit, clearly posted, neon flashes, AC wired…
—From sinister portals, indeed. Chewed over down the years, and thus delivered, ‘Hi, tis I, chance of sip of your sup?’ Beggar off big brute, I’ll have yer…’
—Guts for gators, probed a scoopers face. Who he? One or tother. Why it matters not. Time for the Klaxon hoot?
Klaxon Hooted. A bottle rocked up. The message read:
All their life was regulated not by laws, statutes, or rules, but according to their free will and pleasure. They rose from bed when they pleased, and drank, ate, worked, and slept when the fancy seized them. Nobody woke them; nobody compelled them either to eat or to drink, or to do anything else whatever. So it was that Gargantua had established it. In their rules there was only one clause:

DO WHAT YOU WILL
because people who are free, well-born, well-bred, and easy in honest company have a natural spur and instinct which drives them to virtuous deeds and deflects them from vice; and this they called honour. When these same men are depressed and enslaved by vile constraint and subjection, they use this noble quality which once impelled them freely towards virtue, to throw off and break this yoke of slavery. For we always strive after things forbidden and covet what is denied us.[20]:159
—Book twenty! Blimey there’s a tome. Mullins was flummoxed. Perks lingered over it, identifying Rabelais, but why now of all times. It was, he concluded, for diplomatic purposes, a red herring.
—It’s nothing. Let’s go home.
~

Some sort of sick kick from it must they get. Must be. Perverse. Inaudible mutters, more than a mime. Stop. Crank it again. Whassat he said, marzipan muel. More bloody pop-ups, start up of the day, the sec I go near it, starts egging you on, near to dare and down the stair. Magic pen beats all. Screens are for mere tourists, juss look at ArseboooK. Ulterior motives, but how I diverge. Indian summer of the Tory Party it seems. Dangerfield did it for the Libs. Farewell Georgiana, brief encounters with bliss on the grounds of a country piles. You know I met Lloyd George? Yes me father told me when I was knee high to a kneecap. Stop. Oint of it I ask you. that was eerily early the mist that was. Turd stone from the sundial. Judd blink & youd mishit. Bollox to Bognor ignored. South of a bog. Stands it thus up for reason? Process of elimination, my weird Watson. Je never said that thought I will. I know. Know. Know. kNow. Comma. Odd the things that float past. Waters off Cloyne/ Good stretch of the shanks. Hit anything now. You could always put a light on. What. Break up such bliss. Stay in touch. Of course or perhaps. Sure youre a lang aukd time lone sun. Down to the cardboard. In mere wheeze dan won. Get gone with you. juss being sillier. Look Ma no hands! And various other bits. Attstops inbetwean. Love comes in spurts. Buy one get one free. Death on the High Street. Peepul turn ahey. Selfies with my new friend DDearDept. Lokk wow it trndz. So now lingo gets born. A gnu renascence occludes.
Broke the ice. Just slipped out. Automatically. Reports dismissed on artifificial grounds. Wrong fonts condemned. Matter of decorum. Costume & Rickets. Mere Methodolology. Sjould be a Church of it. On. Ward. Armies argue over refs. Wrong type of earrings. Lackings of the daisical dEpartntt. Not future innit. Means mean ends. Conveyancing. Xtian soil dryers Todays lesson a swiped from the Book of Herman Two Sticks. Drumroll maestro pleeze. Bugger Bognor Bbackwards. Hard act to follow. Famous lasts. Me or the wallpaper beyond my means sod under another sod under. Blessems all. Ashtrays to ashtrays. Divil first by a nose. O’Himmel Heaven’s Above put that down. Fetlock snap. Juss bending down to pick up a peashot. Pop! That’s your lot pal. Here’s some teeth to gnash while wailing. Much obliged was he?
A bum’s tear it was appeared, attracted a caskful of stares, cleaved, spigotted, deerstalkered, up for the ruse, no soft feelings you understand, throbbing nasal duct, something in my eye precursor of girly weepies, matinee idol what fell from Grace. What was he doing on her & herself a married wannabe. Book of Life lies open. Untouched by humane hands on yonder coffee table. Walnut inlaid, caryatids adrorned. Grapes’n’all Lot of time input, hobbies take. Tender acts of wooden love. Down memory lame in splint. See who that is coming up. Bugger me the bishop Ric. Late of Bath and Wells. Jaunty little mancub. Tells frquent tells of pewstuff mishaps. Ups and downs. Exercise really. Stand up Stiffs turn left on the way out. That’s you told, milady. Conscripted belligerent over traces kicks. Bit off more than is proven chewable. Gumshield orange peel on linoleum. Never failed me yet. Charming ickle mancub. No sado of a doubt about it. Dribbling desert wine in the naval cavity of Dr. Sop. Fortify the under fours he said. Whatever gets you through the night Kris. Mantle of moi dreams…from hair shaked but never stern. Ummm…

The Joy of Dudgeon Saxo

 

So, Farewell then, Robert K E E

grand EE old broadcaster.

an historian of note

to boot EE

Kept a fine thick head of hair

under which EE penned

A short history of raised EyEbrows

& A long drawn out short

Ossary of Hibernia

uneven handed, craggy featured whisky puffed spade of flab spills over purple pinned back sable silk scarved collar maxi purple glam rock bold school tie peeps shout in vogue, milk bottle top button unhinged in trad jazz warrior angry lib fulminating at  therms and the causes thrEE of…

Slan Abhaile

bop

Touched
by a
film of frost,
th e
chill cascades
Waspishly
fro m the fanlight
Squirts
Little nips
O f morning,
Bikini weather.
Motorway pile up
neuronal
city women
fret more
about how
they look
than wee fish do.

Pastel shy-blue, sky-blue
off beige clouds

Twenty eight thousand
Miles out
just now

A space boulder passed
by my
Shoulder.

Chitterlings

crunchy nut cornflakes. But the cars. The cars are such a giveaway, roaring, strutting, revving in the frost.

–Brrrm, it’s a cold one, Cleo.

–Yes, indeed it is, fair Romeo. Let’s go for a spin.

For it is well documented that I detest dark mornings. Only last week I spoke passionately on that very same subject to a captive audience of soiled mugs and spoons as the kettled steamed and coffee reeked with promise of chitterling nibbles

For the Sheer Hell of it…

264676

 

Four chinooks beetle low underhead
describing a rough diamond formation
slow but faster than cars that kerb crawl past
I wonder how the giant laurel appears to them
As They flourish overnight
Picture all those roots crammed into a ballooning charcoal bucket
and then pretend to persuade me to give it up
as a bad job that never was never worth doing
Only instead to sidle off over the broken biscuit brown grass
Wing it on one engine back to base camp
smile back knowingly at some all weather gnomes
who count us out and count us back like orphans
up to their necks in sump oil wild lolling
wisely on a riddled crimson fence post
entangled in a spider’s knitting
briskly inside a pike eats the crackling radio,
Baltic salmon bask in the fridge, all lost at sea suffering
opiate withdrawal sweats we twitch & cringe
Then I see you sliding slippery eel wise, sending us a sign from beyond,
which when it is decoded reads
‘we’re not ready for you yet. Pal’
~
Till all the seas run dry, my nose.
Till all the seas run dry
Abdabs scream blue murder
Till all the seas run dry with blood
When all the seas run dry…
Enforced radio silence over wrought after a hard night’s day
Churning down the dairy with hairy Mary
wary of her sudden subtle mood swings—
the purpose of this mission: moan
~
Big match called off by bye bye blackbirds
wretched car phones yelp outside
world made worse by cheap shite airlines,
five hoppity hops to nirvana time
& limp back on yer tod,
sip true levelling vodka juice ,
no sleep till dawn for tribal drones
passing over after bringing down
patchwork dirigibles on burnt out homes
Ratty sits now sucking an olive
Now spilling a Martini dry
shaken but unstirred by those loud bangs
No hard feelings where there aint none in
Yesterday the pike with jam on
Today the frozen salmon cordon
Encouraging the Privet hedge to part red waters
Will you pass milk & honey
The silken money
To mellow my chlorinated slaughter
For if you not for who
Mirror under water cracks
Call grimalkin get hope back
I am hearing you
In conversation
Singing through the nosegay of fucked up floribundal
Only in conversation mind you
~

I run things over in my head occasionally
Deliberately or by accident
Take the right option
At the top of the stairwell
For an example of this
Sallow mango tigers burn
Flagrant tongues lick upwards
Melting toy balloons drop fire
Withered moulded plastic chairs
Empty overnight commode
Circus macabre summer fayre
Shriek to no avail it seems from here

~
Did you not capture the moment just now—
Especially in that droll incursive October Wind
As malfeasant tides surged fast & loose
Now time trudges wetter softer
Sandshoe shuffle shod in sloppy sludge—
snide red caps doffed hide furtive grins
Faces crescent—shaped venally daft
Trying to zone in, get a grip, any grip,
be rid of this, this, this…
profane, pernicious accidie. Look out
Dai the Morf & Wily Dan confer
to hatch a slick masterplan midstream
to swamp the market in eiderdown
or farm mink in Chipping Norton Town
or timewatch daily brexit as life goes on
like a walk in the baked potato park
—so many murders these day you dont
know where to not step first
~
Each one a new one on closer inspection
A different case of upstairs
Did I say no chess today I may fret—
Well so what if not
Put a derringer to my head
And just keep missing
Man did I live to regret it
First time Crispin smiled upon
His golden demoiselle, an inhabitant,
She signed, of a country of the capuchins,
So delicately blushed, so humbly eyed,
Attentive to a coronal of things
Secret and most paticular. Second, upon
A ruddy counterpart, a maid
Most sisterly to the first, not yet awake
Excepting to the pad of motherly footsteps, but
Marvelling sometimes in round shaken sleep.
Then third, a braid still dun flaxen in the night,
A creeper under mellow jaundiced leaves. And fourth,
Mere blusteriness that gewgaws jollified,
All din and gobbleygook, blasphemously pinkened.
Gonna hit frilly five today they say
Sky seems the limit round here no doubt
Off Asylum Avenue when smoke churns
Chelsea Moll makes sticky buns shine
No matter what the weather does
Use up the wrinkled grapes on the quiet
Man did I live to regret it
Saying good things about people you can’t smell sounds daft
Almost as if you made it up: derisive
Crossed out, obliterated truths
Blown up, a put up job, hiding some
malign agenda under scarlet pimples
The words escape me so I stumble round playing blind man’s bluff,
Internal bear pits, persuasive, lure me out

Eat the Ditch

$(KGrHqZHJD!E7Bcviy1uBO62ymWqCw~~60_35

 

Luncheon:

one scotch egg

& one pack of

Ready Salted

Crisp Potatoes

Al Disco…

Dunnock patrol sweeps
up the lawn prior to snotty
entrance of the Queen of Shebang

Gormless positivity crowds threw some punters out
Embedded Jasper stones in troubled foreheads
—As if brecciated third eyes squint

Mineral deficiency remedy mercifully
Fizzes in blue silica
Uncle of the bride makes wind of it

A virtuous thermal is suchly born
Magic lurks in fits and starts you see
Fragile as dovecote earrings percieved by

Pageboys scatter ricicles on tympani thrums
Jerry built his house for doom and duplicity
Here loud mother superior stalks our bogus moves

Here also Stock Doves henpeck petrified garden gnome ads
but then it is Wednesday
after all is said: undone your fly
~
blue murder is an optional eXtra
vaguer notions involve plenty steps
mississippi mud pies promise
sanguinity & toast ungainly
underwater table tennis
constitutes just one ding that springs to mind
also: must mend t h a ts l o w puncture
~
synchronized slumming it merely
keeps the blighters off the streets
after a feed of pilates & fries
giant fleas and mice of the Caribbean
Prance in light elastic pumps & daisies
or bristle a frisson with shaven ravens
tipping away at venality between long wet slogs
through warm soft mulchy tissue
then we all fall round gurgling
gambolling precociously jammed with
lamb’s toothy daughter—nun other thanks
Caroline of Brunswick
Who brazen breaks into a piggy bank
& scoffs the Hottentot of it
~
Moanwhile…
Up shat creak without a Piddle
Wherein which we whet the wall
A chemical imbalance
In the Fred Astaire’s of men
My Lord is a ram jam toerag
Supinating pimply puss pot
Leaving droppings on the pantry floor

Twilight Pops

 

Marjorie Lawrence 12 June 1939

Gotterdammerung opens!

The end of the world as they know it.

This afternoon my unquenchable thirst

is accompanied by a mind made of puppy fur

There is energy, but it is all over the place,

thin and wayward, dry and soggy, like those ill

-kempt meadows or ruffled lawns. Making meadows is

no laughing matter: neither is the end

of the world, no matter whose

 

 

ruth

island of cuddles

sea full of troubles

logs hissing a fire

serial liar

 

skun==ull of bubbles

world full of muddles

Cant regard

maudefealy

 

Clean and dry, Romper suited, booted in cheapo,

garish green Primark slippers,

I kiss the hogs,

mount the trusty chair

&

roll out to face the world of sticks and stones

that break your bones

and slick weasel words

that pay  us scant regard

hurry canoes!

NGS Picture ID:1217302

Bathing in a swimming hole at the top of Victoria Falls.

 

Undersea weather

Cattle low unlike hanging fruit

naked water buffalo blush

Woolly mammoth dribble off

waterlogged dogs trumple

thunder rumbles on

 

‘fraid knots…

b1_3129281c

 

…flaky funferal, gravity free yoga class,

hanging from the ceiling wrapped

up in a blue sheet,

fear of parachute failure,

tied up in fraid knots

mindful tussle to unravel,

fresh direction of travel:

Laundromatica.

Hey Wain

chag3

 

On my way here,

Descending,

Supine in

 

a white wheelie bin, guess what?

got some treasure

falling it was, upside down,

hissing down big time,

loose, heavy, easy display:

golden showers!

 

obtuse long lanquid splashes

slit dense wet grass,

teasing emerald, silver crystal

ephemeral sprites:

trinkets, but too

quick, robust,

capricious to pocket,

to show off

after to softer, bolder presences,

 

Noon’s Guys, casting shorter shadows,

Origin – a higher calling,

sotto voce potent phrases

kicking over the pony traces.

Pyx

Third tercile 2 0 1 6

commences picture speck elation ship: a nascent summer day breaks nice enoughly mice stir droppings, benign idle slanted hues define clandestine marigolds staring Moonlight fed by dawn day succubus
Crawls inside dirty stop out loony…

INTERIOIR –
Zoo room
Caged leopards prowl plaintive Hoot of timid owl dark as it is I must wake
feeling got up out of it: thus everso Miffed.

—Just Me. Huh? said lone drone Grumpy-Poohs, too much cakes and twisted tricycles
It is…T u es d ay…the second of a u gu st 201 6. Aussie Marxists talking Turkey jiblets Scribbles jog minus slog? Indwelling, mon armour. Spotted reification: University challenges meltsway Poxy sleep. Ratty. Wet now—dry later. So it is. Get dat desk fit for purpose:
Why bloody wires must conspire.

—Alright
Alrighht!
…I’m doing it
NOw

Sprint write it off quick (take your time: hurry up). Ja vole— yes a shower later, later.

Alright
Alrighht!
…I’m doing it
nOW

Why can’t you see I’m busy (trying ). Agitated, creepy presence. Out, out doggone spot. Go luvverly up your shelf. Don’t wanna be no dreg, after all. Handbag lady laces blue suede shoes. Cognisant of the morning news Under my skin up my nose round & rounder in my lank hair trite sprite clings onto dawn gloomdross Comely maiden dross— Out, out, out. Count up Damn Tasks: garden, self, showers, trowels Etwas anders noch? Durrgh…
~
Bleak as House out there Marigolds coshed by moonlight Lovely up you whelp
Shin up Mt Nose to eyeball tarn Stray lank hair in dank light socket
Unplugged juggernaut Shipwreck: Lady Queen of Bluesgrinds out loud love’s
old sweet songs over tureens Gave up the ghost writing it was time to break free
Put on the rashers Will it be Coffee or Tea?

Kissed unenthusiastic neighbours A pond farewell Stray lank hair nags bloodshot eyeball stings like hell (toasted two old roadies to get said freak show on the road) Fifteen minutes first thing first chomp an oldie, smoke, drink A pot of coffee & Unleash Cabbage effluent on an unssused speck Five hours buggering around – WAX – hair free website (Why?) airheads ponder tedium Get cracking on now —that’s better isn’t it?
Old hobbits die (hahahaha) hard
‘’…’ate a
B E L&T—S ?
(B a co n
Eg g
L e tt u ce
A nd
To ma t o—
S an dwi c h)

Royal Naval Robe without a belt (or hat): flapping & dangling around my chaps droopy tippets or Tom-Tom Baker’s dozen scarfaced In Doctor Who’s Who used to (the gown not the belt) looking quite dishevelled, I suppose two way mirror crack’d don’t dare to look if I were in your shoes—think with a long head on might it not put you off your elevenses and/or twelves’.’

After glum surgeons cut off my cutesy whiskers post fungal strife erupts maintained some decorum despite such besmirchment overcame survivor guilt for it only Takes one snip—
Eine kleine Augenblickchen

So it was as sure as eggs Is eggs is egg is Big questions cropped up At the heel of the hunt
avaricious prying eyes huffing sighs mock analyse occidental suicides—geiger counter never stops Weighing up the pros and cons Of cannibalism’s Human rights record
By focussing on bogus outcomes both Positive & negotiable elephantine silences
break wind and titter uncontrollably inside drag’s ragged hedge fledgling zoot suits sibillate on saxophone sedge
‘Each one counts’
‘yes, of course it does: each
And every one counts one more ’

tea party for the mandrake

We press on regardful that…

It’s Maundy Thursday

We must love one another

or there’ll be trouble

tomorrow morning after

a heavy night on the tiles

awaiting cold spring rainfall

selected leaf out

extra special attention

chosen at random…

please allow me to

introdouche myself

man of well fanned haste

Nightstare on Vellum Sheet

Farmer Jones

 

Is it sleep wakeshiftime?

Only just before clocksays nine, a warm still heavy evening groove, musky dusky, smell of drying hosed down earthy foodstuffs, traffic air settling taxi rank , no breeze or trees. Still heavy yield summer night. Ninetheless…

My kaftan is wet; music grates, wringing it makes me feel warmer than bevor: it shouldn’t. Trampstink: that’s it; stale groin, summer stale. out of conditioner. Bouquet of ersatz snow drop.

Go jump in a vacant lake. Can’t walk. Again. Still can’t walk. Gurn and bear it. Dense. You brought it all on yourselves monitors read say so no-one else is to blame. To blame. No-one else? There be scapegoats available ! Surely… go make someone up then.

You’ll do. A reader. Now, what are you like, Reader? Read…err.

Shivereeeeeeeeee.ee.eee.

‘Would you like your kaftan hung up outside?’

‘How can I reach it in the morning? Hang it up on the door…but even’

Cannot hang out and retrieve your kaftan? Liar. You could if you tried a bit, but I get your point about leaving shit around. Look at it. Everyfuckingwhere. Have a cider and forget it, you sullen self-pitying sack of soppy cyprian spuds from Syracuse…

‘Pass me the tepee, I’m unsettled.’

‘In a minute, I’m doing something’

Nothing comes of nothing. Something then, better than nothing; unless nothing is something. Back to square one, or the same one that where we were. Were. A funny place you always return to, even now; or, then. Slipped it your notice the slipping. Don’t slip: you don’t notice yet you know, don’t you know. How does it feel when you are not it, tell me? Prithee counsel me, I impish floor you. Prithee finger food.

‘Voulez vous volleyball?’

Volestranglers of the world delight?

Riddums

animation met a sticky one
blown away puer anarchy
downsized collective conchshellnesses
Personified Vietnam as glitch
Seen Through GI Gilmore’s peepers
In the Jungle Book called Life

Apocalypse Now & then builds strangers!
Was justice a matter of time spent wishing?
After red masque ball pastiche, rehash
Hanging out dirty washing on the Maginot Line
Computer generated egos crumble under post optical somatic catatonics

Beaver Balls

Beaverbollocks

 

Working hard at it she she claimed, beavering away, making coffers and indiscreet lagoons with yellow sundries from the ash cart windfall— a thankless task but someone somewhere must step up to the plate, try their very best, give their all, one hundredth of a percent at a time— so a thousand beavers would sort it if they were so inclined would they?
Downhill racers struggle without gravity, what fog feels like hanging in the callow strikes me, those muddy cattle look opaque in this light, like their doing untimed cryptic crosswords, me I stick to sticks and stones, pretty square some say, cubists so they claim but I know the type, grave robbers and enchantresses with altitude sickness…
Glassworks breaks me up and leaves me shatter in tiny pieces like a lake of prisms after rain, a ripple passes through her, where has my drive, my desire gone? No point in asking, all is done for training porpoises to jump hoops and technobabble…give up the shooting match altogether, she thought, I’ll never leave this place, just push soft unforgiving walls— words really haunt
She who sleeps sinnest not, I was told on waking, downstairs a dog runs through the smoking room, we climb the steppes in bandaged boneless feet, get spotted seeking Shelter from the Storm in a little hilltop village called Pat Buchanan for some unknown treason, the Yanks were around a lot in those old cold war days…
Just put it all together, two by two. Wonders then will never cease, it’s just that you won’t notice now you know the knack of it. Swing and roundabouts will conspire, playgrounds caked in cake, a robin shits on the aspidistra. Look what happens when the window’s are left open?

Kosher Berries

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Frit on the front lawn,
mulling mindlessly over
which berries are brownable,
and contemplating
an eight foot oak with huge mauve leaves
planted by you this day forty-eight years ago,
when god was a boyband
before we fell out over fake news
the vandals who smeared your new shoes.
Yes, a grudge-bearer of sour-grapes,
well hard done by then as now.
It is still too bold to sit out
in t-shirt and shorts
when the clouds pass over.
The blossom gives way
to rampant leaf growth.
Now tell me once & for all
Is a cherry a kosher berry?

Pumpkin Ears

Tri

 

—where’s this to, this loaf
bound for, headed, going:
i.e up dale or down dale,
pebble dashed hailstone rain,
tinkled on torrential like,
sprinkled drips twinkling toe caps,
rainbow highlights eyelash,
sparkling water falls, splish-splash-splosh,
pink wellies slop over full of krill and saffron sea cress, glow of nightjar
sinking easterly frames a sentence served
—or whither then,
shanty townscape,
cracked up pavement
southside sloper, conscious nimble
strider flits, ramrod string bean dipped in slime mascara,
held together by slow seedy joint and spindle whispers,
‘here’s a head with an arse to follow,
in shop window selfies stoop, looking round blind corners,
taking corridors on one at a time…’
—or once overheard
talking bull or elephant
shit late night train crunching tins and little boy lunch
foil packed by lung lost parents long gone munching
french fries and pocket money,

the big hard nut who put the world to rights with a simple push of penknife
and a jammy dodger wrapper riding foolish buckler
—aint going nowhere
much it seems, hard luck stories pack ‘em in
huddled up under flapping oilskins on Bigbumpity sands,
catching your death in the faux blue lagoon,

rescued by wary poltergeists, raised as one of theirs,
minus foibles and sundry endearing characteristics

—mindbombs go off,
ham salad grenades,
sticky bun insects, cheesy carnage, comic strip square jawed uggos,
give it a rest for chrissakes will you?

Well turned stony ground wins through parched earth moiety,
unicorn fish, one of our radiators is lost,
what a bleeding shame

Catatonia

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Python
Who will be King of the Mountain?
The spurts and dramatic surges
come fast and furious
from behind the drunken camera,
red mist clouds mingle
obscure a bloated moonlit summit—
unclenched by rarefied daylight hours,
curtains pulled on damp khaki trousers
forelawn it lies the grasses billow,
a potted pear tree is quick felled,

Provenance: grown from seed
by lusty Cecelia it now lolls
flopped on the worn out bird table.
Nasty shock on awaits some
due to freakish start— bowels unmoved,
face unshaven, body stale as bread.
Suffered well earnt defeat on the board
snapped mixing with lower portholes—

that going over last night lingers, brushed aside
like the fly I brushed away
at the top of the knock off swelter
of my fish supper two days back now.
Who will be the king of the world—
not I today, not me.
too smart for the likes of me
stuck up a churchyard yew tree naked
as a birdman trying to figure out where
it all went so very wrong again — put it gown
to the form of the day birdbrain

Ricochet

#1 oil

 

Each one a new one
A different case of upstairs
Did I say no chess today—
Well so what I was wrong
Put a derringer to my head
And just keep missing

Baked Park

gamma

 

Now time trudges wet
Sandshoe shuffle shod in sloppy seconds—
snide red caps doffed hide furtive grins
Faces crescent—shaped venally daft
Trying to zone in, get a grip, any grip,
be rid of this, this, this…
profane, pernicious accidie.
~
Dai the Morf & Wily Dan confer
to hatch a slick masterplan
to swamp the market in eiderdown
or farm mink in Chipping Norton
or timewatch daily brexit as life goes on
a walk in the baked park
—so many murders these day you dont
know where to step first?

let there be…


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light at eight today

just up after tunnelling

a pleasant surprise

waiting there when I emerged

covered in gold dust

Anti Fasti

KLEE

 

First affray yields up a brutal piece of string

meagre garner Erik Bloodaxe blows

over deep purple fog occludes

cursed ashtrays drip

full of tat & vine

notes: wheelbarrow spring to repair,

astro lingo  turns down the bingo

wrong sort of sleep on the tracks

one of them funny old facts

doing all the right things slant

attend mutters of great importance

perfume of torched digestives

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