Grimbeau

Scroodles

Incubator

NINE is eight found wanting
stale orchids splutter
pure airways clog up overnight
no second breath come first gasper
justice thirsts as curfew darkness drains
March makes aether culprit,
Flirty snide barbs rib and niggle
vindictive zests defy belief
--when will words fall petal free?
consult yond inner demon seed
that insufferable bore that force feeds you
breast fed in orphic bubbles
drives me wild eyed to distraction
shot drops me like a polar bear
found seething raging blowing
sliced through by sabre sleet
marooned out on a dodgy asphalt shoulder starving
Only got so far that they could fake my name
before the pants were pulled down
and the sacraments began
blurted it out in dribbles and spits
left little old me in a market town alley
who would have thought it would happen here
over here of all places

brutal huge on laudanum and eggplant

 

 

 

Foot zing alarming after redress—

stillborn labour long and arduous;
earthquakes grumble

sullen tallow poesy,
very nice though it seems,

a can of worms called

cryogenic masochism. the rood that came unglued. nothing hinged springs easy.
Where is it to go?
Forlorn in no faced media; a crowd of ones and zeros swaps ;
O not to live like that if I make it through this eternal night;

Snoopdogs of a thousand faces;

lit from underneath by lime
twixt screens disposed to wander

looking for a break
a let up in the bombardment reveals
a pile of rubble heaped

beside a cranky trebuchet
lightly dusted with talcum powder
redolent in no way of instant mash

The Dream of Homunculus

Woke up muttering astonishment, ruby jumper crushed on a damask outcrop, leapt limply from penthouse window, thought I must a crazed intruder, some illegal alien or a late night shopper carousing minus funny money,

Rain lashed Kildare High St, dead of night, lumpen teeming moonies, letting out the dogfish, floppy velvet hats, shirtsleeve weather strange, break in clouds deduced, curious chair dismantled in a narrow alley. Upturned news stand consequence, pushy driver takes the rap, formula one marauder, empty room pulsates, furnished lobby giggles, holiday let contracts, commands a salient view, bendy flat horizon, step outside on stilts, reckon high on cedar, always muddled vista, inconclusive sparrow, reverent pariah, incautious wing commander, terminally droll.

Hubristic two faced cubists should not wonder, leap of faith required, fatal blunder buster, sods conjoined by deadlock, noman torn asunder. Rhyming slang bewildered, gentle thunder applauds, door jamb screeching doughnut, head on concrete pillow. Leaping crayfish willow. Bruce Lee Brilleaux padding. Me no hip hop shopper, came a sherpa cropper. dropped a deep space hopper, insulted missus mopper, plangent belly flopper, blissful billow popper…

Tell sour story your way, pulling no prissy punches and when the time comes roundly recite the following by hearth:

How dreary the winds shriek and whine:
The trembling shadows grow chill.
O soul of my soul, wert thou mine!

O where are the stars that did shine?
The moonlight that tinselled the hill?
How dreary the winds shriek and whine!

Despair ’round my heart doth entwine,
Far soundeth my cry weird and shrill:
O soul of my soul, wert thou mine!

I’ve quaffed to the dregs the mad wine
Of passion, but under my sill
How dreary the winds shriek and whine!

’Tis thine, is the dream so divine,
That doth this vain yearning instill;
O soul of my soul, wert thou mine!

’Tis mine, here to crave and to pine
For what thou wilt never fulfill;
How dreary the winds shriek and whine!
O soul of my soul, wert thou mine!

Wild, Wild Night

Grimbeau

yellow-circle-in-reds-and-pinks-7-13-small

Crisp white linen sheets

on the hill

cracked and billowed

on the line

Stark wild clouds

flee eastward.

Wry, cow-towing

pines obey the storm

under the window,

under the pink drapes

Whimsy murmurs:

Rowan will Live.

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Ed

Grimbeau

Once upon a time

there were no happy endings

so we made some up

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A New Baroque (No Pyjamas)




an apothecary swallows fast
it went down the wrong way

chuckles of embarrassment
lewd conducive intimation

penelope's dreamboat melody
tempts and titillates swineherds

a discreet number parked deep down
in the novelty oxen hide 

the men in yellow hats watch Eloise
shyly unwrapping a cough sweet...

rococo seashells shatter
a new baroque is stillborn

Rube and Curt were not impostors
But verity was brute traduced: refracted

Four Two Seven Tops ( A Neat Conjecture )

Sure there was wine
Before my sighs did drie it: there was corn
Before my tears did drown it.
Is the yeare onely lost to me?
Have I no bayes to crown it?
No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted?
All wasted?

festive nestlings playing up, most het up indeed, catch my eye

getting jumpy, get the wind up

Beware of swarthy eggsharks, capricious pine martens, pernicious rapine twitchers.

flurry overwrought inside, see insecurity in frenzies uniformity

Consterned as cops vexed fledgers issue squeaky peeps awaiting flaming June in rueful Minnesota

Carried away on arboreal gusts frisk baby leaves,

Martens fast encroach

Two skips is all it took

Two shakes of a lamb’s tail

To wipe out a twentieth century life

spent keeping head above water

Rarely if ever ahead of the game

Trading off lives with careless talk

Having a bit on the side

Giving as good as you got mind you

Sauce for the goose

Is sauce for the gander

Always an eye for a chance,

Jones’ suck up the Jones’s

unhinging light air traffic and small furry animals

o’erleaping avarice; now we send in the homespun drones;

reinforce a no-fly zone around the wasp factory;

Forthcoming static times hang in

a balance of increments crisis;

Till a feral cat let out of the pisspot of despots, tosspots & all their worthy heirs

Declaims this barely adds up to a steaming heap of beans…

So much for no grumbling, Nigel. First thing that came to mind. Poor me! Poor characters, all on the samey-blame me path. It bores me frigid Nigel.

Aja is an island freed of its natives by slavers in 1863 and remained so until the mid-sixties when reclaimed by six intrepid schoolkids

robbed a boat and hid out there for fifteen months in perfect harmony. William Golding was a god bothered soak in his spare time.

Friday on my mind (for it was a Friday); shifty manoeuvres are afoot; a climate of suspicion prevails; all locked down with nowhere to go.

Wanna topic. Lack a tonic. A gin and tonic for the troops (gifted clear sky-blue ideas plucked free from the aether); thought of it twice and got frustrated.

Climbing up the walls. Whit Monday radio news: windows open, summer day, lockdown wobbling, allure of mithra, life lived in one day, back to shitty work tomorrow,

half-term hols from shutdown schools, many will never return, social fabric wearing thin. No subject crops up; birdsong soundtrack palesjust gone nine

comes a moan for all seasons, rut-stuck in a gruesome shamble. Fire breathing vipers lick crusty ankles all hope evaporates for peace come flaming June.

Lining up for the second wave, the seventh is the strongest. Rip tides plunder those too dumb to flee, disbelievers and romcom tourists gather at the river, bored shitless by these endless update spiels,

The Bog Road to Szechwan

Green mud I declare,
not to mention yellow air,
dragons turned to minnows
and mice to toothy tigers,
just because two toffs
got the chop
at precisely the right moment
Timing is everything it seems
when the wind blows backwards
and the waves return for one last lap.
I take time to observe the spots
on these bamboo leaves before me
And note they bear a striking resemblance
to the candescent snotter of dilettantes

A Fossilized Act of Disappearance

Snow disappears
Guileful children on a beach. Acropolyptic.
Hope and Joy At Christmas c 1947
seventy years later.
Wrapped up warm pockets, Fur. Athens.
Green Park black in snow. Black and white snap.
Tense audition: slow cello pizzicato.
Angelic wails receding. Haunting voices clamour. Ghost beach cacophony. Polperro parrot.
Densely uninhibited. Rosewood box sarcophagus; in saecula saeculorum.
Dirce row the boat ashore, allelujah!
Mehta and life sentences; brahmin breaths and tea tree branches. Caste system begets Vast system.
Grain. Verlaine. Purple pupil beater. Flageolet old bean.
Tap Water sommelier; aficionado of bruised chihuahua avocado.

Ten O’clock— Big Seven. Threepack Strumpet, Sir Cumstantial,

Phidippides takes the bait (bad day for peas); black pudding weather;

Blazes Boylan, venal baritone; heebie jeebies scatology;

Socrates in a basket; wax my slippers, Maestro please; abject please on bended knees; laxido unction up tuxedo junction; keep on plugin’, sluggin & sloggin’—get to hang Ovid one day; then u is milin;

Alice…hair flows like meadow waves;

Midday—no prime minister-no questions; stretching hams, fizzy up; paeans to beauty, mannikins of mildew; auto scribbles; no hard shoulder to cry on; heavenly ten ton truck;

Kersplat Morrissey. Old Tosh cops it. Amazon scammers fuck me round. Louis ain’t rough

Ninety minutes spent wisely in the organic community means death on a couch of sedge in the third world. Plague takes three million worldwide every second. Big numbers crowd sevbig books. Thor world fills ledgers thinner than most

Grey warm flat empty sandstone treasury of Petra in Sunday drizzle

Monday is the boiler fix, a dirty spoon abandoned , a muzzy morning nuisance caller, an offer to be sniffed at, a fresh bed of noses, an aqueous shower, and a tale of two leopards disputing a missing bone

Swallows & Brabazons

Feel compulsion comin on
Moon shines under curfew;
pub names seek out provenance;
swept up dog shit and fag butts;
morphing on shampoo;
gurning calypso whistles;
tailspins round on moccasins;
issues mystical whispers;
moon shimmers underwater;
lamprey medusa turns
bongos into boulders;
bleak cold war imaginings
old as drenched dépaysé hills


divine fingers flexed; sick of reflection; noises off confound; fucking radiators hum; mind drifts to arcadia; planets lost to soundbites; melancholy flower; limpid soft eyelids droop; molten magma tears flood in; fissure on the ocean; squinting barracuda scatter; flying fishwives bitchy gossamer; caught shoplifting by mantrap anchovy; collective conch shell ears twitch; beach fine tooth back combed sparkles; electrifying sighting; touch static ocean tingle; giggle nervily; end of media for twelvemonth; never on to follow fashion; mores to boot save a fortune; purchase rawl plugs clear of conscience; epistles replace missiles; dreamy brave new worlds; a sure solution to eye pollution; perpetual indulgences of the ear; waxing lyrical no doubt; blessed peace and quiet; profaned by preposterous plugs; fingerful of secrets; no go dip your wick; careful with that wax eugenie; dunno where its been; a butterfly picks its nose in siam--and wham; bob is not your uncle;

 

Circumstantial

The Faber Book of Neurotic Plants & Fruit fell open at ‘Gallimauphy’.

Inspector Funk arrived on fire.  

The only witness present was a mute cook called Chum.  

The blinds were shut tight.  

The light a marsh gas lava lamp.  

‘This setting is singularly inappropriate’  

scrawled across the crudely artexed wall.  

Water dripped three-four time into a blue builder’s bucket. 

A neurosurgeon minced nervously from door to door.  

A fat man rested his eyes in the blind 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 appeared from the mulch of scattered yellow maple leaves.  

The silver rowan tree was barren.  

A youth on a black bicycle rode past. Blurred adamant and grey.  

She was fleeing the clutches of a thousand-armed family that dogged her every move.  

Belatedly the phone rang. It was limpid doomed Patricia, destined for the perfumed abattoir.  

Funk was lost for words. Platitudes are all he has to offer; he winces at his indifference   

The varicose veins were clearly visible in the low November light. They were hungry. 

A chicken jalfrezi and chapati were all there was on offer.  

His bane, Epimetheus, patrolled the galley like a hawk in times of need. Nutrition was rationed out like peter’s pence to supplicants, the law of inbuilt negligence was cited.  

Chum would be released on good behaviour by a Nightingale.  

He had done nothing heinous.  

The Faber book of Neurotic Plants & Food was shut and files sent to Coventry. Funk gave way to apathy and examined the food for truffle spores.   

Monkshood!

warm rainfall in the liturgical woods:
plump homely droplets
out of old potatoes
–olive galoshes

how strong the hay smells
turn me into your shadow
progress is glacial slow
–love every second

Guff Awe

beast ill
maya
king sighs

Plague Whale

Lost half the month already
to seasonable sloth and extreme frost,

torse spores shimmer in moonlight
two cats watch blackbirds re enacts a dogfight

Over the Solent
a robin watches on from the cankered sill
of a cedarwood pergola

The battle for britain is back to stay
with the plague world looming
how many more times can i respond?

Going the last inch at the drop of a hat
Dog tired at eight-thirty hurts

Plague Cell

Cracked pot next upset chair—
Out of upstairs window stare
Must have been a storm out there
A wind blew
A telling gust
And Nine Red leaves stand out
flamboyant in a cruel spring glare

The Spectacle has,
indeed,
an emotional attraction of its own,
but,
of all the parts,
it is the least artistic,
and connected least with the art of poetry.
For the power of Tragedy,
we may be sure,
is felt even apart from representation and actors.
Besides,
the production of spectacular effects
depends more on the art of the stage machinist
than on that of the poet.

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/Grimbeau/kew

Ahhh…Schucks!!!

Grimbeau

Neon lights down south prevent
naked dripping quills lament
bloated heavy vaper trails sing
pregnant lullablies brew ginseng,
(self-harmless charades, stone deafening elective boredom,
loose lipped mouthy toothless , upbraid misogynist gays)

manky moles crudely startle                                                                                                        lazy worms like
old man Moses rotting down                                                                                                        nice now deep down deep…

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February Lite

A strong short shower
overflows congested drains;
a dog turd disintegrates on the rough grass;
the scream in the night
was not from next door;
even upstairs i can hear the engine hum
Sad, alas, the man who dreamt of Fairies!
For a single dream spoiled his whole life.

Day speaks truth unto Day


once just like you  
 I was a  
 January Sunday  
 pushing all the wrong buttons 

revealing the found rhyme 
 correcting unsightly tyros 
 How quick we are  
 
forgotten when we're gone 
 as if it never mattered 

Twonk of the Day

Sat inside the morning moonlight
Digesting —
yogurt honey banana grape granola
Confounded Bristol stools chart

There is a trap set down memory lane
Especially designed for rogue elephants
Inclined to silly pop songs

Threadbare

1
Worsted, Tweed, Galician calicos, reamed
cotton screed, diaphanous silks, dour,
coarse linens, Chinese screen tableaux
of mislaid epochs, safe and unsafe tapestries,
sad stacked in the old mead hall, the conference centre,
the hubristic hub of soft arrogance now
Withered

2
The once sure folk have fled, melted and mutated,
The meek ones headed for the hills, they crouch
and mooch grumpy, sucking stale breadsticks
in their holes, the old caves and calcified barrows.
The diehards fought foolhardy rear-guard actions –
smouldering stockyard bone stooks stand pyrrhic
Edifice

3

With the Labyrinthines gone away, nature is displeased,
Ever abhorrent of void it convenes
Bison, heck, leopard, eel and titmouse,
Louse, curlew, ptarmigan, to settle
a modus of repair. They soon conclude the obvious:
You are only as good as your last, worsted
Algorythm
_

Subcutaneous Junk #2

A redundant giant slumped silently on a porcelain escarpment washed by all weathers
Hesitated and slipped under the turbid foam. A mission bell tolled, candles were lit and praise was lavished on the magnificent shit.
“We may never see the like again,’’ claimed a source unknown to number ten.

Respiration

A long time ago
I went on a journey,
Right to the corner
Of the Eastern Ocean.
The road there
Was long and winding,
And stormy waves
Barred my path.
What made me
Go this way?

Hunger drove me
Into the World.
I tried hard
To fill my belly:

even a little seemed a lot.
But this was clearly
A bad bargain,
So I went home
And lived in idleness.

Rage How Sure

Cracked pot: upset chair—
Out of upstairs window stare
Must have been a stir out there
A wind blew
A telling gust
Nine Red leaves
brazen rust: spring glare

Après Ultra (New Ears Day)

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
Festive lies.
A nuclear fog subsumes Trollenberg as
zombies fill the dishwashers
incanting the curses of Mali and
smiling on the memory of
Nkrumah’s regal foxtrot.

‘Maradonna’s dead’
‘Too bad, but what of wee Diego?’
‘Robust mudlarking,have 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 burps in fair Abrasia.
‘Will he wash?’
‘In good time, when opportunity arises.’
‘The crusty stench is beyond the daily luminal’
‘Crud!’
‘Poor wee Diego’
‘Aye’

Lily the Punk

Grimbeau

Observations of a soggy flower

do not set the world ablaze.

There’s enough grief to

go round these days

I suppose

common old perennials

grow back when people don’t.

So sorry Lily,

you’ve had your fifteen minutes

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Bear faced Liar

The blank look; the pale face;
a swingeing cut & a lunging thrust.
I am always rocking and rollin’;
pullin’ & pushin’;
puffin’ and twitchin’.
Sir Realism chewed the wasp wing
absentmindedly,
he was looking longingly at the bust of Dickens.
‘Formegandros!’ The bellow echoed around
the huge, bare bathroom.
After rain falls sunshine

Mr & Mrs Sophocles

Grimbeau

2262504524_bc81dd03f0_b

‘Will that do?’

‘No, it’s wrong’

‘Wrong?’

‘Yes, wrong.’

‘Who says gross moral turpitude is wrong?’

‘People…just people.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that, would I?’

‘Suppose not.’

‘Suppose right.’

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Threadbare Phantasm

1
Worsted, Tweed, Galician calicos, reamed
cotton screed, diaphanous silks, dour,
coarse linens, Chinese screen tableaux
of mislaid epochs, safe and unsafe tapestries,
sad stacked in the old mead hall, the conference centre,
the hubristic hub of soft arrogance now
Abandoned.

2
The once sure folk have fled, melted or mutated,
The meek ones headed for the hills, where they crouch
and mooch, sucking on stale breadsticks
in their shell holes, caves and calcified barrows.
The diehards who fought foolhardy rear-guard actions –
smoulder in stockyard bone stooks stand pyrrhic
before the Sacrifice

3

With the Labyrinthines gone away, nature is displeased,
Ever abhorrent of void it convenes
Bison, heck, leopard, eel and titmouse,
Louse, curlew, ptarmigan, to settle
a modus of repair. They soon conclude the obvious:
You are only as good as your last, worst
Aberration
_

She Sings Good


Way downstream

in Swindon
waters rise

spring tides surge.

How very dared
I met her
then,

And brave the dangerous voyage?
The grass lay

down in the valley below
Where milk cows

numinous mull–

hands work

fields that never end
dawn to dusk
the cuckoo toiled

Swinish Multitudes Arise!

Grimbeau

back 2

Let us pause for smoke and prayer…

Teeming sardines in the Arab Sea

A billion starlings over the Fens

Sensing food and predator.

Poor old religion gets another lambast

Courtesy of these withered digits

Hens in the back are revealed as angels,

a blackbird coyly juggles rats

Louche, pleasant, twisted opiate dreams.

The bayou shoulders slow magnolia

Grits for slow, big, muddy river that quivers

Magnificent regardful like a python

Weighing up the yearly weenie

…in the Jacuzzi of good and evil

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Mews

Grimbeau

In 

 

Seamless

Sleep

I saw you

Gallivanting

 

Sumptuous

Blaze

consumed me

Juvenating

the wake

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Après Ultra (Diego Marijuana RIEP)

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.

‘Maradonna’s dead’

‘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.

‘Will he wash?’

‘In good time, when opportunity arises.’

‘The crusty stench is beyond the daily luminal’

‘Crud!’

‘Poor wee Diego’

Dudes de l’Etoile

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’

You is the One

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.

‘You baby. Only you. You is the One of it’

Fin

Big Ox for Iapetos

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.

Pink  is the colour of my true   love’s ears

In the morning

When we rise

Like a fridge over troubled waters

I will cool you down

Chuck bread out the cookhouse

windy for the birdies

For the birdy birds

Slice potatoes down the grain

& fry

Like an eagle

To the sea

Working in the hot sun

uninterruptedly

Egg hard boiled

Tomato sliced

Cumbercu flintly slitheroo

Rindless salami

Door step:

Batch

Navel Gazing

Grimbeau

Boboli

Considerable free

time spent pursuing meaning:

Omphalosophy

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Dorftrottel Allegro

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.

Purgatory

Grimbeau

Sound transmission with lampblack reflector

_

Wonky-wheeled about with caution,

discovered prone Bloom, covered in

lampblack, penitently licking up,

almost lapping up,  ancient grease

beneath my fridge. Toilet next,

then repatriation to the Lazar

Zones of Bongo-Bongo Land.

Abjection is the will of kippers…

must try harder next time, if…

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Earlier

Remember

reading The Unnameable

in identical weather

this time

last year

and the one before that.

Same old house

but different room this time.

The old lady opposite

was alive

last year.

Now her stuff

is in a skip on the drive.

Saw it from the room I

mentioned

Earlier

Theogony

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.

Jump the Broom

Grimbeau

bedview

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…

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All Hail Dicky Mint

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…

Time for a bit to eat. Feed the inner moon.

Pluvius drops by

While showering the rains came down. Heard a squeak. Oiled the loom. A lightness rare assailed the room. The squeak was the fire alarm laughing. There was no roof to speak of.

Nostraseamus

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.

Nostraseamus has spluttered…

All Saints Rave

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!

Bosola takes a Dip

Setting: Picnic or flu jab hinterland

In your dream scenes
(caution reads: pumpkins squashing galingales);

Salty raging thirst (wonder why not)
Got to get out of this plaice

(socks, shoes, & some means of transport?)
Forthcoming events – domestic drudgery,
tease skunk in garden, stir molten corned beef muesli…

Draungrs fillet cod in their sleep
discearding all its meagre trimmings
in the myrtle oceans deep

Dunnock patrol sweeps
up the primrose lawn prior to snotty
pompous entrance of the Queen of Sheba

Gormless positivity crowds glum punters out
Embedded Jasper stone in troubled forehead
Brecciated third eye squints

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

A virtuous thermal is born
Magic lurks in fits and starts
Fragile as a dovecote’s earrings

Pageboys scatter popcorn on tympani
Jerry built it for doom and duplicity
A loathsome mother superior stalks our every move

Dove henpecks petrified garden gnome
but then it is Wednesday
after all is said: undone

I Entertain the Roosevelts in the Dark

I entertain the Roosevelts after dark;

oranges, Maltesers, tea…
a splash of morph and a chess ,
it does not mean that much to me.
Another week fades
into history,
undead beneath a cypress tree.

Not been out, seen no one, done fuck all,
I have spoken on the phone to people,
my beard is bushy,
my skin is blotchy,
I am more flaccid than overweight.
i have ploughed through old squibs and haikus

i have drained my capacity for self belief
these ruminations
churn out more words that will
never find anothers eyes
this is freedom from responsibility
attained through tedium

Boice

Arfur’s Castle stands remote, aloof, crumbling, on a grassy knoll.

Conquistadores and anchorites

camp out under the stars

on the shore below

silent and brooding in mutual contempt.

A beehive cluster

thrives in the scrub

above the land and sea,

aware of playing

their part in history,

observing from a clod…

peace is bitter, fragile, salt,

cherished and taxed by capricious elements

in unsteady measure.

A bell rings, muffled voices,

Dig out familiar honorifics,

exchange predictive sequences.

A conclusion is drawn.

Visions of safety and despair hug.

News of decay and hope embraced.

The word has been spread.

Something to consider anon.

The nights are long out in the panhandle,

buffalo sedge to plough

when the rains stop flooding the hog pits.

Destiny’s got the whip hand.

Keep your head when all round loses theirs.

Remember the good years in the horn of plenty.

Wind sure picks up in these parts.

Wonder sometimes how

the boys in the Shamrock are getting on.

Is Henry still up to his old tricks?

Boice will never be the same

without him if he took that ride he said.

Still times sure move on.

Toward a Greater Madchester!

Rolling around weighing up the options for the next phase?
Life is what happens when you are making other plans

So you like pith then
Are you buying or selling?

online depersonalization bureaucracy rears its ugly head
academic qualification or hiding behind mummy’s skirts throwing stones from the long grass?

Be brutally honest. Crap at deadlines and references, useless file organizer, prone to rage and self-destructive fugues.

Would Tai chi & yoga not be better for you?
Are you a glutton for punishment, trial by ordeal, the futile fight unto the death of all hope.

Yes, most of the time
A glutton for punishment then?
A glutton full stop.

Do not publish this even when the urge to fill the void is huge
Anything to avoid a haircut and a shower

Have another cigarette…
I shouldn’t really

Why do anything anyway?
Your crap at life let’s face it.

Suppose so…

It’s all on the internet anyway if you really want or need to know
True

Better to get out more, meet new people to glower at
Yea, Glower Power—sounds catchy

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