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A giant slug,
six inches long,
Herefordshire resident;
Lettuce pray!
Yesterday
Afternoon
4.43pm GMT
I became old,
Unofficially
Olympickled brand land lies oozing
gold from every orifice except mine.
Yours too?
Grab bronze & silver, and what you can.
My arse and sides contort in Hysteria.
Yours too?
Once a bolemic called Shirley,
Who dwelt in a semi near Purley,
Crept down late at night,
Without the hall light,
And tripped on a large curly-wurly
My old man’s a dustbin,
He wears a dustbin lid:
His sister’s name is Binbag,
And his brother’s name is Sid.
And so,
continue along this rutted path,
overgrown with tangled undergrowth,
wort & porphyry knots
rocket and the sea grass
entwines red berries
and battered hollow inclined stick
on this blighted Savannah of tatty leaves,
and leave them meshed & mashed
by decay and dew.
There is nothing:
somewhere.
The dishwasher churns
I stretches
And gurns
As a string quartet
Explodes.
Moonday starkens
A passer by
Passer was
Exhilarated
By sex
May, the failed suicide, is escorted
to her coiffeur for a ruffle & snip,
natters too.
She is weak of leg and mind and partakes
of unlethal foodstuffs; sausages and
bananas in anchovy sauce,
that kind of thing.
When she insults the trees they turn away
knowingly to whisper disapproval
to the breeze.
Sympathy is like gas,
and tears
a finite
commodity.
Prospect:
Anthracite unshined and dirt black,
Clogging every aperture,
Crevice,
And hole:
Unhosed for public consumption.
No sound or light to hear or see,
Just the wireless & Davy lamp:
Maid in Bangkok Sweatshop.
Half a house swap in Ithaca, Greece.
Escape this coal face;
Leave the pick & shovel:
Gerraway!
Yer Puggled.
Just for several months!
Then, back again:
Arsewisely.
You always bring your weather with you.
Me Too!
Everyhere you go there is a lot going on.
Same old, same old;
Except for the new stuff:
Off course.
Grimbeau 