31 | July | 2013 | Grimbeau

The galley is a mess: the Cook’s portholes,

open, abandoned, admit the squalid

Seaspray.

‘Keel haul that Boson, Master Bates, cocking a snook again!’

Karmic three times before the gloaming

Sixbell.

Cross word addiction seeks crucifiction.

Cryptic agnostic pursues persecution.

Here comes the window cleaner in a towel.

So, splice the main brace, Mr Hands, the wind howls

the sea is incandescent maroon green,

a kraken’s wake can be seen astern.

Just there beside the gherkins.

Looks like a job for the Kropotkins.

Well, that told it how it was, put plainly.

Food and codeine taken; heavy, post-op

medicated eyes loll there in your head.

Soon the sun and you break through and shine,

Or so the forecast has it. Never give up

on a good forecast, as, one day, it might

give up on you. None of us want that, do us?,

1 Comment

…that grease-monkey over there,

clad in a voluminous grey migraine of a kaftan,

smells incoming rain, she

watches the rosewood barometer plummet

from minds-eye.

Two cups: dark, bog green and light duck egg blue –

call it grey if you will. Look upon the too pink wall!

A violet pyggy bank, dark pastel blue lagoon.

Dylan: fat sporting unselfconscious Woodbine,

older and hooked now, Larne shed dweller;

‘..in the town of New Haven’… Morrison mugshot postcard;

Milligan Sieg-Heiling traffic Hitler.

Curling at the edges coloured

photocopy of dog-eared Ulysses.

Wailing was the morning

wall of lost projections.