Olfactory Incident
Plumes of scent eroticise the thronging masses
Gathered on the river banks
Who Swoon.
Love is the air
Grimbeau
Scroodles
November 22, 2013
Tarsus
Posing on the pooper scooper
Rowing caressers dip oars in
The music of time:
Flutes…
Lutes…
Pipes…
Silver dipped sails billow. Below
punkahs wallah cupididly the fans.
Ruddered Graces – Nereids,
Drape golden richly perfumed cloth
Of gold
Whose scent
Wafts the dumbstruck multitudes
Asleep
November 22, 2013
Bird of Cowardice
The mob has gone.
Bob is making
rolls with sausages in them.
A thirty four is shut: northward bound.
Wish I was a Phoenix.
Sometimes
November 22, 2013
Jock Frost
Tomorrow is Oxford without parking or me.
Remember the Alibi: amputated neck.
Sick note. Be flat. Play doggo. Stay warm.
Cocoon safe baby bunting.
Snug as a mug in a hug.
All is plight.
Begloved hands ring with pain.
Sing song blue.
Little Green Lies.
November 22, 2013
Lighthouse Nighthouse
Cricket and pills.
A Huguenot calls.
We talk balls.
Share our ills.
I do not wear lace since chiffon left.
Yet the memory of soap suds abides.
The medication commences just
after lunchtime on the second day.
Two down eight to go. Too high to control:
off the mark. breathe a sigh of brief relief.
Night is right.
Theodolites at dawn portend a repast
of frogs and lizards.
We shall heat them up before we eat them up
watching for triremes from the lighthouse penthouse.
Grimbeau 