by grimbeau




Sun inside, sun outside, hens free.

It’s quarter to three: to my right is a hyacinth blue hyacinth,

elsewhere a dove coos.

Why no workies?

Smirkies, shirkies, quirkies…

Focal plane down the drain.






Woke on the water, choir in the sky.

Lost habit, out of the swing.

Naked apeshit visit.




Two two two will not do: simply nots.

Time not spent at it.




Pomes and yarns roam and darn days, nights, hours and showers: eats, drinks, & sleeps. That’s the trick, Mick.


Here’s a right one.


Crystal was shattered. Ratty Vanfrau was at the ablates again. Queer going altogether. Formegandros was a right old wrench to leave. Never spurn a taverna. Still tempers fugit…

            `His head’s gone.` observed the rookie.

            ‘Tis the time of year for it.’ said the chainsaw massacre cast.

            ‘Not that bloody rubbish again.’ Cried the crowd, aloud.

            Castlemaine was a horny bitch for King & Gentry alike. Insatiable in cerise tights, pacing the Home Office, looking frantic for a booster.

            ‘She cooked your goose, Sir.’ Said the minion, Vince, up for a good twatting.

            ‘As waltzers go sir, she’s a dodgem.’ Castlemaine stomped.