Phlogiston

by grimbeau

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1

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.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

 

2

Woke on the water, choir in the sky.

Lost habit, out of the swing.

Naked apeshit visit.

Longers.

 

 

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.

Duck!

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.