Ten at night
The pie is dead
Remember The Grapes
Sickly sweat clings
Cold cascades
What is he barking at?
The moon is out
Down The Grapes
With the stars, some hasbeens
And four screaming wannabes
Called The Vermeers
I couldn’t make it:
Artistic differences, you know
Matters of principle
Moral scruples
Skint
The giddy minstrel lived on fruit
Flies, moguls, caprice and hunks
Of Cheese and Bread
She did not give a damn about
What
Anybiddy said
Once munching on an oligarch
She tittered and got silly
Convulsed in laughter and bit off
A substantial lump of Willy
Give me a groat and I’ll emote on hope and faith, and craic
Should you not meet me on the way, you can on the way back
From hollow land and silly land, to form and sound, and black
The song you hear will be our own and never will shirk or jack
Too good to be true, too simple to work, you say inside your head
That tapping on the roof you hear, is rhapsody robbing the lead.
Lanolin folded cream
Rolled ploughed furrowed
Clouded brow field
Sky blue food dye filling,
one indigo dropped in a sea
of sky goes miles
Insuck ouch
It bites that wind
Just looking at it
Seated by a throbbing rad
Savaging a trembling bramble leaf
Petrifying a bare twig
Starching stiff the black tent top
And fruity pastel bin and body bags
The fat drawers and winding sheets
Creaking next door’s line
Jerks temporal physical
ecclesiastical spits
& spats dribs and drabs
scamper like sideways crabs,
those little sand ones,
super-sensitive little critters,
don’t want them in your vestments.
Just thought makes skin creep.
Icky rinse and unction,
gentian blue, geisha socks,
hollyhocks in aspic,
that’s fixed it. spit it out,
like venom or tripe
gloopy pukey cheesy goo:
Yuksville, Ariz.
remember some
name
fell off
dark rock dead surface
third stone from a sun
inconspicuous absence
heart grew heavier,
colder somehow violet
gone but just
forgotten
do not kid yourself
we are disposable stardust
Grimbeau 