Didn’t John Lennon
get shot round now?
December…
Feels just about right.
Nineteen eighty what?
Thirty five years ago,
or so,
Swansea,
late slate
afternoon,
around about four.
Got up and switched on the box.
Programme interrupted.
Tchaikovsky piano
concerto repeating, scratched,
the 3rd or 4th.
Man, that was bleak.
Live in one room save on heat.
Never happy, never happy.
Robinson & Gamp,
Umbrella names –
came
From works of fiction
Defoe & Dickens wrote them
Most respectively
Dear Mr Santa Claus
Stop shoving useless
Information in my headbox.
‘Will that do?’
‘No, it’s wrong’
‘Wrong?’
‘Yes, wrong.’
‘Who says gross moral turpitude is wrong?’
‘People…just people.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that, would I?’
‘Suppose not.’
‘Suppose right.’
Arsenic & old lace
Did I say older?
I forget a lot these days
Onset Oldtimer’s
Mindless tedium
Your guess is as good as mine
Xylophones twinkle
Beautiful losers mutter
A man goes apeshit
Puts on a woolly thinking hat
Down to business
A murmur of life & debt
The meeting convenes…
Grimbeau 