by grimbeau

Art house debacle closes overnight
Director of deaths & entrances arrives late to the party

Black as samurai over garments rustle like tin foil
Hair tied up in funny chive like bunches fasten with ligature

Very red lip gloss looking like a proper tart I suppose
Otherwise a sleep of reason during cool radio silence

Blue cloudless sky, wall to wall sunshine, could be a nice one out.
Milkman been and gone—cryptic hint found on doorstep.

Cars away to work possibly containing earwigs,
kettle recently boiled, supreme court ruling at leisure

open the window & let in the sun for a bite to eat
Opened a new consignment of ecstasy: filter got a goodish three scoops

Heading for the Prose Coast by the look of the lie of the concertina
loosen up a little timber by the shed on the approach
That bloody editor looking over my shoulder is giving me the pip.
Very wet grass from overeager sprinkling oeuvre.

Where do you think we are—Palm Springs?
Guzzling gas and water like it’s going out of fashion.

During the golden years of American capitalism,
late nineteen fifties and early sixties,

before the rot set in, that was what you did you schmuck.
Pleasant Valley Sunday out here in status symbol land

(Jerry Goffin & Carole King or was it already too late?)
Maybe an old one gathering dust