by grimbeau

The clocks go back one
week before to Bleak House.
(Thought the clocks went back last night!
—getting ahead of myself)
The twenty-second was somehow
lodged in my tiny mind.
Was something else meant to happen?
I’ll ask the jolly green giant.


Today I will be
wearing black trousers on cold legs.
Maybe even a jumper or bearskin mackintosh
should temperatures drop further.
It is cold and colder getting.
Hot stews and warm socks.
A biting scabrous wind pipes.
A sunny afternoon.
I’m staying put for a change.
Watching old telly.
Keeping warm and snug.

I smell the smell of

A nagging cosmic
draft blows through the iron windows.
Read through pre-bender notes—
it went on longer than I
thought, as usual.
Shrapnel on the window sill
Save up your pennies for
one Xmas Funday
Unfed, part-watered, un-run, unsung, half-hearted…
Chili con Carno, baked potato, half-baked bowler-food
Bleak House continues,
nearing its bleak conclusion,
Working on this, the Lord’s Day, I ask you!—
no rest for the Wicker Man

apple crumble

The watching hour starts
with an advertisement
for Specksavers
powder your nostrils, Homunculus
the milkman’s on his way
Down the labial
Post prandial coal hole,
chocca-block with corpal junk,
about to drop off if I’m not careful…
Low hanging fruit ice

double cream Sunday