Grimbeau

Scroodles

Zero Hours Poet

Just get the one hour these days
to write this guff so I’d best
just get a move on
there’s others waiting
and they’re growing restless
Yeah, they cut me down
to one hour for my own good,
or so they tell me, and, in
many ways they have a point.
At least when I’m just sitting
doing nothing else, I know
I’m doing nothing.
Sure, I could be making do,
doing a job, all of that right stuff,
but that is not what I want to do

Write?
Well…
Be, be and write?
Yeah, write & be
Is something missing?
Yea, happy
Happy, write and be?
That’s it. Write and be happy.

You’ve got fifteen minutes left
Now I’m very sad
I’m very sad to have heard that
Send my commiserations
All my thoughts and prayers
To whom it may have concerned

 

Damp Squibbles

The road is full up
bold brazen alien cars—
fireworks party sleepover,
vodka cheeseburgers,
Haircut 100 (Boy Meets Girl),
Megadeath (Love’s Old Sweet Song)
—sailing metaphor
discovered cringing in
uncharted waters.

Here?
Early night after watching the box—
quiet as a sober xmas and about
as memorable
as a drunken one.
That time of year is about

After all that sleep I am up early,
cognizant of bowel, reminiscing all the time,
self-nutting, never the plaintive, always the pontiff,
he who must be dismayed at all times,
grovelling before the
altar of adverse opinion.
Waiting for my hat to be knocked off

Ireland beat the All Blacks in Chicago—
were they wearing Blue Shirts?
Always feared the Moor, the Bogmen*
And its bog weather down here in the Cut
Dross grey damp dank murk
Sunday in November

Glamorous brown tortoiseshell
bicycle clips seconded
make-do Alice bands
by stray myopic pedlars

*The bogman learnt to fear the Moor
when they left the quay of Baltimore
with a penchant for paella,
whitewash, and a wife and kids,
slave traders of the Levant,
sporting nubian pantaloons,
chain smoking ali baba camels
swiped them in the night