Jesters at Vespers



After Sylvester evensong, Loyola piped up:

‘Out with the Pianola!’


(As Nasturtiums have for donkey’s years)

We were ready to kick out the jambs

The Easter Lambs & heaven could wait a quarter

Priscilla the Pig, our Abbot, dressed as Emile Zola

Got the  ball rolling with the much lauded Tombola.

A fine thing, like some tradition,

The Tombola of the Tropaeolum:

We put our Bull into a hat

Pull out the winner

And a new year

Doctrine is chosen

A fresh true rumour

To add to the credo

This is followed by

A game of sardines

An eternal favourite

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Grumbling (Appendix)

Ophelia melts crushed ice
just as passions rise
reach levels acceptable for mid-July
well before calendars ruled the earth—
pregnant burden rowdy satyr
—pitta patter of cloven hoof bubbling in the cauldron pot—
rapture fakes tradition
like salmon mimic
rudeboys chewing anthracite

Winsome day stares back in pearl,
lysine satyrs rake hay
before smoothies crushed yellow fibrous thing smacks
up velvet ice age, commit starfruit
guilt on hyacinth, hubris
—deliver us from antiseptic chores, come five it should be done
and dusted save the mighty
fallen rune stones these
that sully my fresh chemise?

The permanence of it!
outrage conceals mendacious logics.
Watch dust settle fast like loopy gifs.
I picked up pretending
I was stoical like tapioca blinds
— how strange thoughts of red meat, fish and fratricide are when putting out the compost

Rinsing dishes salves scene four,
just bear in mind damp
tea towels conspire like mathematicians
in pleasingly random numbers, that’s when
the claxon insists
on sacrificial offerings
— three day old goat’s milk sorbet and bluebell sponge
Not really much to add

As to whats been said, said Dr Watt
sniffing digits for giveaways
·Best go play it doggo a few days old chap say forever bury deep·
More like advice to self methinks
sobbing prone alone
violate throbbing ringpiece
shorts round ankles
let it end

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