Grimbeau

Scroodles

Quires

The things you can do without an electronic typewriter
humble simple me—
yet the holy purpley babbling brook has been enclosed
in fancy fuzzfeed—
there is a kiosk where they strip search you & sell you
stuff you know you need, foe example a goatt follows
you up and you follow it round in ever creasing circles
until pop goes the
weasel and you are the prey for today—
why I didn’t give up writing was the river
went elsewhere downhill to an unpolluted
secret silent sea of air
beyond the fetid clouds
emitted in the toxic lemon drops
a way above the chimney tops which was where you found me
Shirt people got no season to give…

Cyclopticon

Forge me fresh iron gloves conceal dainty awesome hands
dwell snide outside of town & gown
& horsey country mind settees,
our ward young Toby thrived with Chinese knives instead.
Secret Agent one day; Detectorist the next—both found dead
Then came big break evil Asian confectioner caught
stark bollock naked without socks
onstage in a theatre that never shut—
St Simeon’s inrage thus inspires high hopes
in hapless giant hogweeds eaves
Sleep up high on the motley jonquil hog agenda —
lost generation chess records
put XTC to the plough & harrow—
take cream cakes & comfrey gourd
nuncle carbuncle cure all—
go to the foot of your stoney stairwells—Look up!

And see Boss Bhagwan Ayatollah Lip Gloss spreading such admirable disgust
We must see him rocking now in tiresome indifferent light—
post war on boredom trilogy
where an invisible man sees the disappeared
hobbling bent reflection in the right wing mirror of a runaway truck
and
like spotless old leopards
hid in mustard cress
fails to impress
—only yesterday’s child waved back it is said
before restive time dragged it away like a hassled mother
to the nursery aware that unanswered waves savage the tardy—
try hard to get over it with short enticing books
timer set to last one hour including adverts
or
shorter still fifty minute therapy
—books where the work happens in the outrageous transfer fee—
pre-defenistration Guy looks more beat than hippy sheik—
Cannes film festival held on ice, next time water
down the rusty Rhine if the goblin cats allow unlucky days
old shapes reform as cuticles
ascension day bereavement—myths of evening airspace—until the next time should we be spared this broken nail—stagflation or stagnation
know your limits! Six years old am I naked on a hillside cloud watching on my back a man approached with a cough I grabbed my duds and snook away sharpish

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