—C’mon will ya, times running out you know
—As it was forever, my Darling. As it forever was
Enjoy the frisson of this unique wait, embrace the knotted belly ache, the acrid stench of pristine belch, the bilious shuffle of stockinged gall, the dank fulfilling disappointment of barbiturate decay…
Nana stared down at knees confounded, sulky so and so-so slow, frowning shoelace fixated, entrapped by bogus mood, stormy petrel eyed.
Port worked listless slow sweet calm numbing Nana into dreams of old ship’s roll call. The first bottle barely touched the sides and when the jabber started and the lights went tickertape flickershow. Nana palmed blue eyes black and sighed. The house had been adapted for this very purpose. A messy cottage hospital bed in stumbling distance, a sink nearby to piss in handy, a broken uppy downy lift cage, handrails to the upper poop deck, drop down cupboards that always mind downturned head, assorted sticks and staves for all slopes, bags of pills and sooth me ointments, an exercise ball called Ned the always needs wiping. A blind one with their wits about them would manage. And the guards, what became of them? She sneered.
He wrote her, they confided with a smirk but when once asked upfront dissembled. But not his real name, nobody reads mistakes nowadays. Why so, you may ask. Spellbound. Whistleblowers bark up leafy trees. All is made encrypto, off camera, discrete… Because they had not never seen it had they. Unpublished was it then? Top secret. thirty years of dust. Worse than that: unwritten. Has that helped to ease? Not sure yet. Thirsty now. Quench it. Comely flitch of wench. Avast! The good ship Opium!!!
Sacrificed three spoonfuls of processed Bulgar chaff, paltry offering to the grumpy gut gods before crossing a river of cheap day return. Not in this atomic form you mind yourself. Michael White seems a nice chap all the same. Who the fuck is Michael White? Goodhearted yet didactic. Why they knit still yet? Implied contradiction. More like sloppy language. In the end time only tells. Some will never know a book.
Rubber ham granted a wide berth by blue dragoons. Left out uncovered overnight splash length from the piss sink tap. Fruit flies are harmless yolks. No protests a pear skin. Beethoven chord diminished. Eighth sonata sign your name in. what’s My Line with Whatshisface— Ladle Isabel Barnett into a Padded wagon Kleptomania Villas. Know he’s in the room at once. Intemperate cuss but wait. Yet waits. It it time yet? Not really here at all. Try telling the clock as much. Just marches off nonchalant.
—Da da da dum dum. Irregular as. Arhythmic. Clogged. Wind it. who has the key. Sucker for profiteroles. Crumbs. Hands are useless. Broken cups. Old China. Kuomintang-on-Trent. All the broken pots. Arabs glazed the inside first. Or was it Jews? What matter. Soon soft shoe shuffles disappeared it. See who next.
Sleepy Ham of Gentle Snoring. Shower day rides out come dawn. One in every two of late. Don’t wear out the skin the aim. It bleeds deprived of flesh bacteria. Rots without a minding too. And without it well. What then? Marasmus. A scolding rebuke for afterskid. Suddenly you remember, no seeming trigger to it, try and garner detail, no matter, that’s when it gets dubious, a smell, a touch, something sensate, but it’s gone, so you fill the empty. Just let it be, let it rest a while. But it goes, the butterfly moves on. A glance. That tension in your neck melts. Tantric feels remote. Cheap pink fluffy slippers. Was that deliberate? And if so, so what? Oldest trick in the book. The no trick trick. None of us know what we get involved in. liars disagree bitterly. That’s what liars do. For good reason. Power plays. Epic sunsets past two days. Charcoal, golden, slow masses, subsumed by shadow, not in your pomp. Who cares if you don’t? Stumped. Strolling mind found absent. Seiche on water fills the sky. No reflection. Howzat? No need to really ask. Just kept walking. Funny old game bird. Head up arse in clouds. Mackerel springs, amber leaf, install smart meter at your peril. Swings and roundabouts. Sunshine on the copper slide. And the roundabout. Scary monster. Still turning with no one near. For the fallen, propelled centrifugal, thrown off. felt queasy all right. Every time after. Wet wood sombre stench. Cold as a witches. Found no mushrooms. Camouflaged by night. Glow worms ardour dank. Open a tin instead. Careful with the ax now. capillary pumphouse. Needles. Back to skin. Neck of Lamb to tenderise. Food for thought indeedy.
Gravel falls on the Bog of Allen, the mighty Shannon, and her pussycat, Apostrophe—so the world turns purring strident tortoise shell Quick swallows catch the eyelash. A Little cloud passes glacial slow. Count the fingers on each hand. Made a note for future reference.
Filed it under Pluvium. Fine was his soft chestnut mop. Hair moves like water rushes.
Liquid. Jealous. Moi you bet.
Eyes souls windows see. Little green cloudbusters. Plain as the nose on your Holiness. Put my furt innit there. Engage then utter. Nerves to blame. Jitters. Too willing to plead loathsome
Articles before the fact denied. Nosey eyes mouth off truth be known look just like Picasso by nightwatchman puggled
—‘The Tomb of the Unknown Swimmer’ got a certain I dunno well quite sweet about it. Popeye’s on! All hail good fortune to Folkestone Fusspot Vicar Vicky Vicar—he who didn’t make it before the replay of Match of the Day must pass. Tell us that one about the man who swam around the British Isles sustained by bananas alone, a flotilla of yellow peels in his wake, wailing sirens rest love me Nigels, fruity pleasure cruiser horn blasts wheeze.
Leicester are going to the Boss’s funeral in Siam and cannot make and the bandstand children of Woking are absent after the inflatable slide occurrence, and the SAS have gone to look for the swimmer now feared subsumed by banana skins suspected to be caught on a rip tide once captured sublimely by Turner after wild sex on the beach with Tracy Emin listening to Black Uhuru passing by bareback riding on a rescue donkey who hatched a secret Brexit plan with Ant coz decks got cold feet on sensible browns and sees no future in the past and dreams of pastures new in Ruislip off seventies gatefold albums—Mornin’—Mornin’ Door slams too. Away to go or overnighter forgot toothbrush and pyjamas bless him anyway
An Odyssey set in a perpetual civil war where no one dies:
‘Alas, poor Mexico, so far from God and so close to the United States!’
‘to tell the story … in an imperturbable tone, with infallible serenity, even if the whole world resists, without for one instant calling into doubt what you are saying and avoiding the frivolous and the truculent alike … [this is] what the old ones knew, that in literature there is nothing more convincing than your own conviction.’
Convinced of their guilt
stare into empty space through an Aztec Camera
local witches knot twine round faggots
from freshly fallen bones
slow casserole and raisin curry, stewed giblets
to raise spirits dashed
by events dear boy events…
Now with the cauldron brimful
steaming ghosts come to sup their broth
and melt into the fragrant mist
Stands the watcher still
Uneasy on the rampart?
Time enough to count the mystic turds,
witness four leaves fall
observe spinach green ivy
and lime winged calendula in orange bloom.
A goo five mutes all told den?