Grimbeau

Scroodles

Theogony

Think I blew it, yet I just dunno—that’s what happens when you stand, put yourself forward, lay it on the line. There is always a train coming, fast or slow. What makes a good loser then?

A hand-snake and a Simeon smile or the sweet compensation of mere participation. At least it was close. You was not crushed. Tomorrow is yet another day. Fire is a symbol. Hubris is a drudge. Just when you think you’re getting somewhere it bites you big time on the bum.

‘Cover his mouth’, they insist, before the final gorge sprays us all in sap vile, instead we provided pineapple chunks to moisten scabby lips, and prolong the agony for one final heaving lurch, And it is done. In olden days they caved the skull in with stones when the harvests failed. Pity is the most base of all emotions. We wallow in the swamp.

There is a vaccine far away without a city wall, they sing. Round here the white van still is king of the faeries. Up north they are putting up shelves to house commemorative urns. Down here Dido laments white haired waves blown back before the Zoom committee as the Old Greys look in on morphing apps till human voices wake them up to drown in the incredible.

A free land hopeless and divided. Rancorous divisions between bookish Bostonians and Robes-pierrots; pearl barley devos and childish prodigies; blank cartridges and Aaron Burr littering up the federacy of dung beetles—a proud, eventful history of all that’s best in human slaughter in the mechanized age endangered. And then a sullen rentier assumes the right to legislate for honesty! This is a bold country for old men and algorithms.

Sundown, Theodosia, will never be the same without the plankton of your tears. I head for Alabama with my banjo on my knee first light. We may never see my like again

Don’t bank on it Aaron, there’s one born every minute.

Jump the Broom

Grimbeau

bedview

The Phoney War on Slapstick Ends…
Times like this began with General Approval in deep hotchpotch jaw-jaw back of Nico’s bar and grill traducing clam-baked mongrel hoc polloi
‘Better late than never’, sighed swan necked Frieda Sluggish flicking though a growing stack of IOU’s and billet doux. Silhouetted against the bleak midwinter skyline it all appeared quite plausible to steady bogus Chad, whose tab fetish was the talk of the mobsters.
‘Flower sales sank to an all-time low—O’Bannion’s gotta magpie coming his way if things do not pick up by Valentine’s’, said Dom in matching ball gown and crozier.
Hosiery was ever a cut-throat trade; less a game of football and more a matter of life and debt. Smart plague dogs knew that much as they did their rounds of the loose limbed irons that littered the sidewalks of Prague
‘This place reeks of optimism—check out the Assassin’s Diary for…

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All Hail Dicky Mint

Arose majestic summoned by the crunch of toerags on linoleum. The pedal abscess shows a timely bursting in the night. Wondered what that crack was. Scrambling net returns. Pork pies after beer match, Fine snick to first slip. Attend carefully your Rottweiler. Summer comes round quick. Adopting a ten year old is a huge undertaking. The social workers lie. Get them off the books. Any old port in a storm. Driving home for Christmas. Tears streaming on hard shoulders. The venal driving rain lashing on the windshield. Constancy of wipers never ceases to amaze. Best clean up the act. Early show tomorrow. Theo on parade. Sport best bib and tucker. No regrets Scott Walker. Umbrellas and photographers. The steps of City Hall. Audacious in broad daylight. Lone wolf shot rings out. A sharp intake of breath. A seething heaving crowd converges on a crisp bag. Writers are not born they’re made. Forget the BBC. A posse slow to muster. No Orchids for Miss Blandish. Savvy in your dreams. Never touched a drop. Black pudding and a rasher. Cup of steaming tea.

Better late than never. Who the fuck said that? Observe two minutes silence. Someone farted. Takes all sorts. Poor little Pedro. Him and his ukulele. Not a dry eye in the house. Silent but deadly. Ever changing moods. Penny each for them. Pockets full of shrapnel and torpedoes. Show some disregard. Scrumptious fubsy widows pole dancing on a pinhead. Many muckles make up mickles. Give it up for lent. Dribbles faints and shoots. Bulge in the back of the net. Radar lover gone. Hands once wet on the wheel. In the canyons of red oceans buried

Say something someone. Break the bleeding ice. Mastitis is contagious. City cooked their goose. Windmills in utopia. Lend us a drag of that. No way back for Dicky Mint till hell freezes over. Hell freezes over. All Hail Dicky Mint!

We contemplate the effigy while lying on our backs, A purple people eater is unleashed on a suspicious public. Bloody well serves them right. Get used to anything in the end. Look at Green Shield Stamps. Whoever would have thought it would ever end. And Gerald Nabarro. And and and and and…

Time for a bit to eat. Feed the inner moon.

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