16 | November | 2020

November 16, 2020

Big Ox for Iapetos

The Night of the Bog Heat plays out below as ballooning over Tara above the steam stench peat and course heather the summer thermals waft muesli west to titanium ships that calibrate conditions for the fleet. A neutral landscape unforgettable and unforgiving to the bug eyed.

Drought brought us down with a sharp shallot, shed from an upset colander

Hey Mister Storekeeper, quit that cruel gruel rustic fabric. Don’t leave us besmeared by steerage stirring for a box of frogs! Give up and yield to sunshine and snorage.

Pay off the elders with jalop and deploy quick wits and cutesy metaphors.

So deep the seeds of self-movement sowed. Patience is its own discord said the blueberry to the snail. Adding:

‘Be gone you irksome carry house from this esteemed wilderness. Talented Cromwellingses of all stripes and zealous alkyhorlicks abound in well clad tower blocks throughout the land, I’m unreliably told by sources near to the ketchup.’

Why so sorry? Why so sad? It could be worse; it’s not so bad…

Well, yes it fucking is. It fucking is. It fucking is. It fucking fucking is…

On Tuesday the Twentieth of June 2017 it became, at 5am, 24c and in the corner the fan purred loud. It was sat on a spare chair slowly watching tennis from Queen’s. At the end of the encounter superglue handshakes were exchanged. The combatants wore green flip-flops.

Pink is the colour of my true love’s ears

In the morning

When we rise

Like a fridge over troubled waters

I will cool you down

Chuck bread out the cookhouse

windy for the birdies

For the birdy birds

Slice potatoes down the grain

& fry

Like an eagle

To the sea

Working in the hot sun

uninterruptedly

Egg hard boiled

Tomato sliced

Cumbercu flintly slitheroo

Rindless salami

Door step:

Batch

November 16, 2020

Navel Gazing

Grimbeau

Considerable free

time spent pursuing meaning:

Omphalosophy

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November 16, 2020

Dorftrottel Allegro

The Faber Book of Neurotic Plants & Fruit lay open at ‘Gallimauphy’ when Inspector Funk arrived. The only witness was a mute cook who went by the name of Chum. The blinds were closed. The only light was marsh gas. ‘This setting is inappropriate’ was scrawled across the artexed wall. Water dripped into a blue trauma bucket.

A surgeon minced nervously from door to door. A fat man rested his eyes in the corner of the crowded annex. Chum was taken off for interrogation in the wet room. The clock was stuck at seven twenty-four. On the lawn red fungi grew in the mulch of scattered yellow maple leaves. The rowan tree was barren. A youth rode past on a black bicycle. his aspect adamant and grey. She was fleeing the clutches of a thousand-armed family that dogged her every move. Belatedly the phone rings, it is limpid doomed Patricia, destined for the abattoir. Funk is lost for words. Platitudes are all he has to offer; he winces at his indifference as he does so. His varicose veins were clearly visible in the low November light.

A chicken jalfrezi and chapati were all there was on offer. His bane, patrolled the galley in the hungry times. Nutrition was rationed out like peter’s pence to supplicants, the law of inbuilt negligence condoned her every move. Chum would be released on good behaviour. He had done nothing heinous. The Faber book of Neurotic Plants & Food was closed and sent to Coventry. Funk gave way to apathy and sniffed the food for truffle spores.