by grimbeau


The fault lies on the outside,

so confessed Aaron

the BT flight controller,

pledging a hearty lineman

first thing tomorrow.

Gangs of New York patrol the afternoon.

Julian arrives with new gadget: the man who came in from the war was Moldovan.

Aaron was a practising moron.

Sell by date sarnies announced as food.

No morph and three fizzers.

Bereft of yarns.

No call to quack.


French polish windows thrum,
Pathetique ripples tickle
sweetening even air,
far off a yelp, a rustle of
rushing crinoline,
a dalliance commences,
to conclude by glow worm light come dusk,
entangled in briar on damp mosses
under elephant sized zucchini.

Alternatively, welsh rarebit
on toasted brioche
with chives and wildebeest,
served with lashings of green tea and
Pontefract binlids, while
galoshing through seas of watercress
and camphorated hankies.

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