Nine
Start the week
with a ban on refined sugar
opened the honey
moving slower already
somewhere somethings wrong
not done any work
of a practical nature
never make appointments you
know that you don’t keep
how can you make some headway
where do you begin?
Georgie Gargoyle sneers
leers drools pours derision
raining scorn upon
the weak, sick, old, cold,
&
all the living and the dead
cruel salacious scabious
snooty pogrommer
Stones weep in circles
Foolish fickle Orpington
Regicidal suburb
Confederacy of Dunces
Hang your janus heads in shame
&
RIP St Lubbock
Lord Avebury to his mates
Champion of Nutters
They finally got rid of you
Blasted swinish multitudes
Wrong kind of democracy
That’s the problem with this country
Sea I said
…
idly
pointing
over the point
that bit of
Sea
Yea sea so
Sea!
Yeah, yeah…
Please do not get het up,
Sounding like a Gatling Gun.
Quite naturally
I conjectures that i
Touched a raw nerve
I smoked some grave ass
Damaged the thick glass
Of my cartoon eye lash
So did Gunter Grass
He was good, dontya thinks?
knifing slivery eelsguts
in a Kitchen Sink
Orange speech bubbles
Need regular refreshment
Like imagination
The all-embracing
pink bouncy rubbery squid
sprawls cross my mod cons…
Yes, it’s got that bad,
it’s reach this point, this juncture-
hallucinating
bold gigantic squid
lolling on my hot hob,
giving me that all
knowing dead one eye
come get me sucker
challenging behaviour act
My aspiration?
To achieve nil interest
For the sake of it
Unshaven, filthy heap,
Condescends to wake
moping like a slum,
anticipating the worst.
A pained animal wails
Comatose in the garden.
More cloud and damp certified
*
Bacon butties, washing, sweep floor,
then…yes! There’s the rub.
Yesterday’s exchanges were ominous,
dictat is not assertion.
No plan, just command.
Move me bed upstairs!
Trouble is brewing…
*
Ten china doves in gloves
Scattered shattered crowd the path…
Showered, swept, washed, cooked,
consumed, answered the phone,
all alone for another day,
masquerading competence,
kidding no one but myself
*
One man play for the F-Bomb…
ludic, fractious notion.
Fish & chips made from
leftover garden spuds?
And why the hell not?
When forensic finally
Turn up the flies are long gone
Kodak caught the moment
Look! Say Cheese! Ugly
Your embarrassing neck
You now too can see
Appear in future times
Like Dr Who or Theda Bara
All it takes is
A blink of an eye
Like a pinprick second
Then magically
Scientifically
All the world is yours…
Birthdays, funerals, candles
Immortalised forever wrong
Stuck in sticky dust envelopes
Marked: ‘Audrey, what a treasure!
May, nineteen-seventy two.’
That was it, was it?
Grimbeau 