Whither the day, whither the morrow
Head full of pain, heart full of hollow
History stopped this morning at Ten
The Pinkos have got me corralled in the Pen
Biding my time, postponing the Craic
Till hell freezes over and heaven smells black
A Prial of poems
about giving
up
using cigarettes
as a metaphor.
Smart, uh! Believe me!
I’m a Vicar
The State is
Your friend
Embrace it
Warmly
By The Neck
Morrow
Whine
Concubine
&
Sultana:
Sultans
Pull on
Woodbines
&
Inhale
Passing
Clouds
In
Silk
Pyjama
Save that, Patroclus!
It’s
Midday plus
five.
Hazy Sunday afternoon.
Luncheon?
Fishcakes & ptarmigan droppings.
Not again,
Pen
What happened to the marmoset wellington?
The Ogres, I suppose.
Eyes bigger than their stomachs, those lads.
Gluttons with mutton.
Ask Old Shep.
Boiled eggs,
two soft boiled eggs,
four minutes sortie,
give or take a few spoonrides
for immersion and rescue –
tense moments, critical mass.
Two slices of toasted oatmeal brown:
four buttered diagonals, obtuse triangles,
bread hats for bald coolies in monsoon, torn
to shreds by bare hands for dipping soldiers
and to perform mopping up ops in egg, salt and pepper theatre.
The year is shaping,
form finds content in
mulch and gunge,
from primal gloop comes novelty
Everything assumes a name:
Rose, Spud, and Daisy to name but three.
And this year’s offspring: Prim, Tatty, and Iris.
Pleasant thoughts to have for sure.
Looking forward to plenty more.
Signs of hope…
Bang!
I kid you not.
The dog just barked.
Here’s the cops.
Apollinaire wore underwear
de la Mare wore trunks
Ogden Nash liked ganache
Ezra Pound fed Monks
Dusk’s here (round half four),
falling to a soundtrack:
Jumpin’ Jive,
Cab Calloway.
1943
Cab?
Must be short for something.
All I can think of just now is
Cabellero
though I have no faith in it.
Surely, no-one would be called Cabin,
or Cable.
Not for a first name anyway.
Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stars!
It is Cable.
Spelt Cabell.
Something to do with cowbells?
Perhaps.
If you go down
to the woods today
you’re bound to
bump into
some trees
Grimbeau 