Clunk!
The drunken drongo clambers out
the egregious red slaughter van.
His
Is a face like putrid brisket chewing.
Soon
He will be sent down into the flowery furnace.
The charge:
Serial respiration with thirty-seven charges
for being a noxious twonk to be taken into consideration.
It
Is a sad reflection that such base grunge gets written about.
More
bloody darts repeats.
Dark again.
The tide is out.
I
Am not.
Dawn blasted the drapes
Umbrella
Creased smug night
Levity
Hocus pocus slights
Mister Rhees
Easing out a moist
Anchovy
Cool plus
the art of cool:
Isometrics
‘woman’s grudge is
women’s definition’
pink chink
on a chin,
a sliced face
to sew:
True.
The camera
is the woman.
It never lies.
In place of dreams:
Streams.
Steam Packet
Steams
Big white
SS Hooper
Smiles
Mallards dive South
In Autumn
Turin shrouded
hemp sack fog
vanished
Will there be Candles?
Yes or No –
Combustion
Prizing open cocoons
from inside drains
a body dry.
Such a struggle!
The sheer effort!
Yet, for me, somehow compelling;
the ecstasy of sublime writhing.
Hunger drives it.
Just can’t stop it, help it,
like the test your
strength hammer and bell.
Timing is all.
Breathe, hoist, slam.
Or perhaps a
better metaphor is
Greco-Roman wrastling?
A Dormouse in a
stapled paper bag,
rampaging like a
fart in a trance.
is fatuous:
Oryx in a coconut
gives a notion
of the dimensions,
but at least the fear of asphyxiation is passed …
(The discerning, attentive and functional
amongst you will realise that I am on a rest break).
1
Sun inside, sun outside, hens free.
It’s quarter to three: to my right is a hyacinth blue hyacinth,
elsewhere a dove coos.
Why no workies?
Smirkies, shirkies, quirkies…
Focal plane down the drain.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
2
Woke on the water, choir in the sky.
Lost habit, out of the swing.
Naked apeshit visit.
Longers.
Two two two will not do: simply nots.
Time not spent at it.
…
Pomes and yarns roam and darn days, nights, hours and showers: eats, drinks, & sleeps. That’s the trick, Mick.
Here’s a right one.
Duck!
Crystal was shattered. Ratty Vanfrau was at the ablates again. Queer going altogether. Formegandros was a right old wrench to leave. Never spurn a taverna. Still tempers fugit…
`His head’s gone.` observed the rookie.
‘Tis the time of year for it.’ said the chainsaw massacre cast.
‘Not that bloody rubbish again.’ Cried the crowd, aloud.
Castlemaine was a horny bitch for King & Gentry alike. Insatiable in cerise tights, pacing the Home Office, looking frantic for a booster.
‘She cooked your goose, Sir.’ Said the minion, Vince, up for a good twatting.
‘As waltzers go sir, she’s a dodgem.’ Castlemaine stomped.
The funny papers
Weep today
Fanatic manhunt
Underway.
Bullets rain,
winds prance,
Cold suns rise,
firebirds dance.
Sirens wail,
beggars chant:
Honi soi qui mal y pense.
Up
for apparent reason
undisclosed.
Harangued
power firm larcenists
with deft wit.
Bathed in bags of lavender oats.
Too much, too much
insouciance.
Satraps gather
at the Gate of Gosh
grovelling for a living
Epiphany mistook for Advent!
This tells a tale or ten…
Lost is Yulespace, got mashed, and crashed to earth.
Splat!
The last day of Xmas.
Today the alchemists bearing the yearly cold, lack of sense and mirth
pitch up, begging favours, selling usury. Usual cobblers;
Wealth, divinity, and death – too late lads, I will say,
Got that on Black Friday mugging happy shoppers
(bagged a drone charger and a ten foot serene flatscreen)
No, today its back to bollocks with a bang
Like all good things,
so must bad things
End.
Bring it on, Xenophon!
Grimbeau 