There is pleasure sometimes
when the pain sleeps
rests its harpy’s head
on a nice warm lizard
but, promethean
is not a word
that springs to mind
when you are in flames.
This morning as I flood
Your drapeless windows
A body turns away
to hometown night
Ratfink fabulists!
His pursed crimson
lips made rainbows
kissed by fresh spring
Another new da Vinci exhibition,
The Last Sipper & other lesser Works,
Same faces, same places
But upside down.
‘Time, dark time,
Flowing by like a river.’
He shivered
Looking in the mirror.
‘How did I come
to give up
canonical grandeur to dally
in such quick-buck pranks…
What the hell am I
doing with
these theatre types,
for Chrissakes?’
Finkfab Ratulists!
This is it
Like a prairie
Far as you can see
One big
Bread Basket
Waiting to be cut down
Puzzles me sometimes
How they did it
In the old days
Sunny spells and gormless showers may pop-up,
Sure,
who knows what to expect?
Scattered,
varied temperatures throughout and persistent.
Staggered,
Meteorolological incertitudinals
Mindboggling,
The algorhythm of the Boolean
Windmaker
Nearly an hour later,
job done,
could be better
manicured,
hair free like the lawn.
Still there is no beating
waiting in the utility room
and there never was.
Just happened
to others-
still got scared
at the thought
of it.
We
never had a
utility
room.
Love the smog, says Chuck, give it a $500 bill
Even if it only handles Three-Fifty.
Dedication is not enough:
Starve, go mad, anything
but Christmas and the Queen.
Decent, Open violence:
Heaven.
No guns or knives;
smart weapons, suicide bombers
can have it all too themselves:
Totally Assured Destruction.
Watch them, video game Field Marshals
play it on the beach, with the grandkids, at Christmas,
and watch The Queen inside smart shades.
Backwater
Turbid water:
frogspawn and dead mite,
leaf and leaf mould,
moulder in water,
and smoulder in fire.
In the watersmoke,
a quick refraction
moonlit silhouette,
stick strike and flick,
a stunned roach lands
soon dead:
Stone dead.
My first and only fish.
March home,
shirt stuffed
with bluff pride,
a natural born
roach killer.
Voices hear off. Who’s that?
Sotto voce, surely not…
Laryngitis? Going round.
Dan the Man,
very quiet, very soft.
Hard of hearing what?
Panic: King of Song breaks out!
Windows flung shut,
open air freshener
acrid Lavender.
Look out window, see blind woman,
shout hello, silly me
I can’t hear her, radio off,
mute mate shows up, funny looks.
Is it me or you? Tragic
You me: who we? Comic
Heads start to implode.
All I said: ‘Nice Day!’
watch blind woman talk away.
13:13
The familiar guest is here, bearing honey.
She has been through much to be here just now.
No powdered purgative prevented her,
temptation flopped, nothing but nothing kept
her from this preordained destination,
on this day, at this time, in this place: now.
Wind whips rain into a lather, suds flop
coating the gunny sacks of chrysalides.
In lamb we trust, mint sauce spooned, vinaigrette,
in dollop, drizzle, cavalier splashes,
and in gravy swilled figure of eights.
Suds slip down in dirt, super, saturated
soil where rose and weed fear to bed in wont
of oblivion, just when you least expect
a dandy bramble jallops the windowpanes.
No rest for the wicked, it tattoos.
Grimbeau 