Mortality spooned high and heaped:
thick cold blisters, ampule-like.
Reason’s varicose vanity disgorges
on cheap wall-to-wall.
No pulse.
It was all in vein,
nano hulks flap brief resistance
unflapped flow proceeds.
Thumb pressure,
white nailed myopic frogman.
Sleep above the waves.
Beneath the wined ark corpuscles
All them short lives.
Approaching Four:
Darkening December Afternoon.
Radio and slippers on.
No pipe, or Drum,
or wattle daub.
No dread tattoo.
Still too early for the Angelus bell
– no one sounds one round here anyway –
not that I’ve heard.
Never saw one neither.
Leafy swell yesterday,
clear night so far,
foggy dew unlikely.
Napalm funburst sunset, oilslick bitter tears
Give way to pork smells, rumbaba, cockatoos
Squawk, rustles of last gasp, reeling tigers,
plangent oozing, floating, clades and phylums
make touching, silken, floating islands.
Wind has gotten up,
must have overslept.
On the coals up north all night if you ask me:
stopping trains;
leaving bad leaves on the lines,
causing hazards,
hazards strewing huge bleak,
Elkless causeways.
Whistling down closes, windswept
cloisters, alleys and avenues,
soft, flyblown parades and promenades.
The North and the people are tough, soft things.
They can take it, like cockneys in the Blitz
or Peter Sarstedt in empty Biarritz.
Long plunge for bad hands;
flannel jowl and fronds;
Swift wash of forearms,
elbows, knees and thigh fronts.
A modest film of moisture cream daubed
then smoothed on outbursts, blotches, and salt crust.
Prevent cure.
Cure prevention.
Prevention does not cure.
Cold yucca on blasted rock red sill.
Wiping is fuss.
Pain bothers self and others.
Even the vermillion, coral soap opal
hides in aniseed shades, sandal wood fumes.
We shout in whispers
like cisterns filling:
shy sirens shrieking.
What is to do today, to what end?
Option plop is number one.
Option fresh coffee is an ambition.
Option edit does me credit.
Other options are optional.
Rabbits and Guinea fowl
Smiley too will play a part.
Frost becomes Frimaire
Handless in daylight,
dumbed up,
heavy eyed,
slumped posturelessly:
Thinking crafting…
Dreams all smoke and needles.
Warm hot drink in the dark of dawn.
Pink blue grey shadow:
dark orange glow of cold red brick.
Opposite
Car crusted:
Sea salt white sand on metal green frozen kelp.
Neat work by near clear
night.
Tongue twisted morning garglers
dash the mirror. Cough &
splutter.
Showers follow borne
by
Wind from a cold place
Trying too hard; put simply,
can’t decide where to start.
As you mean to go on?
As good as
anywhere.
So here we
are again.
The square one.
A saying that comes from
Radio
so that the
listener
could follow on a grid
in the Radio Times.
But where was the square one?
The middle, the corners,
In the net?
Tried something ingenious:
no go.
It’s getting colder but still:
no snow.
What’s it to be tomorrow:
dunno.
Not the same as today is:
hope so
Tom Daly comes out on you tube.
Has he a book out for Christmas?
Never liked him, smartass it seemed.
Could be a case of jealousy on my part,
but he always seemed
another cocky little bugger like
My Perfect Cousin –
Kevin the Div.
But, mind you, he was thrust
early into the public gaze;
like Shirley Temple, Judy Garland,
or the Daily Mail,
or grown up faces,
and apple sauce,
and Macaulay Caulking,
Micky Rooney, the Queen, and rusks.
Thinking about it
More like Zola Budd
Or Elmer Fudd
Perhaps.
The spectacle
Can be so fickle!
Grimbeau 