Bird of Cowardice
The mob has gone.
Bob is making
rolls with sausages in them.
A thirty four is shut: northward bound.
Wish I was a Phoenix.
Sometimes
Grimbeau
Scroodles
Category: blogging
November 22, 2013
November 22, 2013
Jock Frost
Tomorrow is Oxford without parking or me.
Remember the Alibi: amputated neck.
Sick note. Be flat. Play doggo. Stay warm.
Cocoon safe baby bunting.
Snug as a mug in a hug.
All is plight.
Begloved hands ring with pain.
Sing song blue.
Little Green Lies.
November 21, 2013
No Strange Fruit
Sat, consternate, on the rotting silver birch
stump bemoaning the lack of an exotic
mushroom yield
(it being over three years since it was inspored)
a rolling stramache, a riotous flurry
of poppies blew wanton from the coppice.
Red ones, white ones, black ones – this cloud consumed
my solemn rage. Then they came, arguing
in tongues. Poppy makers from far and wide.
The marketeers are always exercised
thus early November. Not these poxy mushrooms though:
bloody rip off if you ask me reader
November 20, 2013
Ideal
Dark just winter.
Nine o’clock snooze.
Dream? Insomniac dishwasher.
A brief history of crockery.
All enamel is utility.
Hell freezes
under green almonds
and thyme withers
on the vine.
November 20, 2013
Free Speech!
PMQ’s: doggy do’s and donuts, donkeys
dongs, epsilons. Chrysostom Whizzes. There
it goes up your Nos. Oui! Bilbao maze,
courting ruin. Edge of dark knees, Mercy:
Tintern’s Orange shell: morning sun crystal
fur frost. Wells too drop in on. The gentle
right man chews a rubber burger, butts a
verger, calypso hedge fund merger.
Snort and the world snorts with you:
sneeze and you sneeze on your Tod.
November 20, 2013
Certainly can: Can-can
11:46
Rain.
Poll & Nob been and gone.
Sloth sleeps so no shouts.
Me: wetsuit gloved, coffeed up, watched replays of yesterday and now:
what?
Dog just barked, commode getting wet by coalhole.
-Wannawork?
-Should really. Falling behind. Angsty.
Something about green gauze bugs me.
Cannot spell chrysanthemuns.
Can you? Smart, uh.
Now where was i.
November 18, 2013
Dukkha
As if
people
have
nothing
better
to do
than this:
October 30, 2013
Catching Up
Trudgin through a drift of skinbits, a clock
Appeared:
‘Zoot alors!’ I exclaimed, realising that the clocks
had changed.
What was once a mongoose was now a goose.
‘Non dieu!’ I exclaimed.
How time flies.
‘Au contraire, mon nambulist!’
Said a clock.
October 22, 2013
Crash in Beanfield, 1935.
Coincidence!
interrupted by
plane crash
in
back window dweller:
shit happened too much.
Shucks!
Folly?
Golly
Recall a putrid?
Kept calling me ‘dumbfuck’;
day 5 so far.
WIP; with a little help from…
Aviator on; clock working,
and counting.
352 mph.
Fastest man in the
Whole wide
Whirled.
October 22, 2013
Taxi
Pretty strung out on a weird green quoit when a zither said: ‘get down here punk, gravity is not levity.’ Ignoring their megaphone shouts the ground hit me and I dragged myself through the thronging crowds of Alexandria, piss bleeding from my eyes, in an attempt to find out why the ship matches had disappeared from the soul kitchen. And guess what! As I approached the mews a spider strand silvered down from the window, and I, like an extra in an epic, tethered my one remaining toenail to it, trusting the last chance saloon, and got pulled up to an open bay window, where I got proffered attractive vino, which killed me off. The last thing I remember is Torquoise.
Why?
Damned if i know.
Grimbeau 