Gotterdammerung’s off!
End of the world as they knew it.
All afternoon unquenchable thirst
accompanied by a mind made of puppy fat.
There is energy, it is all over the place;
thin and clumped, dry and soggy, like an ill
-kempt meadow or face.
For, making meadows is
no laughing matter: neither is the end
of the world, no matter when.
I said to Betty:
‘Drop everythingi. Tonight we eat
with Ferlinghetti. I will you uppy-pick
in my Maserati at seven thirty sharpish’.
‘What will we have, Jimi?
Probably spaghetti, or, maybe linguini.’
‘Yummi!’
Bedstretched a while;
thirst like a wadi;
it’s nice here though,
breeze shaded lush
green garden near
overgrown
overgreen
over right
shoulder
colder
clay hill side
Elevenish
Big rains water the pampas
washing away dust and clues.
The flora sleeps soaked
and wakes to day kisses
of sun and breeze.
Mind out of time out of mind.
July swings all the way to Westward Ho! and Hell.
The buttercups are salted by soft tears
smoothed away by aphids.
Cruel and vicious age as ever was
longsuffering lifesufferer.
Do not bullshit one about the deprivations of the posh or chide me
I am unspeakable toothless with bite snap vengeful hard work
my reward three times twenty three this year shite up the snout
maculate deceivers line your nests and fill your boobies with
silica and choux pastry resentful me you betcha runs in the
breed like the wooden leg hip hop clip clop Iggy copped it
again last night a long drawn out affair mizzled puzzled dazzled
daddy sulks longest sulk in history of history and night
disturbing bassoon oboe stormtrooping quadruped
foodless as a mulligatawny owl a moustachioed pistachio
beckoned forward by a blindfold bogyman for mud is thicker
than water go the whole hog and take the plunge…
Fresh, clear, sunny, Blueskies pastel, white fluffs
hazy haze…bunged up tubes:
Liquids –
please apply within.
Outside now for a smoke and a quibble.
Is there chicken still for tea?
New potatoes, new peas, new beans, new lamb…
new dawn
Siegfried came and went:
Sixty-Niner
Move faster,
Desiderata:
‘Go Bentley
without Plates…’
Wise fool,
state clown,
so no impact,
mock the weak,
so to speak,
ridicule the powerful,
doss down
in the vestibule,
drool,
cool…
Nose to grindstone.
Hard slog.
Trudge.
Yomp.
This is peace!
More mud than sludge.
What we put inside eachother…
do not nose. So, what’s to do today?
Sun, food, cider, shower…
Parsifal’s gone fishing should anyone ask.
Showered thoroughly, racket of motors and gardeners ergo
no P&Q – which should be minded at all times. Pills taken
after scotch egg and salad. Sit outside in the din? Coffee & Fag first,
Friday afternoon slope off early. Bone piece on Hacek okay,
Strike Magazine – check it out, maybe subscribe. Need something
softer under my bare arse. Where was I? Coffee and fag.
There are yellowfish
crying out
for a poach.
We approach seven.
It is evening:
drinks on the patio,
freewheeling banter, laughs , and snacks.
Tapas lovingly prepared.
The lugubrious air
memories of summers past.
Dreamtime in a word.
The smoked haddock will stop yelling soon.
Green or black olives, Daphne?
Are they pitted?
By my fair hand.
You are the one, aren’t you…What’s that sound?
Fish snoring.
Tee-hee-hee…
Grimbeau 