Midday after a slow trudge of a morning
Skid marks on my pillow:
A pillowcrash.
In the wee big hours when dragonflies sleep
Worldnews feeds my dreams, another train disaster
More than not man dead, I am well informed
By a tweet tweeting by
Just after seven when all the gods wake.
The Yellow Fish:
Finally ate,
heavily poached,
taken with fennel,
some soggy spinach
(the dregs of the day before yesterday’s green salad, the flies hate it),
a slice of linseed and creosote loaf,
found timidly lurking in the gripes of the breadbin
(thin slices of linseed).
No nausea is welcome, as always.
Protozoans and zoans; krypton tripped on
A fat, docile cat.
Splat!
A commotion ensued:
fur, screech, ouch, run…
boxed in
in the garden
permanently dormant.
Cist! My arse
Tells a tale
Of
Punishment.
I am arrived at the mausoleum.
Linoleum cool marbled purple floor
Helpfully reflecting afternoon sun.
A resurrected garden through the door
Seems closer as shadow lengthens distance.
No matter; we continue our approach.
Outside is, as always, not what it seemed,
As usual old habits and patterns
Recur: lassitude and wreckfullness soon
Assume the crown: spongeful someday slatterns
Vying for positions of insignificance
Beneath a tree, by the spuds and garden fence.
So, spill coffee over oneself and kitchen.
Result: soft summer incandescent
Rage! Against a covering of lichen
Sludge, puddle,, brute granulated isthmus
And slipper. Tears of hopelessness well up
And the day is defined as sloth and neglect
Dream of cream cakes, water skis and beaches.
Humanism really ought to practise
What it preaches.
Eat the yellow fish!
Scavenge chicken carcase!
Pork pie and scotch egg
Garden leaves and spinach
Anchovies and hard boiled eggs
Eat the yellow fish!
Scavenge chicken carcase!
Open
Doors and windows
Open
Mind, legs, and heart
Open
Shoulders
Up
Sky eyes
Floodgates
Tins
All hours
Lamb berg ahoy!
Thar she bastes!
Sliver me ginger!
Source the mint!
My father ,‘Aitch’, as I called him
for nuisance value, came from Ulster.
(Tyrone to be preciser. Dungannon
to be preciser still). Growing up, as you do,
it was clear the Ulster had troubles.
My father, who, as is stated above,
came from Ulster,
Tyrone to be preciser,
Dungannon to be preciser still.
Suffered from an Ulcer.
‘We have all got our crosses to bear.’
He told me on occasion.
Later it was strange to discover that an Ulster Fry
is very similar to a Full English
except with farls and other stuff.
Above them clouds the monk soars:
Theloniously.
dawn breaks on the bough
replacing weary night;
werewolf and dogman
return to their lairs;
and, we ride out
to snatch Tyburn’s necklace,
and plant it deep in
undiscovered clays
Grimbeau 