Had to go to the…
kitchen—what for!
Had a wash while i
was there anyway—
Buggered if i can remember why.
Bloody drain damage playing up again.
~
They’re at it as well
Damned post-Pagan heresies
Hereticking time bombers
Like mad things
All over the shop
Some as young as ninety-three
this is meant to be fun to do!
making things up, writing stories,
seeing whatever happen
my head hangs curtains after wine.
sea monsters ate my U-Boat
couldn’t make it up, could you?
reach out embrace existence
hug that north sea wolf
Got some catch up zeds
Seven up democracy
Come in number eight
Televised debate
Repulsive viewing
Buy none get none free
blemish: purple splodge,
cause unknown to mandarin
dog beneath the skin
symptomatic of neglect
dissipated leaping flea
garden full of flying things
nestle & slaughter
blue velveteen bumblebee
considerable lace
jive dancing bean sticks
dive bomber cuckoos
incidental butterly
Zoom
fires cleanse nasal hair
Slowmo airplane sycamore
Raindrop on nipple
Kiss bite temptation
Translucent cheesecloth
Footfall on gravel
Pond surface cacophony
Shameless faux foragers
Blissful soft focus
Zoom
sunflower rainbow
deluge – scarce ten minutes one
autumn after cheese
© October 2016
Lord Bolivia of Oyster Bars,
a catcher on the fly—
Sounds an egregious cove
to my mind, will I be
surprised by His colour?
His timbre? His thunder?
He scowls well in fluent Spanish.
Oooh-get you sailor, he once
queened—sibyllated in
purest Catalan
Hissy gayphobes are
so passé dontya find?
…It transpired his great aunt
Beryl did a trick or
Two for the Old King to boot.
A sheer bloody fluke, then?
Really must get cerebral…
Be less Catatonian
Prohibitive, yeah?
Is that what you’re getting at?
Indubitably
Playwright of the Western World
Slumped, grubby, glum
droll crestfallen mountebank
Listening to words
in tinny sweatshop headphones
getting excited
Outside this rusty window
Scarlet fuschias droop in hope
under rampant brambles.
Gormless cruel October stalks
This is some crumbling hillfort
In the middle of muddle
Some sub-primeval
Lambent semi-detached hovel
Mortgaged up to the eyeballs
My name is sometimes Gormley
Quine, Drake, Bagehot or Maggott
Depends who you are
My lipstick is lopsided
I never got the knack of it
Or tying shoelaces
Time, place & action
Provide diversionary tactics
Frame by frame by frame…
Edge of desert
at a crossroads
break of day:
blue sky
black road
yellow land…
~
shaking hands
with Henderson,
saying thanks
Henderson
for the truck ride:
three days
back now
still here.
~
Word came of a train
Train never came,
delayed by grain
hoppers
delayed by
open heart
surgery.
~
Toucan dismayed
shakes
sorry heavy head:
cracked yellow beak
blue
dismal eyes
~
jet black feathers.
Sheen
gleaming after
morning preening:
Glistening
~
Acute hearing
Jungle or desert canopy.
Adaptable toucan.
Sleeping penguins
dream of krill.
~
pungent lavender
five giant
clay pots
on the windowsill
casting white
shadows.
*
The noose was too loose, the trap door was stuck.
‘Lydia Steptoe, you are by dint of serendipity, free to roam the earth, jejune and fancy free’
The voice removed the sack. It was Mr Kipling.
‘James Hayter?’
‘None other’ said James Hayter, glowing with avuncular warmth
‘Are you pulling my leg?’ said Lydia.
‘No, dear lady. The rules are clear as custard tarts. Now off you trot, and sorry for the cock-up.’
James Hayter doffed his manky indigo topper and indicated the door marked ‘Exit’
The lights went orange. The cluster of onlookers began to hop on their right legs. Lydia stepped down from the rickety scaffold and scuttled toward the door. Before pushing the bar she turned
‘For what was I condemned to hang, James Hayter?’
‘Wasting court time with mediocre card tricks’
‘Seems a bit harsh’, she thought nodding mock penitence
…
Outside it was dark. The cathedral bell rang six-fifteen. A hansom cab was waiting. The driver smiled a welcome. Lydia jumped in.
‘Where to, Lydia Steptoe?’, said the Cabby, ’My name is Sylvia Simms’
‘Houndslow, please, Sylvia Sims.’, said Lydia, ‘and don’t spare the horses.’
‘Right you are Ma’am’.
Sylvia cracked the whip, off they sped
…
Houndslow was beautiful. Lydia cried.
‘Here we are, Lydia Steptoe’, said Sylvia Simms opening the carriage door with consummate aplomb.
Lydia composed herself and blew her nose on the black satin curtain before jumping out. Sylvia caught her and they kissed at last.
Love hides in familiar faces.
Love hides in the strangest places
