‘A hedge of trees surrounds me: a blackbird’s lay sings to me –
praise which I will not hide –
above my booklet the lined
one the trilling of the birds sings to me.
In the grey mantle of the beautiful chant
sings to me from the top of the bushes:
may the Lord protect me from Doom.
I write under the greenwood’.
Day of arrangements comes round quick:
ecg. dazzlertron trials. q & a penury…
all in good time grandmaster
decency witnessed skulking;
kids fetched to school by gramps in faded denim;
Half shut cardoor booms out Knopfler;
beware the axeman cometh
Slither off while time songs slip away
eluding endless defeat in the eye
( why plummet to the sharp inconsiderate edge? )
Observe cyclists lapping Harrogate in the monsoon rains;
Hurricane Lorenzo could misspell trouble;
ModProg Party urges Libpunks grovel;
eating window shuts at two (doctor’s au d’oeuvres);
fallow the money; suckle the honey
Underloping timezones; day night irrelevance;
waiting by the window by a box of magic paints;
jokes of many colours; Creepy nip of March in reverse.
February next. Autoblah. Practising you scales and runs.
Smoking out recherche nuns.
Curry runs. And why not?
Goods as a feast of fresh air half dressed in Petri Sauce
(a radish best served cold).
By Gum, windbags voluminous expel at length.
Middle Eastern din brings cheer.
Tinnny hearts still beat. Wind upping?
Rheum recurs in this weather, drainsplayed, wheezy, guttersniped.
Gastrocellar aftermaths. Superior souls to the rescue.
Dried him out for over a week.
Shake rattle and scowl.
Get useful peel spuds says I. Bad move.
Like Carving soap with
a bradawl. one chip per spud.
bad economicsall round.
time and motion study concludees:
what a waste of wholesome carbs.
Grimbeau 