Grimbeau

Scroodles

Category: flash fiction

The Dream of Homunculus

Woke up muttering astonishment, ruby jumper crushed on a damask outcrop, leapt limply from penthouse window, thought I must a crazed intruder, some illegal alien or a late night shopper carousing minus funny money,

Rain lashed Kildare High St, dead of night, lumpen teeming moonies, letting out the dogfish, floppy velvet hats, shirtsleeve weather strange, break in clouds deduced, curious chair dismantled in a narrow alley. Upturned news stand consequence, pushy driver takes the rap, formula one marauder, empty room pulsates, furnished lobby giggles, holiday let contracts, commands a salient view, bendy flat horizon, step outside on stilts, reckon high on cedar, always muddled vista, inconclusive sparrow, reverent pariah, incautious wing commander, terminally droll.

Hubristic two faced cubists should not wonder, leap of faith required, fatal blunder buster, sods conjoined by deadlock, noman torn asunder. Rhyming slang bewildered, gentle thunder applauds, door jamb screeching doughnut, head on concrete pillow. Leaping crayfish willow. Bruce Lee Brilleaux padding. Me no hip hop shopper, came a sherpa cropper. dropped a deep space hopper, insulted missus mopper, plangent belly flopper, blissful billow popper…

Tell sour story your way, pulling no prissy punches and when the time comes roundly recite the following by hearth:

How dreary the winds shriek and whine:
The trembling shadows grow chill.
O soul of my soul, wert thou mine!

O where are the stars that did shine?
The moonlight that tinselled the hill?
How dreary the winds shriek and whine!

Despair ’round my heart doth entwine,
Far soundeth my cry weird and shrill:
O soul of my soul, wert thou mine!

I’ve quaffed to the dregs the mad wine
Of passion, but under my sill
How dreary the winds shriek and whine!

’Tis thine, is the dream so divine,
That doth this vain yearning instill;
O soul of my soul, wert thou mine!

’Tis mine, here to crave and to pine
For what thou wilt never fulfill;
How dreary the winds shriek and whine!
O soul of my soul, wert thou mine!

Ed

Grimbeau

Once upon a time

there were no happy endings

so we made some up

View original post

Four Two Seven Tops ( A Neat Conjecture )

Sure there was wine
Before my sighs did drie it: there was corn
Before my tears did drown it.
Is the yeare onely lost to me?
Have I no bayes to crown it?
No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted?
All wasted?

festive nestlings playing up, most het up indeed, catch my eye

getting jumpy, get the wind up

Beware of swarthy eggsharks, capricious pine martens, pernicious rapine twitchers.

flurry overwrought inside, see insecurity in frenzies uniformity

Consterned as cops vexed fledgers issue squeaky peeps awaiting flaming June in rueful Minnesota

Carried away on arboreal gusts frisk baby leaves,

Martens fast encroach

Two skips is all it took

Two shakes of a lamb’s tail

To wipe out a twentieth century life

spent keeping head above water

Rarely if ever ahead of the game

Trading off lives with careless talk

Having a bit on the side

Giving as good as you got mind you

Sauce for the goose

Is sauce for the gander

Always an eye for a chance,

Jones’ suck up the Jones’s

unhinging light air traffic and small furry animals

o’erleaping avarice; now we send in the homespun drones;

reinforce a no-fly zone around the wasp factory;

Forthcoming static times hang in

a balance of increments crisis;

Till a feral cat let out of the pisspot of despots, tosspots & all their worthy heirs

Declaims this barely adds up to a steaming heap of beans…

So much for no grumbling, Nigel. First thing that came to mind. Poor me! Poor characters, all on the samey-blame me path. It bores me frigid Nigel.

Aja is an island freed of its natives by slavers in 1863 and remained so until the mid-sixties when reclaimed by six intrepid schoolkids

robbed a boat and hid out there for fifteen months in perfect harmony. William Golding was a god bothered soak in his spare time.

Friday on my mind (for it was a Friday); shifty manoeuvres are afoot; a climate of suspicion prevails; all locked down with nowhere to go.

Wanna topic. Lack a tonic. A gin and tonic for the troops (gifted clear sky-blue ideas plucked free from the aether); thought of it twice and got frustrated.

Climbing up the walls. Whit Monday radio news: windows open, summer day, lockdown wobbling, allure of mithra, life lived in one day, back to shitty work tomorrow,

half-term hols from shutdown schools, many will never return, social fabric wearing thin. No subject crops up; birdsong soundtrack palesjust gone nine

comes a moan for all seasons, rut-stuck in a gruesome shamble. Fire breathing vipers lick crusty ankles all hope evaporates for peace come flaming June.

Lining up for the second wave, the seventh is the strongest. Rip tides plunder those too dumb to flee, disbelievers and romcom tourists gather at the river, bored shitless by these endless update spiels,

A Fossilized Act of Disappearance

Snow disappears
Guileful children on a beach. Acropolyptic.
Hope and Joy At Christmas c 1947
seventy years later.
Wrapped up warm pockets, Fur. Athens.
Green Park black in snow. Black and white snap.
Tense audition: slow cello pizzicato.
Angelic wails receding. Haunting voices clamour. Ghost beach cacophony. Polperro parrot.
Densely uninhibited. Rosewood box sarcophagus; in saecula saeculorum.
Dirce row the boat ashore, allelujah!
Mehta and life sentences; brahmin breaths and tea tree branches. Caste system begets Vast system.
Grain. Verlaine. Purple pupil beater. Flageolet old bean.
Tap Water sommelier; aficionado of bruised chihuahua avocado.

Ten O’clock— Big Seven. Threepack Strumpet, Sir Cumstantial,

Phidippides takes the bait (bad day for peas); black pudding weather;

Blazes Boylan, venal baritone; heebie jeebies scatology;

Socrates in a basket; wax my slippers, Maestro please; abject please on bended knees; laxido unction up tuxedo junction; keep on plugin’, sluggin & sloggin’—get to hang Ovid one day; then u is milin;

Alice…hair flows like meadow waves;

Midday—no prime minister-no questions; stretching hams, fizzy up; paeans to beauty, mannikins of mildew; auto scribbles; no hard shoulder to cry on; heavenly ten ton truck;

Kersplat Morrissey. Old Tosh cops it. Amazon scammers fuck me round. Louis ain’t rough

Ninety minutes spent wisely in the organic community means death on a couch of sedge in the third world. Plague takes three million worldwide every second. Big numbers crowd sevbig books. Thor world fills ledgers thinner than most

Grey warm flat empty sandstone treasury of Petra in Sunday drizzle

Monday is the boiler fix, a dirty spoon abandoned , a muzzy morning nuisance caller, an offer to be sniffed at, a fresh bed of noses, an aqueous shower, and a tale of two leopards disputing a missing bone

Pluvius drops by

While showering the rains came down. Heard a squeak. Oiled the loom. A lightness rare assailed the room. The squeak was the fire alarm laughing. There was no roof to speak of.

Mystic Pleated Twine

Part two of July coming soon
To a lockdown pleasure centre in your dreams
Ordered to the masquerade by sage supremacists
Three layers of matter impede chatter
when worn to quell the invisible miasma
Want a ride home in my gondola bright eyes?
Switch on the subtitles it’s in foreign
Rhubarb Rhubarb Rhubard Rhu…
Only One Remote Control
Shared between self isolators
Bound to cause friction in the long run
When everyone’s a mugger or a letterbox

Telegram Spam

As I sit here…watching God’s daughter on the run for crimes against the faith time seres to fine powder revealing mirrors

Fingers von Raab unfit for purpose; rain stopped plague of damp umbrellas coughing and splashing; raindrops keep falling on my herd; Liff of Pooh replaces Brand New Testament on the pixie box;

Thatcham cancelled on grounds of good taste and flash flooding

Just gone eleven and quite unwell; blood tomorrow; lost a game of chess to a higher number; Mattys app is useless crap Vera leaves the stage; kiss of death from Major Tom

Slept heavy after narco-meatballs; rested down the leg; woe at six for Vera has gone viral; seems like it rained; fade to sunny evening

Up to my neck in silence by six forty glibly reading diverted traffic passing by in in groups. Are they all from the same household and what if I asked how I asked? They ignored me. Now that wasn’t so bad was it one to try yourself next time you go out alone. Rolling home full of beer and gusto Energised by revelry. Rowdies in the night…exchanging glances.

‘Tidy’

‘Half tidy’

Walking on by then listening out hard for snide backbites,

Amazon shitting me like charlatans; bots that bleed you dry; blood given to the demigods of Frimley & beyond; rainy season sets in for the day. Angel Clare, what a moniker! Too good to be true all right. Please beware the drowsy mastiff in your midst. All is food and air it seems

A viaduct of steamy dreams passes slowly by. An ideal retirement meandering the rejuventated arteries of mercantilism.

Weeping legs tell no lies

Waiting in a waiting loop. Tempers fray spirits droop relieved to hear a cybervoice. Can I help you? Aint that nice,

Footie reruns as a squall approaches, demon spleen & plaid cockroaches

Mid June afternoons never cease to disappoint

Ten milligrams by tiffin. Whose a pretty boy then?

Just what springs to mind when emptying fingers

Written off from posterity. How are the flighty fallen?

Suspect Aspidistra (the full nine minutes…)

Tintin Quarantino quit the bowers for higher ground when the flowers of romance exploded into a festival of the oppressed

Seeds of fear aroused by MRI scans. Blood test in Basingstoke was for renal function, Speak to your GP for laughs.

Made it through the night again. Shall we meet outside Café de La Mairie or behind the tin roof bike shed. Declasse fields grow strange fruit.

Memories are short like fat hairy legs in socks and sandals queuing up for a berth on a Ghost Ship

Sun comes round to warm the lawn— so soon it must be noon,

In the meantime eat last night’s savoury titbits on a rugged slice of white cob..,fuel to feed the fire.

Call up medics under grey skies– Carpe Diem and all that jazz. Café au Lait, Monsieur?

A Garcon enquires from a safe distance. Tintin nods assent, and leaning back blows a bubble of pink chewing gum.

Shimmering figures of giggling mannequins pass in designer shades.

Scamper down boulevard of rancid dreams in a toadstool kerchief,

Obliterate a canopy of fetid screeds singing a shallow blues,

Well if it aint that funny little cough again, a prelude to a sombre snooze?

Soft and silly sacerdotage mumbles contain obscenities from the beneath a suspect aspidistra

The Little Bird Trolled

FF1

 

 

Remember reading the Unnameable in identical weather this time last year and the one before.
Same house different room this time. The old lady oppostite was alive last year. Now her stuff is in a skip on the drive.
Saw it from the room I mentioned earlier
History has been made all right. The ulcer was smaller then.
Did a bit out in the sacred garden. Even got out from time to time. Down the pub. Never say Die. Plucky old bird.
Way beyond that now. Place going downhill fast. That leaky lean to aint got long by the llo of it. Much water under the defrosted fridge
Few people call in to pick. The Virus you know…Plus sans change.

Not Grafton St and Cary Grant again I ask you! Back in the day they would neer hae dared to.
When men were men and women were afraid. There are a few more stiffs hanging round tonight
fly dumped on the sub-toxic lawns
Where cats hae spat the rats hae shat the remains of the dubious quorn
And and and what? Gimme a moment Monkey Face. Cary puttles the kettle on.
Christian gets blinded following science and arrives at Vanity Fair. Merciful heavens Collapse
‘Now who left the sky open, on a market day

Still sloobing aroound in housecoat and slippers properly let themsells go;
stale fags and rotten carpets
The place was crawling with americans unknown on facebook
settling old scores with paramours
proscribing all transgressions
born of a Badland
A feud that threatened to spill over and consume the world
supply of oxygen and intolerance.

Dialogue’s a bugger to write when the voices talk at the same time.
One takes short cuts like making most
of it up. Usually sounds better that way.
They bolted at his every word
What are they saying over there by the elephant’s foot?
How big elephants must be?
Silly
More like it really…
Benedict’s a scream when you get to know him
But he can be so…abrasive
His old girl came from there
Shows in the wash
True. So true

Ten Twenty Nine…

100_0370

 

 

…something that is probably novel
happens at this time this morning
a fantasy sequence on Brownsea Island
or perhaps a nylon carpet
crackling with static
brings instant concerns
about the bass guitarist
Where is it all gone?
The grass is getting cut.
chocolate muffins and opium all day
Better stay indoors
where oh where did it all go

%d bloggers like this: