Three o’clock round up
Slug slime wakes smear shadow crooks
criss-cross flat parsley bush
Two stroke mosquitoes falter
Visible winds splutter ugly truths
Stoptember warnings ignored
Malice once a far thought
landgrabs Terra incognito
~
It was said she perished strapped
Inside a yearning building
Firebranded radicals
Did their very best
Sent cucumber sandwiches
waved pomegranate petards
Malice once a far thought
On terra firma takes root
~
Flute bore Marsyas got
skinned alive by lyre plucking Apollo
after coming second in winner takes all musical combat
Fellow demi-gods
make tears so copious a river
sprouts which still bears his name today.
He had been warned off sternly
Roudly thrashed by pouty Minerva
could not let accursed instrument alone.
He had been warned off by Apollo too but sped long headstrong enchanted to his fate:
serial hubris—merciless nemesis.
A macabre tale of divine brutality. The jury is rigged
Marsyas’ reputation faired much better in Rome
Some say…on the quiet
~ spook sure discombobulate, sheet white Joe Tin lopes egg shell wary these days, once this rookie journeyman peels opens shed door flaps, flour waves sprinkle fond farewellies to all that’s powder
~ crystal ghost ships croak wretched raspers, gurgling clover bloated wind smote sheep disgrace abrasive grassland, all accomplished under wheezing smiles oxygen assisted daybreak yields pink linctus…
~measure by measure spondules droop, eyelids refuse to blink, can openers duck issues, a smoking bun is found malingering by the oildrums, Cheeseman overegged the custard slices just for old times sake
yet another
clam-bake
funday
a diddle-dee-dum day
a sufficiency of sun day
a my god what have I done day;
subsequently,
red raw
Bum Day
Ophelia seethes stallion temperatures reach levels just plain unacceptable for mid-Julys when calendars roamed the earth—pregnant with rampant satyr—tiny pitta patter of cloven hooves stirring the cauldron pot—rupture fakes junk tradition like salmon mimic poodles
Winsome day stares, lysine satyrs make hay fore smoothies some crushed thing feels velvet ice, starfruit guilt on lanoline, fevers deliver us from antiseptic chores, come five it should be done and dusted for the heirophant
Whose runestones sully my chemise? The permanence of outrage conceals mendacious logic. Watch dust settle fast like loopy gifs. I picked up pretending I was stoical like soggy tapioca blinds. Strange these thoughts of red meat, fish and fratricide, playing on my lyre
Rinsing dishes salves scene three: just bear in mind the tea towels conspire like mathematicians in seemingly random numbers, that’s when the claxon insists on sacrificial offerings of three day old goat’s milk sorbet and bluebells
Wistful, windless, desultory:
frugal, fawn, beige, puce _
Elvis has left the building
Pulling a fast one again
~
Half-six on the dot:
doors slam, off to the coast,
Bodies glide on the high tide,
rolling away to chilling gyres
~
tussles and rubs
from jetsam and kelp,
nibbled by gulls
eschewed by sussed brill
~
Octoplasm gruel, eternal gloop,
stodging things up, malingering till good
night calls:
Halt…
Music soothes the savage breast.
Death Metal springs to mind.
Put on your rusty chain mail vest.
Go find an axe to grind.
Roaring to the chemist
On your zimmer frame
The traffic cops then did you
For pissing in a drain
Fined or sent to prison
Condemned to spend your time
Moaning at the bus stop
It never leaves on time.
The noose was too loose; the trap door 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 almond slices. Now off you trot, and sorry for the cock-up.’
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…
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Grimbeau 