Not writing thus read
Goes the old threshing machine
Inside out workings
Belching, churning, lurching with
All the bits showing
Like Norman Foster
Or the Duke of Kent thanking
Ball boys and ball girls
For their servile services
Perhaps if he wore a floral hat
Like his smiley wife
It might brighten things up
Cut the military kit
If it’s nice out wear no clothes
Watch out for that wild fanbelt
And the people in smocks
Sporting giant pitchforks
Tripping on ergot
In the antic hay
And the grumpy teenager
With the machete
-Apart from walk what
would you like to do?
-Dunno, don’t think about that
much these days.
Go out?
Where?
What to do?
I’m skint anyway,
then there’s the weather,
and, to be honest
I’m not much company,
and, repulsive to look at
except in a ghoulish way.
See I’m pretty much
resigned to that these days.
Don’t get me wrong though,
I haven’t given up.
Where there’s life…and all of that.
What about you, what are you up to?
-Cosmic time travel,
the laundry,
a spot of Pilates,
watch some junk on the box,
maybe a spot of bear baiting.
Same old, same old.
Isn’t online shopping a godsend?
The time you save…
-Dunno, don’t do it much these days,
too much damn hassle
and then there’s identity theft,
hacking,
and you don’t know
really see what your getting,
well you can’t can you –
not unless you’re really there,
View original post 41 more words
Away from chaos radio and noisy gadgets
I try to hear my own voice.
It is jumbled, jerky, muddled
&
When it hears me listening it shut’s up.
Intruder, it whispers under my breath and hides behind an eyebrow.
Another voice comes, quite the opposite of my sonorous lilt
An abrupt jibber-jabber
accompanied by
a mellifluous buzzer.
Just as I begin to make it out
It stops and hides behind an eyelid
~
Unperturbed I resume my
interrupted bout
of shadow boxing.
So far the shadow is ahead by two points:
it is southpaw, dogged, cunning, experienced.
I stand firm, steely jawed, granite eyed,
bleeding, unfeeling, waiting.
Rope a dope, Ali called it;
or, was that Angelo?
~
Zap, I’m downed
a momentary lapse is all it takes
bloody WASPs
get me every time
I let my guard down
Turmoil! Chaos! Anarchy!
Toast marmalade sour grapes
Washed down with orange
Mug of ersatz crude …
We are going to a very dark place, says the primal scream on global wireless: the republic cannot withstand its savagery Selfie Studios set to release A blockbuster Thanksgiving special Double Bill The Death of Nation Built on Slavery & The Decline & Fall of the Human Condition that must not under any circumstance improve but may register its disapproval vociferously by pressing buttons that turn out the light
Just get the one hour these days
to write this guff so I’d best
just get a move on
there’s others waiting
and they’re growing restless
Yeah, they cut me down
to one hour for my own good,
or so they tell me, and, in
many ways they have a point.
At least when I’m just sitting
doing nothing else, I know
I’m doing nothing.
Sure, I could be making do,
doing a job, all of that right stuff,
but that is not what I want to do
Write?
Well…
Be, be and write?
Yeah, write & be
Is something missing?
Yea, happy
Happy, write and be?
That’s it. Write and be happy.
You’ve got fifteen minutes left
Now I’m very sad
I’m very sad to have heard that
Send my commiserations
All my thoughts and prayers
To whom it may have concerned
The road is full up
bold brazen alien cars—
fireworks party sleepover,
vodka cheeseburgers,
Haircut 100 (Boy Meets Girl),
Megadeath (Love’s Old Sweet Song)
—sailing metaphor
discovered cringing in
uncharted waters.
Here?
Early night after watching the box—
quiet as a sober xmas and about
as memorable
as a drunken one.
That time of year is about
After all that sleep I am up early,
cognizant of bowel, reminiscing all the time,
self-nutting, never the plaintive, always the pontiff,
he who must be dismayed at all times,
grovelling before the
altar of adverse opinion.
Waiting for my hat to be knocked off
Ireland beat the All Blacks in Chicago—
were they wearing Blue Shirts?
Always feared the Moor, the Bogmen*
And its bog weather down here in the Cut
Dross grey damp dank murk
Sunday in November
Glamorous brown tortoiseshell
bicycle clips seconded
make-do Alice bands
by stray myopic pedlars
*The bogman learnt to fear the Moor
when they left the quay of Baltimore
with a penchant for paella,
whitewash, and a wife and kids,
slave traders of the Levant,
sporting nubian pantaloons,
chain smoking ali baba camels
swiped them in the night
Midday monkeyhouse
Vicarage tea anecdotes
Stretch out big red chair
Occidental death of an
English Inanest
Praise the ammunition
Bypass the Lawyer
Lost in a golden fairy light
Seven ages of America
Iron this and iron that
Crystal methodology
Clear as kerosene
Smell of burning ice
...you are not writing thus you are not a writer i am not writing thus i am not a writer -better quickly jot that down quick over there that paper scrap with spuds eggs, toilet rolls, dog food,crisps some forgotten shopping list or postmodern masterpiece what a bloody mess better get out the Hoover later there's nothing on the other side where's the pen? there, a pen, blue dried up biro, it might just work today. Increasingly violent circles- watch it, you'll rip it: A pencil! there behind the box of menthol vapes behind the burning candle careful, slowly does it that's how accidents occur i really must go to the loo. the dog wants to go out i can let him out and go downstairs, listen to the early morning news Shit! the clocks went back it's bloody Alan Bennett fetching in the milk i am not a writer i am not writing you are not a writer you are not writing
Grimbeau 