skanga-roo
wobbly hatstand
woolly jumper
yellow wellies-
apple scrumpa
copyright Grimbeau 1848
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wobbly hatstand
woolly jumper
yellow wellies-
apple scrumpa
copyright Grimbeau 1848
Hoovering half-heartedly, Pre-stressed steel muscular, stilted, stiffish, torpid The quality of mercy is half-strained & falsetto like a doomed balloonist going splat on worn grey leatherette footstools, a real deal phagocyte enters, snips claggy brackish waterfowl, flings a crane fly in the simmering beige broth, shall we sport passé cotton pullovers for effect, muss dwindling rancid quiffs and heinous eyebrows? Downcast slow rise condos sinuate minus stucco tracery. others live in icky sitcom sets it is lifestyling for sure just not as we know it
What is to be done? simple Mexican hat trick? Well it is a job after all. Being a doctor. Caught up on some zeds after. No hidden meanings this time. Just unconciousness. Oh the Unfairness of life. Go first get it over with. Not on your nelly. Machiavelli. Little things just little things. all add up you know
The stampede continues, coughs and sneezes,
bronchial wheezes
spread more doggiedoos, half a blanket full for breakfast,
…I dream of Jeanie
with the light brown stool,
dripping on the stairwell in the morning…
The show must go on,
breath and voice,
breathing and voiceover,
timbre & tempo.
Teemberrrugh!
Little crackle cracks in an
Emerald Forest glade,
languid reindeer slopes
off, eschewing tree dust
unmoved by the wonder
we have just witnessed,
timing is everything you see,
the smell is creeping under the door,
anxious human footsteps clomp—
…
car insurance, benefits culture, health and safety…
putting two and two together
when nothing adds up
to a hill of beans. Yikes!
That was Sunday a week back was it?
yes last Sunday was ?
yes last Sunday was
Young Frankenstein .
…
Sleepless in Indianapolis somehow doesn’t have it.
Big Apple is just plain wrong.
yes you can write it off.
A Bumper Compendium of
Cinematic Carthorses
down the ages. Think
outside the shitbox
and it sure as eggs
is a shitty prospect out there
doggerlandia.
…
Ominous white roadsweeper crushes the car.
Fast dog craps at noise.
Deep yellow coloured lighter
obscured in part by glossy red cricket ball
quite by happenstance this
provides a striking contrast
in this tallow light.
Green tea did a trick (did it?)
Culpability, imbalance, the dreaded lurgy stalks the porchway, the hamster hutch, the arboretum, and blunt spikes inbetween; night violates day with bags of murk and lovage
Indubitably, it calls itself Monday, brimful with sullen, clumsy passion worthy of a bread poultice infused with watery French mustard, limp alfalfa and toadstool
Tedium is just a damp blanket on a burnt out chip pan, a brisk riddling with formaldehyde never fails to yield staggering exultation at such junctures
Zoroaster caught herpes off a loathsome vet this day in nine sixty seven, the news when leaked by the skivvies, met with scant compassion
Axolotl harvest late due to line maintenance in the eucalyptus groves of transcendent Hobart-on-Sea
The best things in life are prohibitively expensive due to a series of botched algorithms, a perfect storm, and the bells of St Clement Danes
Dog shits all over
brown house by invitation
mad resident pup
ill wind blows no man no good
head cold proves advantageous
Flat
that is to say
unbevelled vinyl surfaces,
colours range from black to white.
How did it get here?
Suspended in thin air
hanging motionless
yet still
seeming to wobble oddly
Balloon!
serpentine stragglers tsk-tsk thunderstruck lurid gargoyles gruff impatience mumbles off chiffon teardrops splash car wheels spin on pink gravel helicopter down blasts compressing bouffant hairdos circus leaving town
Thudding raindrops beat
whoozy eccentric tattoos
Broken baritones croak
growling thunder rumbles
loose as unctuous
scrumptious bronchial catarrh—
can lightning do nothing
except flash and strike?
©Grimbeau
Half a month’s worth in one just night: flash torrent chaos rains, freefall-bomber hits the skids…rainy, rainy skies, up since just gone three, realigning smooth riversides, knee deep down in autumn sludge
What a difference a day can make. Summer slams its door shut. Batten up and hunker down. Get the winter brain in gear. How lucky are you feeling?
Queasy feelings rattle me, the lift abruptly shudders , time to light a candle up. Something is lodged down deep, I dare not cough it up, spit it out.
I fear the consequences of seeing my black soul writhing before me on the cruel floor. The witching hour comes. The anthracite dog will not go out in this—
Why should anyone in their right mind? Outside we dry some fire sticks, make day light, watch the last bee suckle, have one last puff on the trumpet, set the drapes on overtime, Mr Hands! We sail for Costa Teabag
In sanitised thatch cottages sad eyed sod busters float before my Jolson eyes, some optimists wave resigned white hankies from upstairs windows, the others stare blank pure dread and sweep past on the ruthless ebb
Grimbeau 