Grimbeau

Scroodles

Category: flash fiction

September 5, 2016

ice dust

Above is a good example of rushed verse, some kind of mad blue surge cacophony, direct mappable point-to-point expressionism,

the spot where the technicolour yawn erupts, splutters and congeals into gypsum, or maybe papier machete

Something is in the air. If there wasn’t we would be really stuck. SWOT analysis reveals three dead flies in the blackcurrant preserve, lying low for the duration

Feeling the new is insanity without the confines proscribed by the rag and bone men, take my word for it (you may as well it’s free at the point of need)

Who started the air pump without cleaning the vents? What a terrible mess. The callousness of some people never ceases to outrage

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September 4, 2016

Whoosh

Washed, washed up, washing in the wash – whoosh that’s the sound of corporal punishment and time flying

The parlous Lewis is on the box. This is where I came in three years ago. Whoosh that’s history repeating itself like gherkins and anecdotalists

It’s proper lashing it down out there. Dare I envy the orange lozenge beanflower living in the now. Whoosh whipped the wind with a fulfilled whish

Old music hall jingo-django vaudeville singalongs—bets no-man’s land into a cocked hat
Whoosh there goes a really white whizzbang

The boy I love throws up in the gallery, nacreous alabaster swan’s necks turn when the shot rings out, ‘Gas, gas quick boys’. Whoosh comes the yellow narcoleptic mist

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September 3, 2016

psynapse

the psychology
of redemption goes like this—
put on the kettle

pretty pl e a s e…

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September 3, 2016

rude awakenings

redhanded culprits
caught ripping silk sheets
part shrouded
in sleepdust
sporting fetching colours

to the tip—gristle to the mull!
little twitterings
simplify gruff mutters
fresh air cuts jagged holes

pernicious borus
dandelions roar!

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September 1, 2016

inept

Off hunting after
Water, smoothness…

warmth, lichen, eumony
No surprises

No good at that since
things went from bad to bloody awful
When you saw me coming
Over with an isotope

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August 31, 2016

The Bragging Hall

Shut the craven door, put on the long sleeves…here it comes
Rouged erotic fall apples hang heavy in the sweaty orchard

Too often and falsely I have been told I am loyal, true and faithful,
Honest to a fault, capacious in my tolerance

Why let waste-wolves take their pick, leaving us wild boar
Cherish stray abandoned cryptic sirens

While rapine tyrants mocking strut their bawdy stuff, and raze ivory bone chapels
to cinders as innocence stands by looking on?

Untongue this serpentine insatiable ambition, stuff red hot pokers in it till it puffs
up like a hamster at the cud

Let that be an end to it for good, then retire us we shall to the bragging hall to winter in stories tall as giant pines and spruces

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August 31, 2016

Sad Moon Rising

grimbeau's avatarGrimbeau

tumblr_n8bgexzDAe1rmusrdo1_500

The day after the
day after wholesale slaughter

flyblown autumn gossamer
persists

stubborn as winter rowan 
becomes tonight

more trash to incinerate
sweet horse
chestnut 

We endure stale lavender

All the greens
become obscene

rude yellows stark
enchanted azure

No chance of heaven
at eleven.

As in the black night

a certificated

medic calls to say:

Life goes on without us

then just like glimpses

promptly disappears

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August 31, 2016

The Strange Case of the Stone in the Night

grimbeau's avatarGrimbeau

I sat staring 
wide awake

At a snow white candle on an 
empty round table

Sired for wounding
Or so it feels,

A beast of field & stream
This pelt makes it real:

Lank, soaked, maculate
creaking, cloying

character armour…
A warning!
Do not trip

On the large smooth
shiny spongey
granite muffin

At the door
In the night
It slid there
whipped cajoled & now
wet-nursed by tender
urgent scrubber

Those same
handmaidens
who passed on
this message:

‘I just curled
to say I
love you.
Skip.’

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August 31, 2016

Specks

Still as farmyards
The last day of august goes
Out like a vagrant
Holding her father’s torch
Smiling knowingly

Write what you know
they said
I don’t know much
I replied
Smiling knowingly

The day pans out
It’s vast
How tiny are we
Specks
Smiling knowingly

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August 31, 2016

Firesale

rustic plastic flower pots, empty seed boxes,
wanton rakes, shiny blue hoes, and general crap strew the garden,

frit chickens stand hushed for once:

parched crisp hollow
fennel, dayglo haywire, mile-a-minute bindweed, well-weathered crimson
strips of once useful wood, a yellow crate cum side table, the broken once
green now taupe plastic chair, a fat permissive raven,

and I conclude,
that little white passenger aircraft

looks very like an
aphid from where we sit,
lapping the last honey sun the portly
seggins assisted in the

making of this year

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