Clean and dry, Romper suited, booted in cheapo,
garish green Primark slippers,
I kiss the hogs,
mount the trusty chair
&
roll out to face the world of sticks and stones
that break your bones
and slick weasel words
that pay us scant regard
Crowded out by here over hear crowded outFacts are simple facts are straight end: heterosax soots water frontispeice bone dry nymphos dusty bathe fucking with our head-pristinesses any old iron contra-basses sow From crowded dawn droop to barren dusk dross daily diddle dawdle cross cussed county Rosscommon to barren loss Muckross winkling sly nap watercresses hid under mildewed leafmoulds eyam a bird not a hawk sparrow whish whooosh eye am gun
animation met a sticky one
blown away puer anarchy
downsized collective conchshellnesses
Personified Vietnam as glitch
Seen Through GI Gilmore’s peepers
In the Jungle Book called Life
Apocalypse Now & then builds strangers!
Was justice a matter of time spent wishing?
After red masque ball pastiche, rehash
Hanging out dirty washing on the Maginot Line
Computer generated egos crumble under post optical somatic catatonics
Python
Who will be King of the Mountain?
The spurts and dramatic surges
come fast and furious
from behind the drunken camera,
red mist clouds mingle
obscure a bloated moonlit summit—
unclenched by rarefied daylight hours,
curtains pulled on damp khaki trousers
forelawn it lies the grasses billow,
a potted pear tree is quick felled,
Provenance: grown from seed
by lusty Cecelia it now lolls
flopped on the worn out bird table.
Nasty shock on awaits some
due to freakish start— bowels unmoved,
face unshaven, body stale as bread.
Suffered well earnt defeat on the board
snapped mixing with lower portholes—
that going over last night lingers, brushed aside
like the fly I brushed away
at the top of the knock off swelter
of my fish supper two days back now.
Who will be the king of the world—
not I today, not me.
too smart for the likes of me
stuck up a churchyard yew tree naked
as a birdman trying to figure out where
it all went so very wrong again — put it gown
to the form of the day birdbrain
Now time trudges wet
Sandshoe shuffle shod in sloppy seconds—
snide red caps doffed hide furtive grins
Faces crescent—shaped venally daft
Trying to zone in, get a grip, any grip,
be rid of this, this, this…
profane, pernicious accidie.
~
Dai the Morf & Wily Dan confer
to hatch a slick masterplan
to swamp the market in eiderdown
or farm mink in Chipping Norton
or timewatch daily brexit as life goes on
a walk in the baked park
—so many murders these day you dont
know where to step first?
The longest day finds Paddy checking the truck oil, the twin tub acting out on the kitchen floor, its heat brittle waste tube squirting in the bauxite sink.
The longest day finds too many firsts, too many thirds, too many seconds. The customer is always right and probably white proving cake and eating it
The longest day finds scuffed cultural elbows saying never in our day. This is their day: the longest day of the year, the longest day of their lives so far.
When they stood them up to scrub them down and chided them for whimpering in the draughty corridor for wanting a wee wee.
It is just a numbers game and yours is up. Come in number eighty-seven your time has come. For godsakes give her a pot to piss in.
The longest day sees larks ascending on the Sussex downs and Rafe Vaughn Williams packing his valise for a dirty weekend in Peterborough, the Posh
The longest day they call it for some ludicrous reason. The Germans bombed the land registry there during the war. That’s why no one knows where they belong anymore.
Occasional grunts
One small dish bonito fish
Ink stone sand paper
Pink tarn volcanic ice cream
Flesh trout stream water
Quenches thirsty fire river
Comes another bloody liar
Petrarch brushes it off as a crime against girl power
Usurpation cry seemly boudoirs
Tomatos grow on antler vines,
soaps declaim post breakfeast songs,
loud grunts and bellows signal gripe,
can you hear me calling Lysistrata?
Fancy a bit of How’s Yer Father?
What? Still in short trousers, Boris?
Frankie goes to Holyrood pipes up
Two tribes tops the cuddly pup
—Either he or the wallpaper must go
Says an Eskimo to Mr Penguin
as Chelsea Flower Show gives in to
Friday afternoon monsoon
My computer is corrupt!
Binary alliteration kills my flabby mind—
threw away the queen in the middle of a fugue—
finished up the leftovers (left her half for old times’ sake)—
otherwise the dog gets it—no pressure there then—
unintended consequences are pro bono publicum—
see that one with bells on?
Take it off above the knee!
Pray me what’s afoot?
About half a litre last I looked
A certain comic quality
pervades this morning’s naff despair—
fed parasitic fear its irregular bowl of oats, chill milk & mandolin banana after falling fast asleep in my dressing gown
being overly mindful of insatiable time— had a taste of dangerous society overnight and came out the worst of it.
Then I read this:
In my room the world is beyond my understanding;
But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four hills and a
Cloud—
Starling rest room words
Embossed on chivalric shields
whose Survivor Guilt glimmers, glints
Spangles, sparkles, twinkles
In the eyes of the thousand nights
Spent wrestling with myself
Legless on a hospital bed
Passing drag traffickers
hijack gridlocked Sunday funday drivers
abandoned chimpden children wailing on hard lard
shoulders shunned by drive
by cruise controllers—
you raise the bar solo you remain in limbo jimbo
Grimbeau 