Grimbeau

Scroodles

Category: Magic Realism

Apricockerollie

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A funny thing happened the other day, but I missed it.
Troy fell again

it appears
It barely got a mention
With all that was going on
Round here
What with the weather changing

The permanent fishy smell
The limping gormless misfit
~

As a ballerina in transition
from one side to other there is one question
I get asked above all others
And that is
‘Have you met with much resistance?

I can say hand on heart
‘Little’ without fearful contradiction
But I care not a jot in my summer frock
Running amok
fetching Apricock

small flying things

observe him shuffling in the morning sun in t-shirt and fag pocked boxers, shambling about in a battered panama feeling better he says

half and hour’s worth of washing up and hoovering upstairs and a break before a shower and some evening sunshine if it stays he says

looking at old doodles in notebooks full of portraits of despair and dishonesty it was much worse than words could ever in themselves he says

renascent caesarean section moment of involuntary entry into a world full of priests overheard from the womb giving up last unction he says

orphans fear having orphans eggs the holy man would tell us and that kissing made you pregnant before marriage but never tell a soul he says

the sound of that wry dry chuckle was common in ancient Mesopotania when sex went on for six days and six nights without a sign of slowing down he says

strand long empty strand giant crisp bag onrush don’t push me coz I’m close to the hedge down by the river endorphine surge of reveries to come he says

 

Ploughed Cuckoo Land

every morning while I’m
jumping up and down
I scream out names of
those I wish good luck to.
do any of them happen to live with me,
in the same flat, house, bijou hovel
the same shanty town,
sewer, shop doorway, aqueduct,
inflammable dirigible, barbed wire mosspot,
slice they cucumber, lick they icicles…?
Or is it someone who aint got up,
left their shit bang smack in your way,
left the bog seat up, snores like a drain in the gutter,
had their cake & ate it intravenously,
talks endless pompous psychobabble…
No?
How very surprising.

time for press-Ups & A
Jog to old Sarky-Poohs for pot noodle, aphrodisiac,
and jellied eels on blancmange before a
long day at the orifice counting ducks…

 

Ambrige Analytica

Found ruminating
over moist Golgotha cud:
infrequent query bugs
flurry
worry
hurry up
get on with it….

 

Is your ending really my beginning ?
For how could it not be so-
temporarily

by the way of things –
How’s that old doggo dada of yorn?

Dead as dogged dogmeat doubtless
Licking up pillaged
pulverised muskrat inches
under true blue shrewd weather

How’s mine going, is she there yet?

Is she the one over there
Over there by the trough
Sneaking a quiet one
Legs crossed in the corner
pulling
on a woodbine ?

Yes. Same as it ever was
Smoking woodies in a boob tube,
pigeon chested to the waist
sorbing robust summer sun,
short sleeved designer pastel shirt
open gaily to the waist,
walking staccato now
stumbling about on buggered feet,
thinking what god knew
once upon a time.

Buddha-like inscrutable is the Buddha.
Head full of blinding anguish
Aloof crude wonky dreams

Suchlike stuff filled Leaf’s
Numbskull & embossed bones
creeping steep sunken garden
late Good Friday afternoon,
as she with auric brass neck
& hard shoulderpads;
sharkfest eyes bloodshot
after catch-up daytime sleep
after a bad night twice remembered
that kept her up three days
killing time with gimmicky
zombir horror films,
relishing copious rot lurid
cartoon blood oozing from every pixel,
made aware of skull cap thinning
a wildly, itchy unkempt
beard of cheesewire, a wretched
sight altogether to behold.

Ahhh…Schucks!!!

Neon lights down south prevent
naked dripping quills lament
bloated heavy vaper trails sing
pregnant lullablies brew ginseng,
(self-harmless charades, stone deafening elective boredom,
loose lipped mouthy toothless , upbraid misogynist gays)

manky moles crudely startle                                                                                                        lazy worms like
old man Moses rotting down                                                                                                        nice now deep down deep downsouth
GHQ sarcophagus, semi-detached suburb of the dead                                                                                                      rhubarb-rhubarb  breadcrumb trail                                                                                          leads nowhere much hairy arsed once proud)                                                commanding views of turd strewn lawn,
abandoned taupe recliner, dog seeks receivership
dissimilar to previous for no transparent treason
he can bear to think of…Nice!

made history poverty overnight
gentle martial arts of war—
set scrimmages & slings
threw babies out with bathwater
pondered wood ploughshare tundras
jam packed prairies full of goats

undistinguished tree gods shag—
watch the weald churned upside down
cleaved a gurt big hole in Kent—

 

Shinbone Stars

Watch a million unique
selling points scintillate
trans-Siberian firmament
watch imaginary westerns
Liberty Valance waits nice
On table nicely whips cream
Serves up double apple pie
snarls ‘have a nice day, y’all’
storms out in a huff
Pilgrim guns him down in cold blood
Saloon doors burst wide open
Mickey Mouse sweats cobs
Buffs up twinkly shot glasses
Pompey reveals his bad side
Cardsharps brandish braces
Twizzle chintzy swordstick canes
A dwarf turns up just in time
They take a breathless selfie
Hastily swops black hats for white
Melts back into background noise
Frere Lubin & his Myrmidon boys
Make free with croquelardon
Fake news is all says Shinbone Star
Southside of the Picket Line

Three Men & a Goat

Ophelia melts crushed ice
just as passions rise
reach levels acceptable for mid-July
well before calendars ruled the earth—
pregnant burden rowdy satyr
—pitta patter of cloven hoof bubbling in the cauldron pot—
rapture fakes tradition
like salmon mimic
rudeboys chewing anthracite

Winsome day stares back in pearl,
lysine satyrs rake hay
before smoothies crushed yellow fibrous thing smacks
up velvet ice age, commit starfruit
guilt on hyacinth, hubris
—deliver us from antiseptic chores, come five it should be done
and dusted save the mighty
fallen rune stones these
that sully my fresh chemise?

The permanence of it!
outrage conceals mendacious logics.
Watch dust settle fast like loopy gifs.
I picked up pretending
I was stoical like tapioca blinds
— how strange thoughts of red meat, fish and fratricide are when putting out the compost

Rinsing dishes salves scene four,
just bear in mind damp
tea towels conspire like mathematicians
in pleasingly random numbers, that’s when
the claxon insists
on sacrificial offerings
— three day old goat’s milk sorbet and bluebell sponge
Not really much to add

As to whats been said, said Dr Watt
sniffing digits for giveaways
·Best go play it doggo a few days old chap say forever bury deep·
More like advice to self methinks
sobbing prone alone
violate throbbing ringpiece
shorts round ankles
let it end…

Act one required!!!—
long slow drip condenses:
shower spray gas oven clock
Standing hors d’oeuvres of the day—
First crank up your fruit machine ·
contact · contact chocks away!
Thinking it over gas oven…umm—
cold shower queasy option
worlds warm up after lunch
pure stale air & nectarines…
all to save a few bob·
thus make life palatable
my pleasure all mine at once·
servile oven servant—
in full mess off time but must
(p r o k r a s t I n a t e)—
what comes of no what-what?
Favoured hairdo bee hive·
fink hard about it…Umm
many moving parts in doing·
mount or surmount table
(fuck me a talking keyboard)
here come some trusty hounds
ripping bread to shreds

orange houses sleep just sleep

 

 

Flush

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Just keep bobbing up and bobbing down
Watch sardonic heads barking braying constant
hanging over crowded parapets orchestra below jumpy
chuckles brassy rubber necking knowing how it always ends ie:
hit the deck and spill the beans that run out feely
heralds send forth some seventh cavalry or other yokes
cut off at the pass up some otiose defile
laters Daulis is full of knuckleheads
spoiling for a knees up decided time to do
my turn & quit wrestling lions naked bringing down
posh funhouse in Naples at the very thought snapped out
a very whimsical rice paper boatman shrank rippled vague
sun up vanished leaving dead slow women & children & you
burst out laughing for no apparent reason: the very idea
of pulchritude we regret over red mullet…

Achtung! Bad Language

Sterne

 

 

Few bards & flunkies did once
tell of an old frying pan worked for London transport
till european mind held up his stagecoach…
We drove as if we had a puncture;
Dad trying not to blink, that man’s eyes
stuck in my head, which is where the story clunks ,
and any attempt to energize this fable
with something aromatic whiff of the nature
of articulacy and inheritance,
since he can well eulogize his own
excuses, you your own accommodation.
As it stands now if you still insist on resonance –
I’d swing for him, and every other cunt
happy to let my Django know his station,
which probably includes yourself. To be blunt.

Frogs

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Grimbeau

Mutual micturition
& Adrian Mitchell on the wireless
Let’s let bygones be bygones
Bury the haggis
After all is said and done
It’s just water under the fridge
Were you just taking the piss
When you asked me why
the box of frogs I promised
was not for keeps just swops?
Mutually unsure destruction
Is not what it’s cracked up to be

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