That’s that out of the way for another
year, thank god, anything good on? Repeats.
Surprise, surprise. It’s a wonderful life.
Gone with the wind. The great escape.
Born free two. Follow the yellow brick road
Out of Africa…
£80
The role of finance capital in the
Merchant of Venice
Special
Christmas
Poem:
Excellent!
Scintillating!
Are you in a gourd place, a worth thee situation?
Culmination: Dulcimer Concerto with Verbs
If not, how not? Where are you? How are you? What is to be done?
Let me be & let me live!
In bed, in pain, in doubt, idling,
worrying, resisting, defying, ignoring,
avoiding, suffering, tormenting, confusing…
Sofa so good. Comfy sofa. Groovy duvet.
Womb somewhere. Luvverly.
Somewhere baby.
Rainbow.
Love glow: glove snow
Melt and moult.
Go Hen woman.
Cool and crispen oven…
Go, go, go-go
Pen woman…
Return to Zenda
Tuned in, turned off, turned on, turned up, turned puce…
Mother Goose, Aladdin, and Buttons
glaring at me like thunder.
`Prey, what ails thou Panto-types?` I seasonalled.
`A flagrant breach of protocol, that’s what!’ said Goose, irate, pacing.
`Cinders is a tard! Whittington’s a dachshund! The ugly sisters are ants! Need I continue?` Buttons stormed with absurd pomp.
‘My lamp is empty.` Aladdin wailed.
`I do not see what it has to do with me.` I said with modesty and aplomb.
`Just typical,’ Goose tutted, `will no one take responsibility ?`
…
Luck to get out of their alive,
I tell you, slipped out
when the Bovril lady came,
via the sink, town drain,
and Alaskan tundra to here.
Thumbnail One:
`The Twiglet and Cheeseball.`
Light, rare light
Occurs
Blurs
Dreyfuss
Like
Up at the crack of doom and so it pours,
acrid quicklime, gregarious sash window,
drone buzz, sable confetti, nasal toot,
sootfall, gasp, volume, mass. What folly, what
pulchritude, what bafflement. Life was a
giant veiny nose, a red herring, a
wanton flop. So be it. Que Sera, Sera.
Horace Day, Matt Busby, James `The Fact` Durante…
pock dugout, dabbed down and dusted copious
cloud of potassium permanganate,
spotlighted by Lazarus, light reveals
white head and lost tribe of Erin: Quilty’s Pals.
Stop making scents,
tincture your sphincter with
perfidious salve,
snort pulverised juniper,
sweat quinine ampules…
another one soon
stifled in shallow,
lifeless cant.
Too late for love,
like the vestibule
catastrophe nook.
A broken swan
negotiating
burning boats,
safe in a synthesized,
furless chrysalis.
To dotage an
antidote:
threat & hope
weave and knit
a knot
night of dark
sun
measly done
think if you
fit in to fit
pre-shrunk
siege modality,
a beige mentality
the new banality –
Temporality
chill,
wet first frost
rest thin little
finger on a pin,
four wet angels
shimmer
in
salt
spill
Grimbeau 