Mugg, the failed suicide, is escorted
to her coiffeur for a ruffle & snip,
natters, buns, and Tizer too.
She is weak of leg and mind, partakes
of unlethal foodstuffs;
prawn cocktail sausages,
bananas in anchovy sauce,that kind of thing.
When she insults the trees they turn away
knowingly, to whisper disapproval
to the concubine breeze.
Sympathy is like gas
and tears:
a finite
commodity.
Plod-plod-plod-plod:
The quadroplod,
Cloppety-clops
Stopety-stops
Nods and winks.
Wrinks mordant
eyes, cataracted
with chimera,
fuss and blether.
Deaf posts, prattling
twaddle cannot
listen, chew, suck,
sneeze, shut up
or swallow down.
Tonnes
Of Sonnets,
One net son,
Stone nots,
Nests,
Onset tones,
Snot.
Soft font
Toff
Notes
On
Foxes
Sent
Off
Touched
by a film
of frost,
the chill
Cascades
Waspishly
from the fanlight
Squirts
Little nips
of morning,
Bikini weather.
Motorway
neuronal
city women
fret more
about how
they look
than fish do.
Pastel shy-blue,
sky-blue
Sky
evicts
beige clouds
Twenty eight thousand
Miles out there,
just now
A space boulder
passed
over my
Shoulder.
Way downstream in Sometime
Waters rose when spring tides surged.
How very dared I meet her then,
And brave the dangerous voyage?
The grass lay down in the valley below
Where milk cows ruminous mull.
After hands work fields that never end
Dawn to dusk when the cuckoo toiled
Cheroot in hand up
to the bidet-bog.
Down to
Lamplight:
candle lit,
curtained cave.
The news, the morning news:
Hong Kong Occupy (day six);
first Ebola in the states;
15yr old girl off
To wed a warrior.
Sit and listen,
listen and sit,
sat idly
scribbling
morning drivel.
Back to bed or not? Not.
Wrote a sketch about
The flasher in the night,
Working title: Up the Boreen.
The work, the work!
Exhausting thoughts.
I’m tired. Day is dawning. Pull the curtains open.
…A girl has been found in a London river…
She didn’t make it.
Chronicles of an endgame
sour the day,
The last cormorant glides
home half-asleep.
The tapering headland not
faraway
Is blacker; the treachery still
indiscrete
I trail past the quiet, dark
caravan
Chest pounding with sorrow,
tried to walk
it off but
it don’t go.
That woe-begotten rotten vixen’s crushed this
bleeding heart.
On the rise, I make out the chirpy nightscene
Of Port Ithaca’s tourist
hostelries
Thronging poached obscene grockles
Python Lee Jacksons in a
broken dream.
In bleak, rocky gloaming
sunsettings.
A Has-been at
seventeen,
Slip slow my
Instamatic in my jacket pocket
And leg it
to the Admiral Benbow
Childhood’s true
Denouement
Calamares! Just stop this
punishment!
Onlooking makeshift beach
shanties say:
You polluter of paradise, repent
Your vile Ouzo hubris
I perish cold
And alone on this too early morning
Watch a little life pass by,
transient soul
Is floating about you, a dark
sponge gloating
At flaccid white Nordic
corpulence.
Soon the morning beautiful will bring
Bronzed, ideal,
muscular poseurs, chewing
Lotuses
laughing stage loud at the thing
Sat shivering in freezing cold Ionian bliss
Hungry harpies,
daring you to
steal a piss.
Ponder Lost
orange months,
Gone like
quicksilver fish,
Their trails,
now fading,
once were fragrant,
salt
& purple
Why this photo?
1806, Boney
Napoleon
Jenaphobia
All possible
Have the cars
Stopped gobbling
Les Parisiennes
Not until three
Nothing starts then
Afternoons
Or mornings
Tory Story:
Press on
To Iniquity
and
Beyond…
Heads buried
in sand
Bland on Bland
Hand in hand
Ingerland
Grimbeau 