Galactic dawn,
wet as water:
Ponds ’r’ Us!
Like a mucky duck
the weatherman
walks on warm, thin ice,
looking up anxiously
Sees
serene green scene
creams obscene
at tulips pouting,
kind epileptic fish,
sanguine potholed saucepans
latterday Saturday vertebrae.
Endless list: catalyst.
We swoon,
shrug it off,
embrace
&
turnover leaves
Head of
The essential difficulty with Mssr Grimbeau’s
pomes is that they are crap & drivel
Clap-clap!
self-knowledge is
a wonderful thing.
Soft…
What light
Through yonder
Window breaks?
Ssssh!
Merely
A wayward
Cormorant
Called Deirdre
Or so I heard
When I once sat upon a bench
I felt that I was almost French
Talk is Buses:
Pubic transport
Greenline fine?
Not grotesque
But Divine
Mood Impetigo:
Rose petal
Spikenard.
Taking Town Drain
Clueless
Bubo Black
Tuba
Fresh, smooth,
honey enthrals me
floats me
casts me off .
Pork chops, bud planting proposed:
hope springs eternal.
Farce of habit.
No scruples,
too forced lately,
going to work for its ownsake.
Leave it to settle, Mr Pushy-Git for
‘You cannot manage
what you cannot measure.’
Love?
10cc…comes in spurts.
Henless heads, dustbin laden.
Pot posits kettle:
‘You are black.’
Read and rest
after aftershocks.
Lux and lug.
Whimball grooves.
Stories swim amorphous, like Chagall sprites:
teasing & taunting, winding me rightup,
shitty harpies, chicken livers, shit lilies,
pallet knife smears, chaff and ribwort, fly blight,
wormcast, hot iron in the hole.
Answer: stop poetising, not everything.
Opaque craving: not waving, just raving.
Lunchlines. Lasagne to go; no salad leaves!
All are suspects. Whatdunnit? Poison milk,
Croak & Crosswell. Condensed gift:
dilute & quaff off this myrtle quoit.
Late, great Spooner. Leave oxtail by town drain.
Quit the spritz, Turd policeman.
Bottom inspectors of the world: ignite!
Social lurkers, shadow shams. Now you see:
Now! You donut. Dream of scrumptiousness,
crack of doom. Dunderhead heard: Thunderbird said:
“Five minutes & we’re almost there.”
the easy way out dogs my every step –
I call it Slobbo.
It is a shadow,
reeks of burgers and pickles,
farts and burps at will,
drinks like a trooper,
smokes like a fish.
it is white at night.
it sings, shouts, and staggers then.
I watch it from my
silken hammock
fuming
Elegiac:
it rolled out one summer’s morning,
thick roll-up in one hand
tar strong coffee in the other,
halted atop the ramp
to take dappled light
took this picture:
green wheelbarrow homes
old yellow milkcrate
left side of
giant cypress treetrunk;
three paving slabs
lean leftside
propping up three
intact mauve
plastic sacks
(compost) .
Generally the earth is parched grey, arid, and ill lit.
This is a gravelly land, conifers did well here till
the buildings cropped up to replace them.
Down the hill is a loamy valley, which floods a lot.
These were the fields where the villagers
who lived up here in the pinewoods worked.
It is called Clayhill
Grimbeau 