Kedgeree
As I kick up a fuss
thrashing about
in the undergrowth
on the boundary,
my furious petulance
amusing the dog-walkers,
Tony Benn is announced dead.
Grimbeau
Scroodles
Category: Magic Realism
March 14, 2014
Dragged Up
Thick fog, drooping rose…
daybreak,
soft pink sound
footpad breaking glass,
crystal chandelier smashed:
avalanche,
no wonder,
wrists swaddled
heavy
linen
watch.
March 13, 2014
Drifting Torso
Bills and banks bob up
blankly blinklessly
Ghoulishly gawping,
gazing, and grinning
Sink back, you wish, but
they are sure anchored
(remotely controlled
hydraulic timer)
until you will dive in
sever the drogue cord.
Then watch them drift away
out of sight but never mind.
March 13, 2014
Number One Dream
Resent, trust’s wounded beast, lives deep, a profound
scar rifts its nook. Odd weather rouses it:
mood clouds,
orangeade, golden maned breeze, late day sun
knowing in corn grove by stile, John Lee Hooker,
and screams
outside the sky blue window last Friday.
Hurt’s old pals, bacillus and succubus,
they thrive on bad blood, consecrate murder,
and relish the thrill of momentary gore.
Quick, the black and white machete swoops,
You see silhouetted antennae;
open, indigo renaissance skies,
crowds flood through crooked pervious walls,
or melt away down through cleft gloss cobbles.
March 12, 2014
Ahoy! Sentient Being Ahead…
Over in the corner you make out a stranger,
you make out a stranger across a musty room,
and suddenly you know,
you know even then,
he needs a wheel and a chair, and a pen…
March 11, 2014
Hugh
Tried to think up some words
about Dad
and
got no further than the death event,
clearer now than ever,
calmer,
or so it seems.
Should feel more hurt,
of course,
wear a flag of woe.
Or black with good cause.
And Mean it.
Thirty fucking years ago.
Now we both have no teeth and bad feet,
I trumped you with the wheelchair:
No huffing there.
Losing hair as well, but not white yet.
Far from it.
Not like you at twenty-two.
I lay in the same corner as you now,
on a hospital bed.
Not dead, just resting.
March 10, 2014
Homeward Sexton
Days gone grey cloud shrouds.
Not the end of the world, you know.
Beeps off.
Lamplight on.
Mood: Satanic.
Push back cloth cap,
stand on one leg, dodgy ankle,
gaze at yew tree, feel the cold wind,
pack up and go off to no good.
Walk and chew
and suck the graves
from your black nails,
tongue and swallow
a bit of grit.
Spit.
A car goes by.
Lights just go on.
Bins out tonight:
Recyling Day.
You’ve got to laugh.
Goes with the job:
A graveyard wit.
March 10, 2014
No Milk Today
Take what you want
of the shrapnel
in the red caddy
get a pint of milk
I love you…
Breathe what you will
Of the saffron
In the green garden
Tear a gown of silk
I love you…
Touch warm yellow
Kites damp taut drogues
Fly me to the moon
Is there any change?
I love you…
March 9, 2014
Limpopo Love
Where are you today?
Ungrouded? Querulous?
Bulbous? Awake?
Perhaps a wit worried
after a think.
Or an atom anxious, a bit bothered,
a chunk confounded, dripping doubt, after an epoch expectant,
a forest fearful, a gallows guarded, a hog horrified, and iota indignant.
A jumping jack:
Krakatoan. A lot lost. Amassing misery,
a noggin narked, often overlooked, permanently pouting.
Querulous I said already.
March 7, 2014
SS Head
The Gnat and Fly Dept
is a ruin.
Hens don’t lay
all his trees are dead.
Farmer Jaw they call you.
Chinless Wonder!
Hide it with your hand will you?
The wife said.
Point at the horizon
past the fields of death.
You go green, stifle pukes after the shot
when brain splats oakleaf lapel
batman dibs it off a bit quick
leads you to the limo and safe.
Grimbeau 