Hand and Gout
Foot in mouth
Advertise for a stand-in
An imposter
Let’s call him Thomas Dolby
Either that or Victor Malby
So I invite him to check
And be checked out down
In Gadd’s Hill
When whoosh! A stroke whooshed
A whoosh like Edwin Drood
I gave then the Trial of Pickwick
A Christmas Carol
Waving farewell
Hand & Gout
He’s still there waving & grinning
and wish as hard as I can it remains
Shorty – the ghoulish clown:
giant daisy in a crimson bowler,
mouth like a lewd, purple inner tube.
Striped, hoola-hoop held pantaloons
hanging off Moorish orange braces
glowing lime green socks
in burnt brown boots.
Ill again, fingers
Burnt by silvered sun
Nothing much to say
Wizard notions complicate
The simplicity of food
oriflamme buoyant october amber banner russet ferns golden smokey purple elephant aubergine eggplant graveyard fetches fade moisturising
Washed, washed up, washing in the wash – whoosh that’s the sound of corporal punishment and time flying
The parlous Lewis is on the box. This is where I came in three years ago. Whoosh that’s history repeating itself like gherkins and anecdotalists
It’s proper lashing it down out there. Dare I envy the orange lozenge beanflower living in the now. Whoosh whipped the wind with a fulfilled whish
Old music hall jingo-django vaudeville singalongs—bets no-man’s land into a cocked hat
Whoosh there goes a really white whizzbang
The boy I love throws up in the gallery, nacreous alabaster swan’s necks turn when the shot rings out, ‘Gas, gas quick boys’. Whoosh comes the yellow narcoleptic mist
Anchor cleaning: orders of the day.
Not too windy to drift.
Up after dog watch thinking on the charts.
Took a row across the harbour.
Thought about the little snob I was; how I hated them,
not for what they were,
but what they had to become…
Oedipus was a rich kid, so was Little Hans.
Give them a chance not a choice, a chance to be like you, boss?
No thanks, I couldn’t handle it.
Not this way.
I drift…
…away off down to the cabin is where I drift
to and thereafter, the galley for thick, honey porridge,
with rustic ripped banana hunks and chocolate in stick and heart form.
Feeling a queer unease I patient on the thick, night green socks, intake a Handel
organ frill, damn the rococo, and headaloft thinking gothic tea cozies, shaking violently with warps,
sucking crumbs of welshcake from the hidden gulleys…
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Hilda Hogg bit the bullet and set herself to flog her figurine of ole King Zog bequeathed by her fabled auntie Dora who held a candle for the old despot. Times was hard, there was a duck at the door with a hat on, Bailiff Bernard dunning a bill.
‘Adieu, old chum’ she whispered through a final lucky lick on the pate of the china chappie in her trembling hands. If she had really had a candle she would have lit it and muttered a homily to tractor production in Albania.
after a shower
write something brilliant
slow walk on water
unusual morning mantra
‘Ode to a Bloody Pigsty’
Remember Benbecula
opaque shape in mizzle
when that spatula melted
sausages sizzled
Un-everything done
Dusted with insouciance
Hedge-clippings & twiglets
Inkstained balustrade
Prehistoric flint chippings
Ornithologists various
Different shapes and sizes
Of Eggy Homuculi
Adorn the Lawns of Limbo
Grimbeau 