Bird of Cowardice
The mob has gone.
Bob is making
rolls with sausages in them.
A thirty four is shut: northward bound.
Wish I was a Phoenix.
Sometimes
Grimbeau
Scroodles
Category: Magic Realism
November 22, 2013
November 22, 2013
Jock Frost
Tomorrow is Oxford without parking or me.
Remember the Alibi: amputated neck.
Sick note. Be flat. Play doggo. Stay warm.
Cocoon safe baby bunting.
Snug as a mug in a hug.
All is plight.
Begloved hands ring with pain.
Sing song blue.
Little Green Lies.
November 22, 2013
Lighthouse Nighthouse
Cricket and pills.
A Huguenot calls.
We talk balls.
Share our ills.
I do not wear lace since chiffon left.
Yet the memory of soap suds abides.
The medication commences just
after lunchtime on the second day.
Two down eight to go. Too high to control:
off the mark. breathe a sigh of brief relief.
Night is right.
Theodolites at dawn portend a repast
of frogs and lizards.
We shall heat them up before we eat them up
watching for triremes from the lighthouse penthouse.
November 21, 2013
No Strange Fruit
Sat, consternate, on the rotting silver birch
stump bemoaning the lack of an exotic
mushroom yield
(it being over three years since it was inspored)
a rolling stramache, a riotous flurry
of poppies blew wanton from the coppice.
Red ones, white ones, black ones – this cloud consumed
my solemn rage. Then they came, arguing
in tongues. Poppy makers from far and wide.
The marketeers are always exercised
thus early November. Not these poxy mushrooms though:
bloody rip off if you ask me reader
November 20, 2013
Ideal
Dark just winter.
Nine o’clock snooze.
Dream? Insomniac dishwasher.
A brief history of crockery.
All enamel is utility.
Hell freezes
under green almonds
and thyme withers
on the vine.
November 20, 2013
Free Speech!
PMQ’s: doggy do’s and donuts, donkeys
dongs, epsilons. Chrysostom Whizzes. There
it goes up your Nos. Oui! Bilbao maze,
courting ruin. Edge of dark knees, Mercy:
Tintern’s Orange shell: morning sun crystal
fur frost. Wells too drop in on. The gentle
right man chews a rubber burger, butts a
verger, calypso hedge fund merger.
Snort and the world snorts with you:
sneeze and you sneeze on your Tod.
November 20, 2013
Certainly can: Can-can
11:46
Rain.
Poll & Nob been and gone.
Sloth sleeps so no shouts.
Me: wetsuit gloved, coffeed up, watched replays of yesterday and now:
what?
Dog just barked, commode getting wet by coalhole.
-Wannawork?
-Should really. Falling behind. Angsty.
Something about green gauze bugs me.
Cannot spell chrysanthemuns.
Can you? Smart, uh.
Now where was i.
November 19, 2013
Sleepwalker
Miss call: med at four-thirty,
crying along to baby blue,
dead time.
Weeping real tears,
old voices of old friends in the messenger,
dead romans,
Nile vipers, alabaster elephant pups;
dimwit twisted garrets,
dimlit deep sea divers,
cement boots, aquarium skidlids.
Down the lane
at the hanged man’s house
wild beasts drive,
whistle in the woods,
absinthe oglers
naked ladies
paddle in Pull-in’s Pond.
Tears stream down cheeks,
bandanas lattice plaits of stars,
milky ways of cast off
unravelling cloth.
Acknowledge the bible
scribblers on the credits,
disappointed briefs
and wiseacres arrange things
good and proper…warm blooded nappies charm the sinews,
joints glow:
perhaps a cosy nap
before crisp morning
cracks the whip.
November 18, 2013
Dukkha
As if
people
have
nothing
better
to do
than this:
November 18, 2013
Still Life
On her veranda
a landowner
Exhales
…a gust of codeine cloud
On Parrot Woods West
where buggy water
sits stale
on crowded crow dead flats
a sun limps homeward
wounded in windless
sheeting mist
Grimbeau 