When tempted to run for pinball
do yoga breathing, stand on your head,
and whistle down the wind,
play games
with lazyitis, and why not!
The grizzly nonsense of dossy
dissipation, the thin dry horse
tethered to the crossbar outside
The Molten Slipper Saloon
disaster’s old recipe
Table on the meal when you get
Back home if you have
got a home at all.
Join me as I slink to twig the silver
dust away from the campfire’s embers.
See the fire glow: teaspoon it to flame,
Carefully perch the tall, crimson pot atop,
askew atop that is, and dig the day’s
latrine with that small yellow plastic spade.
We are on the outskirts of the craic of dawn.
Scantily clad tidings of cheap skates and
Square war-jaws, cousins to sleep’s hazel
snacks and myxamatosis of your mind’s eye.
Now,
confound
dermic night flakes,
and,
through air
smoke blizzard,
blink molten dawn
short
to be
Indian summer,
and stroll
pondering
bullfrog Michaelmas
On an oil sheet that hummed of bog,
we watch for the tide to be right and
the fires on Spike Island to cease.
In the corner shop we scrounged bread and cheese
and were told the ‘the borstal boys had been busy again’.
So waiting for relief from the relief
of the Southferry road I sat under
the wide sky of Ringaskiddy exposed
to the gaze of passing motorists, uniforms
and other gawkers amusing a bitter scallion
My fellow penniless wanderer joined the free library
and returned with a copy of ‘Death of a Naturalist’,
which we took turns at reading aloud
to fill the time and that of other idlers.
At the same time a bomb stopped
a ticking clock in the North.
Over there, over there,
unaware the sky is night,
We
Fear not, as the days is dark as well.
So, why should we worry as night
Is proved to be permanent sometimes.
Let me expand…
Boom!
Snake hose primrose yellow runs meanderless
through thick savannah and potato patch
prairie beside grike-weeded barren footpath.
To the east of the picket line, fowl prowl,
looking out for grain and grub beneath a bathroom sky.
Last night, in the wee small hours, Paws visited.
This morning, I return the blessing and shed a lidful.
Today,
the Irrational Community,
lurch to bomb bad Syrup:
pissing off
Hexbollocks and Purrshah,
And wake up in bed with Al Capone.
Mulberry Bush Obama spins.
Gnostics, Coptics, and Cardtricks bluff and bully:
‘Come on in, the slaughter’s warm this season!’
Misty Frackington-on-Gass
resounds to the gunfire crackle;
Badger, set, and batch.
A Chinese boy weeps blood from hollow sockets
his eyes lay gouged out unseen before him on soft, red clay.
Yesterday there was a Dream
Today there is a Nightmare
Ethics man from Burnham on Crouch
says you ought not,
though you can,
put out the cat if it’s on fire.
Best all round.
But the money is on fire too.
You can’t save both, but you ought.
Save the cat or the money.
Self, self, self…Will, will, will.
Love is the answer.
Result: dead cat.
Buy a new one.
Stands to reason
Dunnit
Backside,
Z-framed
Larder door
Right angled
Very steep
Leaning still
With brass coat
Hook intact
After sixty years
Provides support to
Green Wheelbarrow
Propped chassis out
Sunbeam ignites
Spiders golden strand.
Have another cigarette and list
the day’s duties and responsibilities to avoid at no cost:
Clean galley, swab docks,
cider shop, set books,
PayPal, Danny,
sun music,
read’n’ write…
Eat more fish!
Tomotatoes,
Sods’n’oodles,
Salmon & cumbersome sandwiches,
Peruvian mud cordial…
Phew!
So much to do;
Prevaricate too.
Grimbeau 