Grimbeau

Scroodles

Category: Music

Space Clinker

We called the comet Ambrose after tinned rice pudding
and spectcular sunsets by campfires on the old A5

The Duke had been busy with his gun by the look of it,
spent cartridges littered the mile-a-minute and ondive

Billy was sure of a good clattering when she told him
yet tears and snot were wiped away on his furtive sleeve

When Ambose fell to earth he was no more than a clinker
yet we raised him as one of our own and watched him thrive

Strange Brew (King Kong Garden)

A tea of 
foliage churns our garden round,
        But not a 
tea of 
dull unvariegated green,
        Sharp contrasts 
of all colours here are to be seen;
The light-green 
graceful tamarinds abound
Amid the 
mango clumps of green surround,
        And palms arise, 
gorillas pray, between;
        And over there 
shooting pool the villains lean,
Red,—red, and 
startling like a trumpet’s sound.
But nothing 
can be lovelier than the strangeness
        Of bamboos 
to the eastward, when the moon
Keeks through their 
raps, and the white lotus changes
        Into a 
cup of silver. One might swoon
               Drunken with 
beauty then, or graze and gaze
               On a primeval Eden  persiflage.

Merriweather & Manson Make Out

Dylan movie ambles down 
below jampacked with namedrops 
cameos and zen flavour wisecracks: 
up here in the crows nest 
full of psychic anthrax
and chintzy liquorice 
the ice floes pause for thought. 
Opening the landing window & 
admitting the savage boreus-- 
What the fuck were you playing at? 
You knew about the kerosene

The Worsewick Paradigm

Posted off that lump of shit up there above the date and time
fuck all else to do since the flea circus folded, 
the barn owl coughed,
and we burnt down the lunatic asylum
wonderful weather out there, nonetheless
no hot water to speak of, 
you await the seagull interregnum. 
Where's the presripted drugs? 
Everything but the Oromorph 
coming today. scant revenge for the Valladolid lawn atrocity, 
the blank candour of the rurales, the suffering of Juteland gnomes, 
the crisp decaying thyme of long,
deglected windowsills, the simperings of Little Matty,
the drudgery of elevenses, the carnal whelp of bob tailed dactyls
the maple leaves of bicameral arcadia...
 

Petra Sighed

Glistening dewdrops grace the tea rose alcazar gremlin

overseeing the hand carved city of stone

A petrified cat stuck in a deserted air vent:

reduced to a pareidolia mirage on a solar phone

Shared from a golden feast barn

marooned in peanut sedge brocade

overlooking the hanging gardens of Armageddon

where bellicose black air hangs over a subhuman cave

A tope blurred slinky gal in a gale shelters

Happy out as steam Radio

medicated by the one I love

Rite

flishuff

a face full of kites & whites

all plot lost to angst

Sorted out my window sill

Nothings mission crept

anguish swept away substance

stupid hat cant rant

House of Teeth beneath

The North face of The Ogre!

Daily melanoma gobshites

West of Eden seething:

bleeding all the way to the tank…

*

day dawns grey pink crazy haze

dream genie quits bird for bottle

torpid rush hour to Squit City.

slow sleepy jet trails backward.

Solitary blackbird yawns

when you have read this

check top of head for gaps

Yes?

You just did a pome

No?

Better luck next time

February Lite

A strong short shower
overflows congested drains;
a dog turd disintegrates on the rough grass;
the scream in the night
was not from next door;
even upstairs i can hear the engine hum
Sad, alas, the man who dreamt of Fairies!
For a single dream spoiled his whole life.

Big Ox for Iapetos

The Night of the Bog Heat plays out below as ballooning over Tara above the steam stench peat and course heather the summer thermals waft muesli west to titanium ships that calibrate conditions for the fleet. A neutral landscape unforgettable and unforgiving to the bug eyed.

Drought brought us down with a sharp shallot, shed from an  upset colander

Hey Mister Storekeeper, quit that cruel gruel rustic fabric. Don’t leave us besmeared by steerage stirring for a box of frogs! Give up and yield to sunshine and snorage.

Pay off the elders with jalop and deploy quick wits and cutesy metaphors.

So deep the seeds of self-movement sowed. Patience is its own discord said the blueberry to the snail. Adding:

‘Be gone you irksome carry house from this esteemed wilderness. Talented Cromwellingses of all stripes and zealous alkyhorlicks abound in well clad tower blocks throughout the land, I’m unreliably told by sources near to the ketchup.’

Why so sorry? Why so sad? It could be worse; it’s not so bad…

Well, yes it fucking is. It fucking is. It fucking is. It fucking fucking is…

On Tuesday the Twentieth of June 2017 it became, at 5am, 24c and in the corner the fan purred loud. It was sat on a spare chair slowly watching tennis from Queen’s. At the end of the encounter superglue handshakes were exchanged. The combatants wore green flip-flops.

Pink  is the colour of my true   love’s ears

In the morning

When we rise

Like a fridge over troubled waters

I will cool you down

Chuck bread out the cookhouse

windy for the birdies

For the birdy birds

Slice potatoes down the grain

& fry

Like an eagle

To the sea

Working in the hot sun

uninterruptedly

Egg hard boiled

Tomato sliced

Cumbercu flintly slitheroo

Rindless salami

Door step:

Batch

All Saints Rave

Toast & Marmite. Barely daylight. Write by nightlight. Curtains drawn. Bourgeois séance. Creepy romance. Cardboard cut outs. Perfumed porn. Standard issue. Tory  scorn. Alright Jack. Watch your back. Keep them guessing. What's to do? Keep your head down. Sport a lost frown. Shut the show down. Vindaloo!

Boice

Arfur’s Castle stands remote, aloof, crumbling, on a grassy knoll.

Conquistadores and anchorites

camp out under the stars

on the shore below

silent and brooding in mutual contempt.

A beehive cluster

thrives in the scrub

above the land and sea,

aware of playing

their part in history,

observing from a clod…

peace is bitter, fragile, salt,

cherished and taxed by capricious elements

in unsteady measure.

A bell rings, muffled voices,

Dig out familiar honorifics,

exchange predictive sequences.

A conclusion is drawn.

Visions of safety and despair hug.

News of decay and hope embraced.

The word has been spread.

Something to consider anon.

The nights are long out in the panhandle,

buffalo sedge to plough

when the rains stop flooding the hog pits.

Destiny’s got the whip hand.

Keep your head when all round loses theirs.

Remember the good years in the horn of plenty.

Wind sure picks up in these parts.

Wonder sometimes how

the boys in the Shamrock are getting on.

Is Henry still up to his old tricks?

Boice will never be the same

without him if he took that ride he said.

Still times sure move on.

%d bloggers like this: