Grimbeau
Scroodles
Category: Music
November 15, 2016
Jitterbugs
On the blue rock
Of a lapus lazuli
Under western skies
We, our feet caked with soot,
Dance like idiots
November 13, 2016
An Impostor Falls
Wichita Lineman pitches up out of the blue Lacuna inquiring: Was you not once a carpfish plagued by crippling doubts about a distant golden age of innocence? Yes,I was once that Carpfish You confirm resonantly with disarming brevity quasi-presidentially semi-residentially taking it all in your jackboot crushing a face stride making cryptic hand signals in clipped bespoken cabalistic tongues Yes. I was that Carpfish: for old halibuts die hard go hang a sharp left at Cape Codology there bipolar dancing bears picnic out on melting strawberry ice floats on mustard wallowing in unabashed self-pity seconds before the bullet hit you in the forehead Trespassers will be Executed read the flashing pulsar over the black horizon
November 13, 2016
Tiffin
Lawrence Binyon eulogy condemned to years of turgid crass repetition— if he knew then what we know that war is manufactured hell would he have set to writing pretty propaganda in nineteen fourteen one hundred miles away in a picture book rustic Georgian vicarage spewing out doggerel for the yellow papers to assuage the fears and galvanize national pride in imperial sacrifice to be ridiculed and derided by seventies rebels in army surplus great coats sat enjoying themselves in muddy fields listening to Van der Graf generator making a racket shivering and exhausted in stockinged feet cos a playful reveller robbed your trendy espedrilles defiantly pretending you would not rather be toasting fresh muffins with a giant fork on the glowing coals of the lampblack brazier?
October 30, 2016
Stairwell to Paradise
All pills bulletin
Filthy crypto dawdles neath
Hazardous staircase
Awkward traverse to summit
Landing guarded by clutter
In the shower I crouch
A potbellied question mark
I anti-pasta rasta
Hairier than thou
Either me or this gut must go
green beans & brown rice
Matabele tea and toast
The clever money’s on the gut
Hope springs eternal
Skinless sausages in brine
The politics of cheesecake
Pressing issues of the day
Weigh heavily on my mind
October 29, 2016
Trumpton Riots
Green sky thinking
Prevailing Ditherama
Mexican standoff
Stop the world right away
Figure out what’s going on
Stuck in a sand trap
On the dodgy nineteenth hole
Fiddling with your quiff
love the sound of your own voice
No choice is a choice
October 28, 2016
Quantum Limp
Wyoming, 1953. Interior: Homestead. No Boy. No Van Helsing Superstition plays stridently in the henhouse... —Eliza there is no genie, there is no bottle—it’s all in your head! Eliza looked at the genie and the bottle and smiled —And I am not Aladdin, I am Alan Ladd Eliza sucked the genie up with her pipette, filled the bottle, and sealed it with the orange rubber bung from her gingham pinafore, got up tutting, shook her pigtails and hollered. -Well,Silly old me, she said, I do go on sometimes, don’t I? How do you put up with me? Alan Ladd winced and smiled simultaneously. Good question. —What shall we eat tonight? —Dunno…mince? Better get some out then —Okay ~ Abingdon, 2002. Interior: Abattoir kitchen, morning. Tiptoe through the Tulips fills the air —Matter prevails over anti-matter, it’s self-evident, said Zak pouring yak’s piss over his brexit, slurping Jasmin tea, slicing a green banana, feeding a profound need to purge. —Yes, said Andreas Muggleton, hurry up for God’s Sake I’m famished. —Food is love and love is to be nurtured, said Zak, buttering wholemeal toast Bollocks, thought Andreas Muggleton, restraining his tongue till he got fed —How could you be wrong? —Here, get that down you —Wanker ~ Saragossa, last Tuesday. Exterior: Orange grove, dawn, two bodies hang, Yaketty-Yak blasts from the Tannoy Ferdinand and Isabella were not talking again. The silence was golden. Man, could they go on when they got started. Three days was nothing to them. Their record was six. They held the Bigmouth Ruler’s Cup eight years running. The novelty had long worn off. ~ Los Alamos, 1944. Exterior: Carwash. The Sun has got his Hat on sung by Billie Holliday, crackly car radio. -Oomph, that’s what we need. Oomph! -No mate, graft is what we need. Graft! Chain gang noises exercised Paul Muny and the Seven Dwarfs all morning -Hi-Ho! said Walt, dodging airborne digging implements. A nightmare in the dream factory, Walt’s Deepest secret fear. When will Herbie ever ride again? ~ Here, today. Interior: Coal Hole. Hit the Road Jack echoes from inside the big house. Witheld rang ten times Nobody answered twice How very remiss, thought a piece of wayward Anthracite
October 27, 2016
Smart Phoney
Groping around for
something to digitize—why?
Dunno—some farce of Hobbit
Said Dildo Dogends
Pulling on a Panatella
Dripping diamonds
October 26, 2016
Hothouse Flower
Dong! Wednesday afternoon
schoolbell tolls for double English.
Today is plot and backstory.
Immersion in what-if’s and why’s
Tedious causality
What makes your characters click
Or does it, really,
does it make them stick?
~
Gaze out through translucent glass
Deserted whitewashed goal posts
Abandoned summer sandpit
Railway green rough shrubbery
Tops of posh detached
four bedroom dwellings
Cinereal heavens
~
The hut is stifling
Oil central heating
Fit for Kew Garden
Hothouse water lily pond
Encased in wrought iron glass
Tempting setting for
Clandestine assignations
Ruffled purple crinolene
October 25, 2016
edge of the bed
sitting on the edge
of the bed radio on
feeling half dead
sitting on the edge
of bed wasting time
dawn can’t be arsed to turn up
today could have let me know
Grimbeau 