Give me a groat and I’ll emote on hope and faith, and craic
Should you not meet me on the way, you can on the way back
From hollow land and silly land, to form and sound, and black
The song you hear will be our own and never will shirk or jack
Too good to be true, too simple to work, you say inside your head
That tapping on the roof you hear, is rhapsody robbing the lead.
Sensible brown shoes
Contemplate retirement
Live now pay later
It’s a wonderful lifeboat
Gigantic white horses
Full force gale blows crazy
Fisherman lost all at sea
how’s the old voice sounding these days—
seems like ages since wanton
plaintive baritones pained
airwaves crooning broken trysts
confessing craven intrigues
hawking well odd blatant symbols
parody and downright awful yells—
when is the new album coming out
some say the best month is May
when hopes grow lofty
and memories listless
curious to see who made it through tonight
A walk through
MacArthur Park
Turned out
quite contrary to
all popular opinion
which I assiduously
some have said ‘blindly’
follow like a shop
or sometimes a sheep
in a stripy pair of panties
Art house debacle closes overnight
Director of deaths & entrances arrives late to the party
Black as samurai over garments rustle like tin foil
Hair tied up in funny chive like bunches fasten with ligature
Very red lip gloss looking like a proper tart I suppose
Otherwise a sleep of reason during cool radio silence
Blue cloudless sky, wall to wall sunshine, could be a nice one out.
Milkman been and gone—cryptic hint found on doorstep.
Cars away to work possibly containing earwigs,
kettle recently boiled, supreme court ruling at leisure
open the window & let in the sun for a bite to eat
Opened a new consignment of ecstasy: filter got a goodish three scoops
Heading for the Prose Coast by the look of the lie of the concertina
loosen up a little timber by the shed on the approach
.
That bloody editor looking over my shoulder is giving me the pip.
Very wet grass from overeager sprinkling oeuvre.
Where do you think we are—Palm Springs?
Guzzling gas and water like it’s going out of fashion.
During the golden years of American capitalism,
late nineteen fifties and early sixties,
before the rot set in, that was what you did you schmuck.
Pleasant Valley Sunday out here in status symbol land
(Jerry Goffin & Carole King or was it already too late?)
Maybe an old one gathering dust
She came in
through the bathroom window,
crept across the
bathroom floor,
glanced into the bathroom
mirror
slipped out through the
bathroom door
Phew!
So much to do
and
no point in any of it;
just plain old survival;
avoidance of mishaps,
relief from pain relief.
No simple sample pleasure.
*
Eleven it says:
Morning constitutional
To the shed and back
Phantom bouquet
bonfire smoke whispering
Secret trysts at noon
Thrilled to bits I don
A cloak & gagger…
*
Phone calls to invite me to luncheon;
of course,
I accept with puerile alacrity.
What ensues is vintage time warp!
Clear the decks for a couple of hours;
put pressing needs on hold;
suspend more disbelief.
*
Hot colouring book trend offer:
one legged dormouse to play Plato;
Dizzy the Womble pours scorn…
Exasperated! Go touch your heels
Take odd drugs on a building site
Discover unknown places
Pallid wan shrouded
Lucid nacreous calico
Cauled mirrored fetch
Spectral living ghosts emerge
Perusing your back pages
‘He showered
he shaved,
he came back from the grave.
Lazarus…
Lazarus…’
~
The daily drudge is on.
Walk away, walk away.
Up and down the garden path
fetch your underwear.
Walk away, walk away
One step, two step…
collapse on the prickly pear.
Walkaway, walkaway
~
‘Sea above us,
sky below,
we’re upside down,
head to toe!’
Ate cake before bed,
coffee found congealed
intact, redeemable: stirred,
revived, microwaved.
Stay of execution granted
Just three hours before deadline –
brutal brinkmanship
orders from the DA
reprieved to death row
there’s no place like home
green, green grass
to touch, taste, smell
Each dawn I live.
*
Grimbeau 