In the Dark: Barefoot
Those feet are not mine
Not my feet for sure
Are they your feet?
Yours sincerely’s
Or someone else’s
hand me downs
Grimbeau
Scroodles
Category: Music
June 23, 2018
Inside a Pornographer’s Trossachs
‘Wink what yon plumtree can do for you
Wink what you can do for yon Plumtree’
Betterer is the air here!
Some verve & vivaciousness
as I gaze from a foreign window—
silent movies, incoherent builders mumble
argue banter opine about methodologies
sufficient unto the day
None of it my business
A warrant officer tidies up the mess
Dead leaves and upturned beer crates
Songs! Instant constipation
Sit down the throne is free
Sophisticated cheats reviled by Nazi death squads
Ready for Walkies
Beg for euthanasia!
Rock back shut your eyes— fifty knee bends feel the burn
Opiated eyeballs, hanging mouth, distraught neck tendons, final breath
Achilles’ heel got him in the end
Cold and black as ice
Inside a pornographer’s Trossachs
May 22, 2018
small flying things
observe him shuffling in the morning sun in t-shirt and fag pocked boxers, shambling about in a battered panama feeling better he says
half and hour’s worth of washing up and hoovering upstairs and a break before a shower and some evening sunshine if it stays he says
looking at old doodles in notebooks full of portraits of despair and dishonesty it was much worse than words could ever in themselves he says
renascent caesarean section moment of involuntary entry into a world full of priests overheard from the womb giving up last unction he says
orphans fear having orphans eggs the holy man would tell us and that kissing made you pregnant before marriage but never tell a soul he says
the sound of that wry dry chuckle was common in ancient Mesopotania when sex went on for six days and six nights without a sign of slowing down he says
strand long empty strand giant crisp bag onrush don’t push me coz I’m close to the hedge down by the river endorphine surge of reveries to come he says
April 7, 2018
lushlines sounds good…
starts up in minor malingers idly with intent gives way to bullshit Shipton pulls it off again makes good angry afternoon pink blossoms made visible spittoons bite the dust discover plastic bags under wild forsythia where has the goldfish gone answers to the name of Justine gentler than a man should you give a damn...
April 6, 2018
Logos
eye red
eye dread
eye wander
March 24, 2018
Huey, Huey…
Pin flags map on site mock up sea green mulch
free hand rolled paper slapdash poster painted gaudy play pit mud
snap plastic pocket pink forget me not token pink keepsake compass
cracker gifted know not
nefarious purposes
no doubt
prerequiste propitious ping
drunk titans caught cavorting
thus not
looking proper fallen crested
Claude immortalised poor Cassidy
—dry chuckled to himself—
funny name: budgerigar
neither fish nor foul mouthed
just felt like doing
Justice to something somehow…
~
Second symphony stops
abruptly wind up elastic band
let go lolly stick & bob’s your uncle?
Bawdy music hall, brazen burlesque, venereal vaudeville,
downfall of pretty belle epoque
Wash of brassy whoops-a-daisy
Claude comes later, tired, broke
Worn out orchestrating
Underwater chateaux noir
Doctors Sardonicus, Faust
Caligari, Diplodicus…too absent friends!
Sleep late come morning
Daddy died last night, Mon Brave
March 23, 2018
sLothArIoh
to lOve or tO Be
loveD That is the qUest(ioN)
(of) whEther (I) tis(Sss…)
noBlur RingS tHe mY en(mud)d to beaR
thE wotsIts & thinGummiEs
oF reGrunge aNd unctUous excretiOn…
cHorus (si’l vouSpLait the Lait)
siLilLoqO’qUoOozE
February 23, 2018
Wax Bells
Glimpse sobriety
Contemplating lunch for brunch.
Boiled beef and parrots.
Overly ambitious
infatuation junkie
craving approval
~
Water drops on thin bare twigs,
silver globules adorn taupe.
Keep on until the
urge to coalesce passes
lazy morning lines
spaghetti conjuntions
February 22, 2018
Jesters at Vespers
After Sylvester evensong, Loyola piped up:
‘Out with the Pianola!’
And
(As Nasturtiums have for donkey’s years)
We were ready to kick out the jambs
The Easter Lambs & heaven could wait a quarter
Priscilla the Pig, our Abbot, dressed as Emile Zola
Got the ball rolling with the much lauded Tombola.
A fine thing, like some tradition,
The Tombola of the Tropaeolum:
We put our Bull into a hat
Pull out the winner
And a new year
Doctrine is chosen
A fresh true rumour
To add to the credo
This is followed by
A game of sardines
An eternal favourite
January 26, 2018
Achtung! Bad Language
Few bards & flunkies did once
tell of an old frying pan worked for London transport
till european mind held up his stagecoach…
We drove as if we had a puncture;
Dad trying not to blink, that man’s eyes
stuck in my head, which is where the story clunks ,
and any attempt to energize this fable
with something aromatic whiff of the nature
of articulacy and inheritance,
since he can well eulogize his own
excuses, you your own accommodation.
As it stands now if you still insist on resonance –
I’d swing for him, and every other cunt
happy to let my Django know his station,
which probably includes yourself. To be blunt.
Grimbeau 