Grimbeau

Scroodles

Category: Poetry

Après Ultra (Diego Marijuana RIEP)

New Grub Street records below for future delectation; and on the ruby doorstep, a letter for Professor Phipps containing a packet of pulverised sage to keep the lonely onion happy & engaged in crazed seasonal endeavours lies. A nuclear fog subsumes Trollenberg as zombies fill the diswashers incanting the curses of Mali and smiling on the memory of Nkrumah’s wizard foxtrot.

‘Maradonna’s dead’

‘Good, but what of little Diego?’

‘Mudlarking, no doubt. Slicing dentures from washed up concubines of the East Indian in inky sepia drab. A crow observes from a tendrilled groyne. All is muted, unspectacular. Waters lap. A heat pipe giggles in Abrasia.

‘Will he wash?’

‘In good time, when opportunity arises.’

‘The crusty stench is beyond the daily luminal’

‘Crud!’

‘Poor wee Diego’

You is the One

Herr Hemmingway’s new fangled card tricks garnered whoops of ghoulish euphoria; cryptic brevity entranced the maidens in the downstairs parlour. Whip cracks of girlish giggle and pinch play pierced the dour scourge of curfew night. A carriage pulled up before the sombre granite Manse. A parcel was delivered in speedy silence.
Casaubon ate freely of the doctored truffles. Mary Ann rested back to wait the denouement, puffing gaily on her long clay pipe and petting Daniel Absconda, her Sicilian spaniel. All would be revealed next Monday in The Infidel if they were spared.
*
Silas Marner pitched up unexpected the following day, dressed in limpid russet homespun which reminded Willoughby Dunlop, the virile batman, oddly of withered futuristic inner tubes.
‘Your luculence become you Massa Silas’ Dunlop growled with syrupy menace. ‘Do you bear subversive notions for the mistress?
‘That I do, swarthy vassal of capricious empire, that I do’.
Willoughby scuttled away to disarm her, the sound of his chains echoing through the capacious lobby as he went. A smile of brute rapaciousness broke cross his ashen face.
*
The eagle dripped on Zion as Ezra piled up the faggots in Parousia, Tertullian gazed on amazed on the third day of the shining wall in the morning sky. Nereus took his leisure, replete in still dry oceans. What was in those truffles? Precious time had drifted away. Calypso’s suitors fed the fowl with pith and peel.

‘Nightshirt!’ demanded Funk.
‘I shall be with you shortly; in the fulness of time; post haste; forthwith…’
May Ann appeared at the door, dishevelled, her cheeks a roseate hue, panting.
‘There you are, my dearest. But why…’
‘A spot of bare Pilates for the circulation. Doctor Jasper’s orders.’
A boneshaker hustled over the gravelled drive.
‘Mice?’ suggested Casaubon, aroused.
*

‘So Dude, what’s your beef? I post a lot? I am a friggin writer, a communicator. It’s a subject to object relationship. Intercourse. God proposes: man disposes. That kinda set up. So quit your incessant carping, Buster. Just because my numbers turn out better than yours. Get a friggin life Godammit!’
‘Discouraging words from Herr Hemingway, Adolf. He gets so reckless when he’s on the saucel I’m sure he will come round in the end. We all have our eccentricities. Our peccadiloes and foibles.’

But Adolf was inconsolable.
The rest is
Off course
Is history.

*
Chesney reached inside his great coat pocket and took a slug from the vial in the brown paper bag. The liquor! Dammit the liquor. Huxtable was wrong. He took another swig. It was then she emerged though the Bourbon mist of the cold November carpark. Zelda Zuchenslooper. What a broad.

‘Who you screwing, Small Fry’, she chirruped from some distance, yet somehow audible over the hubbub of a not inconsiderable crowd. All eyes turned on Chesney. He cleared his throat. It was now or never, and he hollered.

‘You baby. Only you. You is the One of it’

Fin

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

Navel Gazing

Grimbeau

Boboli

Considerable free

time spent pursuing meaning:

Omphalosophy

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Dorftrottel Allegro

The Faber Book of Neurotic Plants & Fruit lay open at ‘Gallimauphy’ when Inspector Funk arrived. The only witness was a mute cook who went by the name of Chum. The blinds were closed. The only light was marsh gas. ‘This setting is inappropriate’ was scrawled across the artexed wall. Water dripped into a blue trauma bucket.

A surgeon minced nervously from door to door. A fat man rested his eyes in the corner of the crowded annex. Chum was taken off for interrogation in the wet room. The clock was stuck at seven twenty-four. On the lawn red fungi grew in the mulch of scattered yellow maple leaves. The rowan tree was barren. A youth rode past on a black bicycle. his aspect adamant and grey. She was fleeing the clutches of a thousand-armed family that dogged her every move. Belatedly the phone rings, it is limpid doomed Patricia, destined for the abattoir. Funk is lost for words. Platitudes are all he has to offer; he winces at his indifference as he does so. His varicose veins were clearly visible in the low November light.

A chicken jalfrezi and chapati were all there was on offer. His bane, patrolled the galley in the hungry times. Nutrition was rationed out like peter’s pence to supplicants, the law of inbuilt negligence condoned her every move. Chum would be released on good behaviour. He had done nothing heinous. The Faber book of Neurotic Plants & Food was closed and sent to Coventry. Funk gave way to apathy and sniffed the food for truffle spores.

Purgatory

Grimbeau

Sound transmission with lampblack reflector

_

Wonky-wheeled about with caution,

discovered prone Bloom, covered in

lampblack, penitently licking up,

almost lapping up,  ancient grease

beneath my fridge. Toilet next,

then repatriation to the Lazar

Zones of Bongo-Bongo Land.

Abjection is the will of kippers…

must try harder next time, if…

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Earlier

Remember

reading The Unnameable

in identical weather

this time

last year

and the one before that.

Same old house

but different room this time.

The old lady opposite

was alive

last year.

Now her stuff

is in a skip on the drive.

Saw it from the room I

mentioned

Earlier

Jump the Broom

Grimbeau

bedview

The Phoney War on Slapstick Ends…
Times like this began with General Approval in deep hotchpotch jaw-jaw back of Nico’s bar and grill traducing clam-baked mongrel hoc polloi
‘Better late than never’, sighed swan necked Frieda Sluggish flicking though a growing stack of IOU’s and billet doux. Silhouetted against the bleak midwinter skyline it all appeared quite plausible to steady bogus Chad, whose tab fetish was the talk of the mobsters.
‘Flower sales sank to an all-time low—O’Bannion’s gotta magpie coming his way if things do not pick up by Valentine’s’, said Dom in matching ball gown and crozier.
Hosiery was ever a cut-throat trade; less a game of football and more a matter of life and debt. Smart plague dogs knew that much as they did their rounds of the loose limbed irons that littered the sidewalks of Prague
‘This place reeks of optimism—check out the Assassin’s Diary for…

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All Hail Dicky Mint

Arose majestic summoned by the crunch of toerags on linoleum. The pedal abscess shows a timely bursting in the night. Wondered what that crack was. Scrambling net returns. Pork pies after beer match, Fine snick to first slip. Attend carefully your Rottweiler. Summer comes round quick. Adopting a ten year old is a huge undertaking. The social workers lie. Get them off the books. Any old port in a storm. Driving home for Christmas. Tears streaming on hard shoulders. The venal driving rain lashing on the windshield. Constancy of wipers never ceases to amaze. Best clean up the act. Early show tomorrow. Theo on parade. Sport best bib and tucker. No regrets Scott Walker. Umbrellas and photographers. The steps of City Hall. Audacious in broad daylight. Lone wolf shot rings out. A sharp intake of breath. A seething heaving crowd converges on a crisp bag. Writers are not born they’re made. Forget the BBC. A posse slow to muster. No Orchids for Miss Blandish. Savvy in your dreams. Never touched a drop. Black pudding and a rasher. Cup of steaming tea.

Better late than never. Who the fuck said that? Observe two minutes silence. Someone farted. Takes all sorts. Poor little Pedro. Him and his ukulele. Not a dry eye in the house. Silent but deadly. Ever changing moods. Penny each for them. Pockets full of shrapnel and torpedoes. Show some disregard. Scrumptious fubsy widows pole dancing on a pinhead. Many muckles make up mickles. Give it up for lent. Dribbles faints and shoots. Bulge in the back of the net. Radar lover gone. Hands once wet on the wheel. In the canyons of red oceans buried

Say something someone. Break the bleeding ice. Mastitis is contagious. City cooked their goose. Windmills in utopia. Lend us a drag of that. No way back for Dicky Mint till hell freezes over. Hell freezes over. All Hail Dicky Mint!

We contemplate the effigy while lying on our backs, A purple people eater is unleashed on a suspicious public. Bloody well serves them right. Get used to anything in the end. Look at Green Shield Stamps. Whoever would have thought it would ever end. And Gerald Nabarro. And and and and and…

Time for a bit to eat. Feed the inner moon.

Nostraseamus

Shield early before the new luckdown.
Shutdown early for Juul.
El Scruffo & Bones calling up the big shots to squeal.
Morphed solid when the bowels moved blue heavens.
Continent inflamed by snoods.
Await the balsawood Liberty Ships.
Winter of ’40 revisited.
Listen to the World Service.
Narvik was a gas…

Change at the top looks imminent. Fishfarm McGove lurks in the wings.
But if Trumpington-Smurf gets ousted by The Ghost Wind
then Joey Gorky is well parked as the comeback stiff

The Plague will call the real shots if the Old Queen can see the big freeze through without burst pipes through her ancestral piles

Existential bubbles will self-combust in peripheral tantric flight
or get brought down by Tesla drones. Time for a penicillin shot.
Bawds risk the wrath of the coparphagic Lords.

Nostraseamus has spluttered…

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