Napoleon Blownaparte
Fairly
fizzing about the ether,
fizzing like a googly,
or Mugli’s eighteen herbs
with verbs
Grimbeau
Scroodles
Category: Poetry
July 28, 2016
Festooned
Tonnes
Of Sonnets,
One net son,
Stone nots,
Nests,
Onset tones,
Snot.
Soft font
Toff
Notes
On
Foxes
Sent
Off
July 28, 2016
Mad Ithaca
Chronicles of an endgame sour the day,
the last cormorant glides home half-asleep.
mauve tapering headland not faraway
Is darker; the treachery still indiscrete.
I trail past the quiet, dark caravan,
chest pounding with sorrow; tried to walk it
off but it don’t go – a woe-begotten
rotten vixen’s smashed my fragile heart.
On the rise, I make up the chintzy night scene
of Port Ithaca’s tourist hostelries.
Thronging poached Grockles being obscene
Python Lee Jacksons in a broken dream
July 28, 2016
Lucky Little Lady
The Tamarind dropped anchor and despatched a
purple emissary
who announced the fate of the sweet, eyed,
lovely Maiden
from the coast of Malibar
to the swelling throng on the quay.
It appeared that, for once, the trades had been kind:
the Pirates of Somali
were vacationing in Bali
July 28, 2016
Beachcombing
Tefal
Lopsided head, dead on the sloping strand.
Smooth, sea polished shingle sizzles around
The victim of a mindless, callous hunt.
Transparently, he was born a mutant runt
Misfortune dogged him from his strangled birth
Until annihilation put an end to Bert
When it came the blow was random
His assailants worked in tandem
And cornered him beneath the pier
And despatched him swift without a care
The denounement was not so smooth
As they kicked him in the ocean crude
Tefal sank but not to the bottom
His killers thought he was forgotten
But he was borne by longshore and by rip
And in Pevensey he rested in deep silt
That is until a passing fisher digging for lug
His preserved remains out he dug
‘What’s up’ said Tefal examining his head
‘You’ with saline brevity the fisher said
‘These twenty years I have been there
Dead and happy…
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July 28, 2016
Gift Horse
greygray windlessness; car doors pound
indonesian summer supper
for the liberal party on the road
to greatwar to end all wars forever
hoseasoning homeward after crickets
over land and treeless villages
redsails on the lampshade sundown
silently through the porchway
eavesdropping evenings gentle snore
July 27, 2016
On the Passing of the Pioneer Spirit…
HEAD-RIP
He was known to live life dissipated:
Gambolling in crazed buffonery,
Guzzled half a modest brewery.
When his liver, bored, emigrated.
My Uncle Head was steadfast and insistent:
‘Feed me!’ he yelled ‘Til I’m wild euphoric.’
For a pint of gin, no tonic: chronic.
So immaculated homeward: distant.
Ten Afton and a quart of Barleycorn,
stern tea and two, too loud radios
Unwelcomed him the very next morning
as he dimly recalled Jack de Mannio,
gave up on a shower and yawning,
levitated outsidewards to soil the patio.
Back inside he trawled in his shotaway head
and dredged up from its slum, the aviator,
Louis Blerio, who, a century and
one day ago, fetched lobster thermidore
and ate it for breakfast on England.
Head sloooshed a tuft of dog and considered
The perilous return voyage while his liver withered.
July 27, 2016
Tempes Fugit
Hilda Hogg bit the bullet and set herself to flog her figurine of ole King Zog bequeathed by her fabled auntie Dora who held a candle for the old despot. Times was hard, there was a duck at the door with a hat on, Bailiff Bernard dunning a bill.
‘Adieu, old chum’ she whispered through a final lucky lick on the pate of the china chappie in her trembling hands. If she had really had a candle she would have lit it and muttered a homily to tractor production in Albania.
July 27, 2016
Moby Dock
We are whaling, we are whaling, call me
Ishmael, the lucky bugger who found a tree
trunk drifting in lukewarm Horse Latitudes
and fashioned a canoe: sound, swift, bit crude;
but still, given the hairy circumstances,
he avoided the Fish’s necromancies.
Sat here on blustery Selsey Bill, chill
blasts of wintry Solent swoop the feral
groynes, sloppy creosoted and duned
with mounds of heave-hoed pebbles; propelled
from an ocean of discarded dying hulks,
Trainee corpses for the breakers yard: shelled.
This leviathan could not give tuppence worth
with his Moon and Sixpence and an old hair shirt.
July 27, 2016
One for my Baby and one more for the Toad
‘Wassup, Cecille? Have you got a problem with Nigel’
‘He’s such a slimeball, Don.’
‘He’s a natterjack, honey. That’s just the way it is!’
‘ And he’s so toady’
‘That’s because he is a toad.’
‘ You’re kidding. Toads are sexier.’
Grimbeau 