_
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…
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
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…
View original post 113 more words
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.
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…
Toast & Marmite. Barely daylight. Write by nightlight. Curtains drawn. Bourgeois séance. Creepy romance. Cardboard cut outs. Perfumed porn. Standard issue. Tory scorn. Alright Jack. Watch your back. Keep them guessing. What's to do? Keep your head down. Sport a lost frown. Shut the show down. Vindaloo!
Setting: Picnic or flu jab hinterland
In your dream scenes
(caution reads: pumpkins squashing galingales);
Salty raging thirst (wonder why not)
Got to get out of this plaice
(socks, shoes, & some means of transport?)
Forthcoming events – domestic drudgery,
tease skunk in garden, stir molten corned beef muesli…
Draungrs fillet cod in their sleep
discearding all its meagre trimmings
in the myrtle oceans deep
Dunnock patrol sweeps
up the primrose lawn prior to snotty
pompous entrance of the Queen of Sheba
Gormless positivity crowds glum punters out
Embedded Jasper stone in troubled forehead
Brecciated third eye squints
Mineral deficiency remedy
Fizzes in blue electric silica
Uncle of the bride makes wind
A virtuous thermal is born
Magic lurks in fits and starts
Fragile as a dovecote’s earrings
Pageboys scatter popcorn on tympani
Jerry built it for doom and duplicity
A loathsome mother superior stalks our every move
Dove henpecks petrified garden gnome
but then it is Wednesday
after all is said: undone
I entertain the Roosevelts after dark;
oranges, Maltesers, tea…
a splash of morph and a chess ,
it does not mean that much to me.
Another week fades
into history,
undead beneath a cypress tree.
Not been out, seen no one, done fuck all,
I have spoken on the phone to people,
my beard is bushy,
my skin is blotchy,
I am more flaccid than overweight.
i have ploughed through old squibs and haikus
i have drained my capacity for self belief
these ruminations
churn out more words that will
never find anothers eyes
this is freedom from responsibility
attained through tedium
Arfur’s Castle stands remote, aloof, crumbling, on a grassy knoll.
Conquistadores and anchorites
camp out under the stars
on the shore below
silent and brooding in mutual contempt.
A beehive cluster
thrives in the scrub
above the land and sea,
aware of playing
their part in history,
observing from a clod…
peace is bitter, fragile, salt,
cherished and taxed by capricious elements
in unsteady measure.
A bell rings, muffled voices,
Dig out familiar honorifics,
exchange predictive sequences.
A conclusion is drawn.
Visions of safety and despair hug.
News of decay and hope embraced.
The word has been spread.
Something to consider anon.
The nights are long out in the panhandle,
buffalo sedge to plough
when the rains stop flooding the hog pits.
Destiny’s got the whip hand.
Keep your head when all round loses theirs.
Remember the good years in the horn of plenty.
Wind sure picks up in these parts.
Wonder sometimes how
the boys in the Shamrock are getting on.
Is Henry still up to his old tricks?
Boice will never be the same
without him if he took that ride he said.
Still times sure move on.
Rolling around weighing up the options for the next phase?
Life is what happens when you are making other plans
So you like pith then
Are you buying or selling?
online depersonalization bureaucracy rears its ugly head
academic qualification or hiding behind mummy’s skirts throwing stones from the long grass?
Be brutally honest. Crap at deadlines and references, useless file organizer, prone to rage and self-destructive fugues.
Would Tai chi & yoga not be better for you?
Are you a glutton for punishment, trial by ordeal, the futile fight unto the death of all hope.
Yes, most of the time
A glutton for punishment then?
A glutton full stop.
Do not publish this even when the urge to fill the void is huge
Anything to avoid a haircut and a shower
Have another cigarette…
I shouldn’t really
Why do anything anyway?
Your crap at life let’s face it.
Suppose so…
It’s all on the internet anyway if you really want or need to know
True
Better to get out more, meet new people to glower at
Yea, Glower Power—sounds catchy
Grimbeau 