some buddy at work
got the cold shoulder
took effervescent horse pills
raked up swept the path
~
folded iris counterpanes
frilly edged nightmares
grollicked ephemeral mares
endured post prandial trauma
soothing naked fractal oaks
living whim day to the next
in heavens above
~
two titanic pugilists
four fists in a mist
celestial chorus
sprawling trawling sprats
hogan who what where when how
tired voice of resignation
~
berryless rowan
then Lud sheds its light
three rowan berries
explore great indoors
looking for the lost needle
leave no turn unstained
first find your haystack
let your feet walk by themselves
beware wheezing vapes
those instinctive woes
daily prayers and daily thoughts
radio violence
go plunder Priam’s city
egged on by shrewd Apollo
so my hen absconds
fecund beloved daughter
sashaying down rich ghettos
Up at five today
Soused pussy willows in font
Incinerated palms
Hollow fellows soft parade
Giving up contemplation
Cool moon and Venus,
thick tar bipolar cable
stands in for a horizon,
shutter your left eye
frame it all in one clean
elongated myopic square
careful to include
insignificant details-
bare rowan twigs,
fragile mildew gilded boughs,
beatified by sun,
bronzed as clean new gold.
(midwinter berries perish
in robust spring storms,
eaten by cold doves,
or down drains
flapping about
like sink spiders floundering
in numinous U-bends
under sinks
all over the world).
How many more Mondays
Vile lime towel idiot dance
Imogen pauses for breath
Totting up her twitter hits
Security in numbers
*
Orphans of the storm
Sixteen hundred in the rain
Shakespeare at the Globe
Posthumous celebration
Tender artless herione
Rampaging wreaking havoc
nostrils alert to
sniffable rain on the breeze,
heed telltale droplets
weeping on open fan window,
overnight shower
easily deduced to tears:
all other alternatives
seem a bit too far-fetched:
water sprinklers in February,
titans caught short
on early morning rampage,
and that old chestnut,
jet aircraft toilets.
Jimson plant querent
conceals Messerschmitt mindset
contorted looking glass…
of late promenading a huge
chunk of cool daytime
Quasimodo sitting room
seeks quiet fulfillment.
A washing machine foxtrots
churns clogs, dog fetches doormats.
The time is three twenty three.
World turned back to front.
top shelves are empty places –
Must go plunder
Pound Shop tundra
Sea I said
…
idly
pointing
over the point
that bit of
Sea
Yea sea so
Sea!
Yeah, yeah…
Please do not get het up,
Sounding like a Gatling Gun.
Quite naturally
I conjectures that i
Touched a raw nerve
Out of my brain at
Five fifteen
The dreaded words slide
Out:
‘Why not stick on the
Downton Abbey Finale?’
As soon
As they slipped from my mouth
A mighty echo
Expanded to explosion
And with a drawl portended
‘Surely, this Soap was
the
Soap
Of God’
End
Of Empire
Grimbeau 